theBuilding Haus of Sugar

INTERVIEWED BY Yusha-Marie Sorzano

My drag persona kind of lives in a virtual/ theatrical space. Her name is Spotlight. She came from a pile of thoughts, dreams, and sketches. I think I’ve been building Spotlight for a long time, a very long time. She has traces of my past, present, and future self.

—Jasmine Sugar

Yusha-Marie Sorzano is currently the BFA program director of The Sharon Disney Lund School of Dance at CalArts. A performing artist, choreographer, and leader in the dance world, Sorzano is a member of Camille A. Brown & Dancers, a founding co-artistic director of the Zeitgeist Dance Theatre, as well as an associate director for program development with Francisco Gella Dance Works. Concurrently, she is at work as choreographer for Jeannette, a new musical.

Sugar: My dreams for Jasmine Sugar … there are so many! I’m in the process of curating a fashion house, exploring the relationship between drag, queer art, and high fashion. I am calling it Haus of Sugar. It’s a project that I’ve spent years drafting, learning, and dreaming. My first collection, which was shown in March, shows how I make recycled materials the heart of the brand. My main focus is [making fashion] in a way that won’t contribute to harming the environment.

I feel like it can live in a space on the runway—high-fashion chic, editorial, drag, theatrical. It can all be one thing. It’s not just a size 0 model walking for Chanel and a drag queen on the runway of RuPaul’s Drag Race It’s all this beautiful, sculptural, huge show. That’s what I hope to see. So that’s what I want to create.

Yu S ha-Marie Sorzano: One of the things that is challenging for artists today is fear. What has scared you as an artist in this very crazy world?

A lot of what scares me is time. I used to pressure myself that I should be here by this age or be doing X, Y, or Z by this time. I would always be racing against time. And then the pandemic happened, and time just stood still. In a way, I felt all my anxiety go away. I don’t have to put myself in an uncomfortable situation because I feel pressured to stay relevant or appear to be working or busy. It was about removing the pressure from myself to subscribe to societal and industry expectations. So I was able to ask ‘Who is Jasmine Sugar?

What do I wanna say? And how can I use this time to come back into my own body?’ Fear was important. Fear hindered me. But I also feel like it’s a good tool to identify what I don’t wanna feel again.

For example, I have an audition, and I’m nervous. I can break down that fear. The worst they can say is no.

I know you’ve spoken about the house you want to build, but can you just give me, off the top of your head, a list of the things that you feel you’re equipped for that you never even thought about doing?

Designing, sewing, drag. I always wanted to do these things. I always dreamt of being in that space. Now that I’ve started this journey, it looks a little different than I thought, but all the more rewarding. Videography, movement direction. I’ve done a lot of movement direction for artists, and it’s been such a beautiful experience showing someone how to be comfortable in their own body. I didn’t know I could sing, but I love to do it. I had to put my fears aside because you’re in a room and you have to just deliver.

Hair. Hair is a huge thing. I never thought I would be on set doing hair and makeup for a film, but it happened. I never thought I would figure out how to heal my hair, but it happened.

I use hair in a lot of my work, in a lot of my looks. I always feared dealing with my hair. I think a lot of young Black women have fallen prey to the flat iron—the godforsaken flat iron—especially in the commercial industry. Giving my hair time and patience in a fast-paced industry, and appreciating the range of Black hair, has been so informative and inspiring. It has not only encouraged me to expand my knowledge of how to do hair, but it has also helped me find my voice in this industry with regard to my hair. Having that conversation, making sure it’s protected, making sure I’m comfortable, and so on. What would you consider to be your first big break, and how did you get that?

