Ja'Tovia M. Gary

Interview conducted by Aye'lesha Gibson on February 27, 2020 via phone

AG: I see that you earned your MFA in Social Documentary Filmmaking from the School of Visual Arts in New York City, I'm wondering if you received your bachelor's degree in film as well and if so, where did you go?

JG: Yes I did. I attended Brooklyn College and received degrees in documentary film production, as well as Africana studies. So, I wasn't simply studying film, I was studying black people, black history, the whole diaspora - black art, black literature - it was something that was extremely important to me, and this is something that I tell young people as well: don't simply study film and think that you're going to make some sort of amazing film. Learn other things as well in order to acquire this sort of intellectual cultural grounding.

What are you going to be talking about --what are you trying to say?

AG: (chuckles) *finger snaps* I agree. I can see the dimensionality of your perspective and approach in your work. I've also noticed that your work has prominent themes of feminism, and is generally categorized as experimental. I would like to know how you define experimental and feminist and if you identify with those terms? And what do they mean to you?

JG: I vacillate on whether or not I identify with experimental, even though I definitely say I'm experimental; Experimental is a loaded term, like "ghettoizing" of work that I do and that work that people I admire do, work that isn't quote "original"; it doesn't follow a Hollywood - like narrative film structure -- this Aristotelian beginning middle and end. There's certain conventions and certain modes that are used, in terms of the edit; continuity is stressed; we are attempting to have the audience members suspend their belief; and we are in some ways hiding our hand; this is traditional filmmaking, we don't want to be too "obvious."

But for me, I'm really interested in making a new language, how many boundaries I can push; how many genres can I overlap. And so sometimes it's easier to say "well, that's an experimental film." But, you know, I feel like I'm making documentaries and there is not just one way to make a documentary.

Documentaries used to have a close relationship with the Avant-garde - it wasn't always about news, or about presenting some information to get to some "truth"; it was about experimenting. There's room to play in anything; I'm hoping to be able to stretch my limbs and my imagination into any genre, but while pulling that genre apart, and challenging the modes and conventions of that genre.

So experimental is--tough. I'm ambivalent towards the term, because I feel like, yes, my work is different, my work is not traditional -- I don't want to be traditional. I feel like many people can handle this type of work, but for some, when you throw the word "experimental" out there, it scares people like, "What am I gonna see? Am I just gonna be staring at strobe lights for 15 minutes"

A: My friend brought it up the other day when we were talking about the experimental film we were making, and how some people, upon hearing that the film is "experimental," would probably just think it's something similar to that French film where the woman gets her eye cut (Un Chien Andalou) or that film Mothlight, and I'm like, "nooo it's so much more than that!"

Experimental isn't conventional, or in other words, mainstream and that's all it is supposed to mean, but somehow over time, specific aesthetics and expectations have dictated the perception of what experimental is, when the term "experimental" very literally was supposed to simply represent being outside of mainstream methods-- but now it's been placed inside of a box like everything else.

JG: Right! Yes--that's really profound. It's almost like our minds are conditioned to do that, you know, we have to find some sort of category. With me, I'm letting you know: Listen--I don't want a category, sis-- I just want to be able to do what I'm doing!--

AG: (finger snaps, finger snaps) Absolutely!

JG: Because we're in a capitalist context, we have to categorize, so we can sell things, youknow, and I'm not interested-- I don't give a shit. I just wanna make my films.

In terms of feminist, I'm a little ambivalent towards this word, because if we want to be precise,I am more a Womanist-- first and foremost, I am a black woman, and that's really important to me. There has been historical contention between mainstream feminism and black women, other women of color, including indigenous women, etc. So it's important for me to really make that distinction:I am within the traditions of black women (Audre Lorde, Alice Walker) who are striving for a certain sort of political power, but also personal community power; and I'm hoping my work translates into that. It's not about making money, that's why the work is deeply personal, and of course deeply political, because there is an intention there: I'm creating from a black feminist/womanist subjective space -- not objective.

Some of the forebears of the documentary tradition positioned themselves as an objective observer. I do not position myself as an objective observer. I'm very much here with a camera and my hand letting you know there's a point of view, there's something happening, there's something at play here—and not simply observation. I'm letting you know from my lived experience, that this is from my objective space.

