You Are The News Now
explores the fragile balance of online reality during the United States’
COVID-19 crisis. Through parallel monologues sourced entirely from found
text, the virus’s devastation comes into contrast with viral
misinformation and conspiracy theories surrounding the virus’s origin,
government lockdowns, masks, vaccination, and racial violence. While the
government and establishment media struggle to interpret the crisis for
the online public, the mysterious “Q” and his army of citizen journalist
“Digital Soldiers” wage war on the construction of truth itself.
Co-created by Jaime Sunwoo and Matt Chilton. Commissioned by Ping Chong
+ Company. Experience the project
here.
Equality Tea
Throughout America, women organized tea parties for meetings and
fundraisers to support the suffrage movement. The Woman’s Suffrage Party
sold ceylon, young hyson, gunpowder, and oolong tea under their
charitable brand “Equality Tea.” Yet the history of tea is steeped in
inequality, driven by colonialism, war, and appropriation. In her short
film, Equality Tea, Sunwoo brews tea while drawing parallels
between the fraught histories of the tea trade and the suffrage
movement.
Created by Jaime Sunwoo. Original score by Matt Chilton, based on a 1895
suffragist anthem by Augusta Gray Gunn. Commissioned by Park Avenue
Armory and The Laundromat Project for
100 Years | 100 Women.
Specially Processed American Me
Specially Processed American Me by Jaime Sunwoo is a surreal
autobiographical performance using SPAM, the canned meat, as a portal
into her Asian American upbringing and her family's experiences of the
Korean War. It investigates SPAM's legacy in the military, its
significance in the Asia-Pacific, and its influence on Asian cuisine
through music, shadowplay, and cooking. Oscillating wildly between
absurd humor and sober tragedy, Specially Processed American Me is a
thought-provoking exploration of one of America's most misunderstood
foods.
Dixon Place, Ping Chong and Company, and Free Rein Projects will present
the world premiere of Specially Processed American Me at Dixon Place in
New York City from January 27- February 2022.
Tickets here
In addition to performances,
Specially Processed American Me holds food history and
storytelling workshops over a communal SPAM meal. To learn more, visit
speciallyprocessed.com
and follow @speciallyprocessed on
Facebook
and
Instagram.
Specially Processed American Me was developed through FailSafe,
Leviathan Lab, BAX Upstart Program, Barn Arts Residency, and the HB
Studio Rehearsal Space Residency, with support from the Queens Council
on the Arts' Artist Commissioning Program, Ms. Foundation for Women in
association with Asian Women Giving Circle, the NYC Women's Fund for
Media, Music and Theatre by the City of New York Mayor's Office of
Media and Entertainment in association with The New York Foundation
for the Arts, and The Jim Henson Foundation.
reGENEration lab
Photo by Leonie Bell [1/9]
Photo by Leonie Bell [2/9]
Photo by Andrea Januta [3/9]
Photo by Andrea Januta [4/9]
Photo by Andrea Januta [5/9]
Photo by Andrea Januta [6/9]
Photo by Leonie Bell [7/9]
Photo by Andrea Januta [8/9]
Photo by Leonie Bell [9/9]
At reGENEration lab, patients enter a gene modification clinic that
promises to transform them into their ideal selves. By examining
shortcomings, insecurities, and inherited traumas, reGENEration lab asks
what we want to change and why. Presented at the FailSafe Festival 2019.
Ear to Ear
In Ear to Ear, artist Jaime Sunwoo welcomed passerby to press their ear
against hers to listen to each other's inner sounds while taking turns
eating different textured foods. While one person sampled crunchy
pretzels, chewy gummy bears, and fizzy pop rocks, the other listened,
getting a rare glimpse into another person's physical perspective. The
experience is playful and intimate, an act of empathy through touch and
sound. By pressing ears together, sounds travel from one person to the
other via bone conduction, vibrations through the skull.
Ear to Ear is an attempt to see 'eye to eye' with others. To protect
ourselves, we normally guard our senses around strangers. Strangers lack
our trust and intimacy so we tend to avoid eye contact, are quieter, and
certainly do not touch. Ear to Ear is a celebratory act to share the
senses with someone you are willing to trust just for a moment. Over
eighty people participated in the project during the Art in Odd Places
Festival 2018. Videos of the encounters were uploaded on Instagram under
#EartoEarNYC.
Earshot
Strangers sit across from each other, listening to the characters
through localized electronic speakers (Earshot, 2015, Bonnie Vee
Bar, New York, NY). [1/8]
Listeners explore characters' props placed by their seats (Earshot,
2015, Kilo Bravo Bar, Brooklyn, NY). [2/8]
[3/8]
[4/8]
[5/8]
[6/8]
[7/8]
[8/8]
Earshot is an interactive sound installation set in a bar. Earshot
simulates bar crowd conversations through different audio narratives
simultaneously playing at each table. As listeners stroll through the
bar, they eavesdrop on moments in which old friends reconnect, drunks
philosophize, lovers plot affairs and relationships fall apart. Once
seated, listeners can examine characters' purses, wallets, and
jackets to get a voyeuristic glimpse into their lives. Earshot is a
paean to the diversity, and frequent absurdity, of the lives and stories
around us every day.
Photo documentation by Taj Birkett.
See full credits and explore a show simulation at
earshotplay.com.