My first big break was probably dancing with Lizzo at the Grammys in 2020. She posted on Instagram that she was looking for thick Black ballerinas. And I was like, “That’s amazing. I am one!” She wanted us to dance en pointe. At CalArts I took pointe one day a week for 45 minutes so I really had to dust off those old shoes. So I drove myself down to Valencia, got in the studio, made a video, and submitted it. I heard back from the choreographer that they wanted to work with me on the project. It was incredible. I think that was my first runin with the commercial world: the Grammys, and the hair and makeup teams (glam squad). The videographer coming in to make Lizzo’s documentary—the big show!

I love Lizzo so I think that was a really big opportunity that came from manifestation. I attended her concert in October with my mom in Denver, and that following January I just said, “You know, I’m gonna dance for her.” I remember saying it at the concert. “She’s gonna change the world of music and the way that Black women and curvy women see themselves. She’s doing something amazing and I wanna be a part of it.” And three months later, BAM! It was insane! How did you develop your drag persona?

My drag persona kind of lives in a virtual/ theatrical space. Her name is Spotlight. She came from a pile of thoughts, dreams, and sketches. I think I’ve been building Spotlight for a long time, a very long time. She has traces of my past, present, and future self. She represents all that I love about the club, the theatrical, and the world of movement. She will meet you soon. ⁂

On Spotify, Pandora, or any other music-rich platform, songs flow like water from a spigot—no waiting and no travel necessary.

But for as much as technology transformed the ways people listen, the music industry failed to think through all the implications—all the possibilities—of the digital revolution, argues Volker Straebel, dean of The Herb Alpert School of Music at CalArts.

The COVID-19 pandemic has started to change that, setting groundwork for a broader reimagination of how musicians make music and build connections with listeners, Straebel says. A musicologist, composer, and curator, he joined CalArts in 2021 from the University of the Arts Berlin and launched the Futures of Music effort the same year.

He describes the endeavor as a collective, open-ended process to review and rethink the Institute's music programs. "With practically no touring or live shows, musicians really had to reconsider their relationships to their audiences during the pandemic," Straebel says.

In particular, some leveraged streaming technology to develop music specific to individual situations—composition as a musical backdrop. Straebel says that begs a 21stcentury question: Could algorithms create this atmospheric accompaniment in real time, "rather than having tracks or albums that are sold?"

I have the impression that these questions are coming to the foreground now because of the pandemic," he says. "This will lead to questions about the concepts of authorship and expression. If you don't have a human author who talks to you, how do you perceive the music?"

Volker Straebel , the new dean of The Herb Alpert School of Music at CalArts, asks students and colleagues to reimagine how musicians make music and build connections with listeners.

Drawing on conversations with colleagues and musicians, Straebel imagines a world where live, computer-created music recasts the long-term bonds between musicians and their audiences. The notion marks an evolution of blending audio tracks recorded at different times—a practice that dates back more than a half-century, he says.

Digital tools have made such combinations more easily available through online collaboration over the past decade or so. Music education joined the trend, especially during the pandemic, as specialized services have eased real-time transmission delays among collaborators.

“I thought studying music online during a pandemic would be useless. Turns out it's not,” Straebel concedes. “There is a need, and the experience shapes the ways both students and instructors approach music.”

To composer Michael Pisaro-Liu, Music faculty and director of Composition and Experimental Sound Practices, the pandemic spurred discovery. Musicians are now recognizing their art's foundation as a social activity, he says.

“I think we're seeing the limits of virtual and other private ways of making music, which people have been using for a long time but increased in the pandemic,” Pisaro-Liu says. “You can't sustain musical creation in isolation; it has to be grounded in social interaction. Ideas, inspiration, camaraderie, and solidarity all flow from working together in the same physical space. The desire for that is perhaps stronger now.”

Reestablishing musical culture as a communal effort “is like trying to rebuild any kind of organism: It needs exercise and nourishment,” Pisaro-Liu adds. “That's where I'm putting my energy these days.”

Now as music students become more interested in producing and collaborating with other musicians—but not necessarily in performing live—a studio is no longer essential. “You just need a computer and a few interfaces to do this at home—which is amazing and a more democratic approach to music,” Straebel says.