So, I feel like Womanism and Feminism play a role in this, because it shapes a lot of the conceptual underpinnings of my work-- what I'm thinking through, what I'm thinking about, how I'm thinking about it-- whether that is gendered labor, whether that is state violence and how that affects my community or me personally, whether it's a psychological space and how I'm thinking through my interior realm or my interior life. These are kind of guiding principles that help keep me within a historical tradition, but also keep my mind on what's important--not just out here tryna cash in.

AG: I would like to talk a little bit more about this idea of how you feel like a black woman, first and foremost, and not simply just a woman. I'm taking two feminist courses this quarter, this experimental film [course] and a lecture feminist/social justice course, and this is my first real exposure to feminism. I'm also multiracial, my mom is Puerto Rican and my dad is black, and he's been incarcerated my whole life. So...naturally, I've had identity issues growing up… so, this whole idea of being black and being a woman -- I don’t know if I feel if there's some sort of separation within those identities, because this is my first exposure to feminism, or if my being multiracial sometimes makes me feel more of a woman than I am black -- I was wondering if those two identities for you are always inseparable in your mind?

JG: Wow, deep questions, you are smart and emotionally intelligent! I'm not multiracial. Well, I'm as multiracial as a black person in America is, as most black people in America are; we are not pure African, even though I like to pretend I am. I'm a black, Southern, American woman. Both of my parents are black, and I'm also dark-skinned; this is also adding another dimension which people don't like to talk about, mention, or make any sort of allusions to. But I do, ‘cause, like I said, it's power. I'm really interested in how power manifests itself and who holds it, who is at its service, who takes it back -- personal power, political, etc.

For me though, I do think that these identities-- black and woman-- are inextricable. But that doesn't mean that there isn't a tension there, because I am a woman, and, as we know, there are these intersecting and interlocked oppressions. So it's like...do I need to focus on the woman thing here or on the black thing here?

AG: I'm wondering how you stay true to the history and the context around these tropes, stereotypes, and representations while also remaining true to your story. Recently I did a short film about my dad and him being incarcerated my whole life. We have a really tumultuous relationship: he went to jail for selling drugs and he used to beat my mom. So it was hard making that film, because I didn't want to portray another black man as just an "aggressive brute," but at the same time I wanted to remain true to my feelings and my relationship, because, although I do love him, I also understand that there are factors that make a person behave a certain way. But the audience won't always know the factors of that contextual history.

You had mentioned that your work is deeply personal and deeply political. How would you say your personal experiences in your life and your childhood shape your approach and interest to your style of work? How do you remain true to your feelings, while also keeping in mind the responsibility a black artist has to the black community?

JG: Yeah, definitely. I have been making a film for the past four years-- about my family. It's a feature, it's a documentary -- and it gets to the root of a lot of the shit you're talking about-- abuse, violence, addiction, etc. All of the stuff we don't like to talk about. And the reason why it's taking me so long is because a) it's a feature film and b) it is difficult! It's fucking hard-- you don't want to disrespect, denigrate, and pathologize. I'm looking closely at my mother and my father, I've interviewed grandparents, boyfriends, siblings--

AG: Is that 'The Evidence of Things Not Seen'?

JG: Yes ma'am, that's it-. So all of these people -- you have such a responsibility to that, because you're looking at history, and you're having to speak about memory and people's testimonies and the tensions and the inconsistencies there are. And it's just a lot to juggle. And one thing that has been really helpful, and I don't know if this is helpful to you, instead of what my spiritual path is: I'm not a Christian, but that's foundational. I was raised Southern Black Pentacostal, but now it's more of an African-centered spirituality. So, that has been REALLY helpful, because it helps me feel like I'm not operating, just popping up in the ether; I'm connected to a tradition, I'm connected to a history of people, and these folks are guiding me. I honestly believe it; I honestly believe this is ancestral work that I am doing to heal, not simply to broadcast people's business or to get back at my family. These are steps I'm taking not simply to heal ME but to heal backwards and forwards, right? Think about those who have yet to come, because that's the work that we have to do. As black people, we have to heal ourselves and heal and make space for those who ain't even been born yet, to be fully whole and realized, actualized human beings -- not pathologized, not completely obliterated by inherited trauma. How can the projects fortify you, instead of make you fearful? What steps can you take, what mantra can you keep in your mind, that keeps you on the mission, that keeps you on the path, that reminds you of what this is actually about, ya know? And so that's why I'm always thinking through healing. People are like, "oh you make work about trauma", and I'm like, “no I make work about healing.”

