Trish Harnetiaux and I met at Mac Wellmans School for Degenerates, also known as the playwriting program at Brooklyn College, in the fall of 2007. I immediately took a liking to Trishher no-bullshit sensibility, pragmatic intelligence, and wry sense of humor.
I met Becca Blackwell eight years ago, at a table read for a play called Pony, by Sylvan Oswald. Becca had bright red hair, wore their masculinity with ease (they/their/them are Becca’s pronouns of choice) and acted like a pro: an inspirational figure for a then-twenty-four-year-old baby butch like myself, new to the downtown theater.
In 2012, I had the honor of being fully inducted into the BAX community as an artist-in-residence, so profiling the space feels like a bit of a homecoming. I remember it as a thrilling time in my art life. Not since the days of my luxurious collegiate conservatory actor training had I been granted such access to studio space without the gnawing consideration of how I might pay for it alongside the pressure to produce something great.
I keep seeing Lauren Baksts performance work Private Collection: in the gallery space of a Bushwick apartment complex, the sanctuary of St. Marks Church, a downtown loft on Broadway.
In a delightful scene from Ben Gassman’s unproduced play Haircuts for Men & Boys, written in 2010, a guy walks into a barbershop of Greek ownership in Queens.