A drawback? For those receiving the music in a home environment instead of a live venue, he says, the sound quality and overall experience are probably lackluster by comparison. Straebel urges artists to take that into account as they design and improve remote engagement in their work.

“You have so much popular music that seems to reference a live act,” he says. “So you listen in the comfort of your home to something that reminds you of a concert in a sweaty bar with human bodies close to you. What happens when you can't connect to this experience anymore, when everything external to the music is gone? Musicians will lead us through the paradigm shift.”

Through the Futures of Music initiative, the Music school is making sure CalArts musicians are prepared for that shift. Straebel kickstarted the effort about a year into the pandemic to establish “a better understanding of where we are as a faculty and where we're going with our programs,” he explains.

By late 2022, the school was continuing to review its BFA offerings, with an eye toward introducing new requirements for different programs. The school also is looking to fine-tune its application process “to be more transparent about the types of students we're looking for,” Straebel says.

It's vital to him that such steps arise from conversations involving the entire school— collaborative discussions rooted again in that core question of “who we are and where we want to go.” Because music and art “are always two steps ahead,” he expects the curricular review will continue in perpetuity.

“This kind of confrontation with yourself as a teaching artist, and with the way you perceive the reality around you, is not always uplifting,” Straebel says. “At the same time, I hope we created a situation where faculty could share ideas and engage in meaningful conversation.

Straebel sees automation and algorithmdriven music-making not as a threat but as a liberating opportunity for artists, affording them more freedom to plug into and cultivate their original voices as "we realize the mainstream is taken care of." He senses diminishing interest in mainstream work.

And while CalArts has never been a hub for the mainstream anyway, students have long stressed over their professional survival once they graduate. In the fall, the Music school recently put a weeklong pause on classes for visiting artist residencies to help students talk through that question.

The visitors were blunt, telling students to “just do what you need to do,” Straebel recalls.

“The moment you look for recognition or acknowledgment from a wider audience, you're already losing your originality as an artist,” he says. “I have a feeling that this interest in the mainstream is on the way out, that serving the mainstream will become more a matter of programming and computer science in the long run.”

But original work forever will remain an exclusively human endeavor, Straebel says. “We need to find our original voices to respond to the reality that we live in.”

That novelty is a hallmark of the school, which has long drawn students who are “already imagining a different musical future instead of the traditional paths,” Pisaro-Liu notes.

“We don't pigeonhole artists by the kind of music they create, the kind of program they're in, or the instrument they come in playing,” he says. “We're much more interested in guiding them as they imagine a kind of music that doesn't exist yet.”

Cultivating those visions means interrogating students about their thought processes and helping them to see and assess their own work, Pisaro-Liu says.

“Each and every student has something in them. But they have to craft it; they have to become conscious of it, maybe find words for it, and make music that embodies this thing,” he says. “It can take awhile to learn to cut away the chaff, but in the long run it's not the teacher who's doing that. It's the student.” ⁂

King Lear, directed by Travis Preston, world premiere at the Brewery Arts Complex in Los Angeles, Frictions Festival, Théâtre Dijon Bourgogne.

’16 SHELTER

Shelter: Una obra sobre travesías (A play about journeys), conceived and written by Marissa Chibas, directed by Martin Acosta, world premiere at the Plaza de la Raza in Los Angeles.

’18

The Carolyn Bryant Project

The Carolyn Bryant Project, created by Nataki Garrett and Andrea LeBlanc, directed by Nataki Garrett, world premiere at REDCAT.

’18

Nightwalk In The Chinese Garden

Nightwalk in the Chinese Garden, a collaboration between CalArts Center for New Performance and The Huntington Library, Art Collections, and Botanical Gardens, written and directed by Stan Lai, world premiere at The Huntington Library, Art Collections, and Botanical Gardens Garden of Flowing Fragrance.