AG: WOW, *finger snaps* OMGGGG

JG:To heal, I have to look at the trauma, and not everyone wants to do that anymore. And this is why I omit bodies: I don't show dead or mutilated black bodies in my work, I'm not going to show the police shooting us. I might show the police though, and I might show the aftermath, and you might hear it.

I'm interested in having us face what's actually going on -- not to be retraumatized, but to be galvanized. To figure out how we can think our way out of this, what steps do we need to take to move past our current/historical position and predicament, which is bound in unremitting violence; both from the outside, but also the violence we have internalized that shapes our relationships to one another.

So, if I could give any advice to you, I would say, think really about WHY? Like, why are you doing this? What are you trying to communicate, not only to the audience member but also to yourself and to your father and to your family? What are you trying to say? And who are you talking to? I say this to everybody, whenever I engage in any sort of work: what are they saying and who are they talking to? It clarifies shit — It clarifies things for you.

AG: I'm interested how you put yourself in your work. The piece you did in Giverny, Paris called Giverny; beautiful, beautiful piece by the way--

J: Thank you.

AG: You placed your person in your film Giverny. I'm specifically interested in how you feel about your person being in your work, and what that translates to—particularly your naked body, and, even further, your naked black body. What does that translate into and what does that mean for your audience?

JG: Hmm, wow, again, hahaha--

AG: hahaha, I'm sorry I'm so esoteric, and think way too much.

JG: No don't apologize. I mean, I would rather this than, ya know, people being like--

AG:"What's your favorite color?"

JG: Or no, "what's next?" Like, girl... One thing you should know is, I used to be an actor, so there's always going to be this impulse to perform for better or for worse.I've been an artist since I was a young girl, and acting was one of the first things. So to me it is not foreign to put myself in my work, it's not indulgent, it's almost like second nature -- using my body as an artistic instrument has always been there.

In 2016, I had a residency at the Terra Foundation for American Arts, and they had a location in Giverny, which was a rather unique space. Claude Monet's Garden is there; it's where he spent the latter part of his career painting, ya know, "observing the light bounce off the lilypad"-- real luxurious.=

AG: It made me wonder what the archival footage of him painting in the garden meant in your film, Giverny. I thought that juxtaposition of his image painting in the garden with your person in the garden was interesting.

JG: Thank you. Yeah, he was intense.For me, it was really difficult being there, particularly the first couple months, because, again, I'm the only black person, and there's racial violence going on across the pond, in the States; that I'm seeing online. So, like, Philando Castile, Alton Sterling...

AG: Oh, yes, that was that year.

JG: Yes, summer ‘16. It was hot, it was crazy...

AG: Oh, yeah.

JG:...the Pulse nightclub shooting, there were also a lot of migrant deaths, a boat had capsized off the Mediterranean...and then I'm also hearing about anti-black violence and anti-Islamic violence in Europe. I pay attention to this stuff; it's not just fluttering in the back of my mind. It was difficult for me. I was depressed the first month.And then I realized, you're never going to be back here; this is a rare moment. You need to motivate -- and I did. They gave me access to that garden, which is rare. They gave me unlimited access, even well after people would leave.And so I took one step in this place and thought, “oh wow this is a really elaborate set.” You know, I thought about it in the context of a film set or a theater set, and I thought what would it mean for me to place my unruly,politicized -- you know --Black body in this space.And what I think it does is it really activates the space and it activates the viewer. They then begin to have to contend with me being there, and I wasn't supposed to be there, right? He didn't make that garden for me. He didn't paint models in that space, but he invited many of his friends -- other contemporaries of his time -- who would paint women there who did not look like me.

So, what does it mean? When we place my body there, we trigger a number of different conversations around the black figure in Western art. I'm also thinking about Black women's bodies throughout history, like what have our bodies represented within a capitalist context? Our bodies have represented sources of commodification, commodity production, making more enslaved people to sell...It's just so layered.