CalArts Center for New Performance (CNP) was established to provide a unique artist- and project-driven framework for the development and realization of original theater, music, dance, media, and interdisciplinary projects.

CNP has sought to bring forth and nurture the vague, the opaque, the inchoate, the anarchic—the impulses that are barely manifest to things that whisper within, that can be barely heard. Based on the conviction that the great idea, the important idea, will often not shout itself—but is present to us only as a murmur. We ask artists to listen to themselves. We see our role as to assist in that process of listening. WE MISTRUST THE RATIONAL. WE MISTRUST THE PRESCRIBED, THE FORMULAIC, THE MODELS OF PROVEN SUCCESS

There are other places designed to support these. We don’t have a “season.” We present work when it is done. Some work is done and doesn’t need presentation. Some of the most profound work an artist can do never needs an audience. That said, we are proud of the legacy of production that we have generated over the last 20 years. We hope that artists have been deeply nurtured in the process.

Text adapted from the introduction of the Center for New Performance 20th Anniversary book. Written by Travis Preston, Executive Artistic Director, CalArts Center for New Performance and Dean, School of Theater.

If you’re a fan of B-movies or iconic television series from the 1970s and 1980s, then you’ve probably seen the Brutalist architecture of the CalArts campus on your screen—even if you didn’t realize it at the time. The Main Building and grounds have played a variety roles over the years, from evil institutional headquarters and pseudo-government buildings to art galleries and television studios. As soon as the Valencia campus opened in 1971, Hollywood location scouts seemed to fall in love with the limitless possibilities that CalArts’ inscrutable institutional aesthetic and wide-open spaces provided.

Whether it was the graffitied and rubblestrewn Main Gallery as a post-apocalyptic New York City in the sci-fi cult classic Escape from New York (1981) or the library transformed into the perfect ‘70s-chic cocktail lounge in the so-badit’s-good Invasion of the Bee Girls (1973), CalArts adeptly played its part in some of the era’s most iconic and camp productions.

Michael Buitrón (Art BFA 87, MFA 08) witnessed several productions during his time as an undergraduate at the Institute during the midto-late 1980s. He’s even curated a collection of screenshots from movies and television programs filmed at CalArts on his blog, Leap Into the Void.

For Buitrón, no experience captured the zeitgeist of 1980s television and its unique intersection with CalArts better than Airwolf, a particularly on-the-nose ‘80s action series starring bad-boy actor-of-the-moment

Jan-Michael Vincent as helicopter pilot Stringfellow Hawke.

“We loved irony in the ’80s and there was no better moment than when set builders arrived a couple of days before shooting and built a fullscale replica of an art gallery in the Main Gallery,” Buitrón says. “It was the kind of simulacra that Roland Barthes could only dream of.”

In addition to scenes from Airwolf, Escape from New York, and Invasion of the Bee Girls, CalArts’ Main Building has stood in for the “Department of Biological Sciences” in the TV series Wonder Woman (1975–79) and the headquarters of the “Office of Scientific Intelligence,” the semisecret (and fictional) organization of the U.S. government responsible for reconstructing Steve Austin for the iconic 1970s show The Six Million Dollar Man (and later, Jaime Sommers in the spinoff, The Bionic Woman). And, for the much-beloved 1980s Angela Landsbury television series Murder, She Wrote, the iconic CalArts Blue Wall became the fictional Denver television studio KBLA.

Largely forgotten television series, such as The Invisible Man (1975–76) and Banacek (1972–74), as well as movies such as Woody Allen’s dystopian slapstick Sleeper (1973) and the Oscar-nominated Jane Fonda and Michael Douglas nuclear-powerplant disaster film The China Syndrome (1979) all filmed at 24700 McBean Parkway. And while filming has continued at CalArts to the present day, there was something particularly endearing about those early days and the films and television shows of that era, when the building on the hill was strange and new. ⁂

BY Greg Houle

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