AG: I agree, and thank you for being so honest about your mental health in regards to this experience in Giverny. The reflection, perspective and honesty of that experience produced this incredibly visceral and beautiful body of work, such as your installation. It's hard for me to put into words everything Giverny 1 made me think -- it doesn't necessarily give you time to think about what you're experiencing, but it gives you time to feel -- I don't even know if that really makes sense...

JG: No, it does make sense. I really do want people to have intellectual responses. They may have to take a moment sometimes, but the most present thing, and almost immediately, they have an emotional response, that they are almost overwhelmed by it. I don't need you to tell me what something means. I'm interested in what you are feeling. I'm interested in what people feel when they see it. Some people say it was really overwhelming, or they say that they understand that there were multiple emotional registers that were being hidden. You're bombarded, disquieted and alarmed in the garden, but then Nina is soothing you, almost. She's almost rocking you, very quietly, and then she tosses you out of her arms. I want people to kind of just sit in that space, in that emotional space, and have to be confronted with the fact that sometimes the emotional space is not going to be soothing.

AG: I'm so appreciative of this work, because-- yes, it's unconventional, but you do something that I haven't really seen before. Despite the experimental overtone, I feel like it's rooted enough to where anyone can watch this and make sense of it.

JG: There's something very quotidian about it, even though it is weird. It's totally strange, and there's an unfamiliar structure for some people, but I think for a lot of Black people this structure is very familiar. They recognize this structure, because it's circular, it's musical, it's rhythmic...

AG: exactly!

JG: That's not really a problem for them, they don't care. They actually do see a beginning, middle and end. They're not thrown off by the structure, and I think a lot of non-black people are -- but I think that's also what intrigues a lot of non-black people, because a lot of formalist film people, film nerds, we're all about form. They're excited about that. I think that it is also very accessible! This is why I push back on the term or the concept of "experimental" being so strange, because I feel like we are really discounting our audiences. Are we really playing them for fools?

AG: No faith! (chuckles) When it comes to creativity, what do you do when you're having a creative block? Do you get to that point still?

JG: Absolutely -- I think that's going to always be a thing

AG: I think that's good for students to hear from someone who's so accomplished and successful as you are -- what do you do when you're having a creative block?

JG: I work on other things. There's usually more than one project brewing. I also write. I also listen to talks; I love listening to black feminist thinkers or listening to people read their poetry. What I try to do is fill my arsenal. I'll put this shit down or I'll pick something else up. Like some days, I just take whole days where I "play," and that's where I'll only do production stuff.

AG: Aww, that's cute

JG: Yeah, because I can't just sit and do emails all day.

AG: haha I have literally been doing email all day. And my brain hurts.

JG: That's my idea of hell. Some days I'll paint on film all day.Yesterday, I got really annoyed and was just like, you know what? It's time to put my chalk board up. So I measured out my chalkboard, I pinned it, and now I have a huge rectangle up on one of my walls -- my chalkboard. Like I go and I do something else, I go and let it breathe. I don't sit and stew over it and throw my computer on the wall. I just walk away and let it breathe and take some time.

AG: Do you do anything non-creatively to help your block, like right now I'm trying to learn how to play guita-- oh wait, I guess that's creative. Do you do Yoga?

JG: Yes! I do Yoga, I have a meditation practice, and I'm hoping to start back on the piano.

One of my biggest disappointments: I used to take piano lessons as a young girl, and then I stopped, because I was having a really difficult year as a kid. My step father had died, and I didn't want to do anything -- so I just stopped taking lessons. And then I think back and I'm like, “Damn, I could have been Nina Simone!” Haha

AG: hahahahaha! Or Hazel Scott! Hazel Scott!

JG: Right! I could have been anybody! And I think the beautiful thing is there's still time.

AG: Oh I feel so deeply for that. Like Amy Winehouse, for example, she gives me so much life. She's why I wanna learn guitar -- I always wonder why I'm not pursuing music, I wanna play the guitar so bad! But it makes sense why I'm so into music if I'm also so into poetry and film because they're all so--

JG: --interwoven!

AG: Yes!

Courtesy of Ja'Tovia Gary, all images and excerpts on this page belong to © Ja'Tovia Gary 2012-2019. Do not reproduce any of the content on this page without the written consent of Ja'Tovia Gary.