Household tells the story of a dysfunctional family of household
objects– Blender, Vacuum, Lamp, Curtain, Mirror. Anthropomorphized,
their individual personalities are determined by their functions.
Otherwise mute, musical instruments speak for our characters with the
blaring sounds of modern life. Houseplants, in marked contrast to their
mechanical housemates, sing gracefully and comment on the action. The
play begins with domestic tranquility, but as the characters vie for
dominance of the stage, exercising their utility in incompatible ways,
unforeseen repercussions threaten the harmony of the household.
A researcher at a biochemistry lab becomes infected with an unknown
fungal disease, transforming into The Creature, a restless, impulsive,
mischievous urchin. The Creature leaves the comfort of its rainbow
fungal abode to spread its colorful spores onto the sterile spaces we
all inhabit.
Documentation by Zach Bell and Andrew Wagner.
Full Video:
(expand)
The Creature
[1/19]
[2/19]
[3/19]
[4/19]
[5/19]
[6/19]
[7/19]
[8/19]
[9/19]
[10/19]
[11/19]
[12/19]
[13/19]
[14/19]
[15/19]
[16/19]
[17/19]
[18/19]
[19/19]
An incompetent team of medical professionals tries to capture a person
severely infected with an unknown fungal disease but ultimately fails
due to bureaucratic setbacks. Doctors monitor the Creature’s whereabouts
at Grand Central, Times Square, and Brooklyn Bridge Park, handing out
public service announcement flyers to warn passersby of the fungal
disease. They lure the Creature into a medical clinic, where it is
quarantined. The staff interrogates the public to see if they’ve been in
contact with the Creature, and deems the disease non-hazardous after
administering a questionable treatment. Footage and photos from Rot
(2014) were on display at the medical clinic as part of the PSA. The
performance was held during the Ebola outbreak, playing on American
media scare tactics and toying with public paranoia.
Collaborators: Shon Arieh-Lerer, Jessica Park, Evan Brandon.
Documentation by Drew Gibson and Taj Birkett.
The performance and installation was hosted by Leaf Medical, a
DUMBO-based medical clinic.
Video:
(expand)
Safety Net
An autobiographical audio monologue about my childhood fear of sleeping
alone. My mother sings a Korean lullaby throughout the story. Listeners
experience the work in a dark blanket fort lit by a nightlight.
Full Transcript:
(expand)
My mother and I followed a sleeping ritual. She would put her arm
underneath my head and face me, singing Korean lullabies until I fell
asleep. Nestled in her warm arms, enveloped by her sweet scent, and
under the spell of her soothing songs, I felt at ease. For many
years–eleven, to be specific– I could not sleep without this process.
It was my safety net. Like a dog conditioned to salivate to the sound
of a bell, I was conditioned to sleep to the sound of my mother’s
lullabies.
However, as I got older, it became more and more difficult to put me
to sleep. My head became heavier, and her arm would become numb under
the weight. When she came home tired from work, she trailed off as she
sang and I shook her awake to keep her singing. If I woke up in the
middle of the night, I pried open her eyelids and asked her to sing to
me so I could fall asleep again. We were entangled in the net she
wove.
By fourth grade, all of my friends had their own bedrooms, decorated
with glow in the dark stars and posters of boy band heartthrobs taped
to their walls. Their desks were cluttered with hairpins, perfume
bottles, and cheap, glittery make-up kits. Board games and books
spilled over their shelves. When it was my turn to invite them over, I
made sure they wouldn’t suspect that I was still sleeping in my
mother’s bed. Before they arrived, I furnished my plain, unoccupied
bedroom. I threw pillows and blankets on the bare mattress and
scattered magazines and books on the floor. My friends had a good time
that day, but I was so busy trying to appear convincing that I
couldn’t enjoy it. Embarrassed, I promised myself that I would sleep
alone that night.
After three tormented nights, I gave up. I would never be able to get
out of the sleeping ritual. I would never get married. I’d shamelessly
live with my mother forever. Then, the dooming question came to me:
What would I do if my mother died? I wished that my mother would
outlive me just so I would not have to lose her. But that would be
unlikely. My mother would die and I would become an insomniac.
After I realized this, I never let her out of my sight. I followed her
around the house as she vacuumed, did the dishes, cooked, or even went
to the bathroom. If she stepped out of the house, I called her on
speed dial, inventing excuses to talk to her:
“Oh, I just called because I can’t find the remote.”
“Sorry for calling again. What did you say we were having for dinner
tonight?”
“Just one more thing– what time are you coming home?”
Like a child dragging around a baby blanket, I dragged my mother from
room to room in the house. I could not even shower without her waiting
outside the door. Often I’d call out “Umma!” just so I could hear her
shout back “Yes?” to know that she was still near. It was my anxiety
ridden form of Marco Polo.
At night, my anxiety escalated. The darkness and the silence reminded
me of death. I lay next to her, making sure she was alive. I held my
hand under her nose to see if she was still breathing. I stared at the
folds of her pajamas, lifting and descending to the rhythm of each
breath she took. When I had my eyes closed, her singing reassured me
that she was still conscious. She sang until her lips became chapped
and thin, until her voice creaked like an old door swinging on rusty
hinges that had long since been greased. When I pried open her
eyelids, her eyes remained rolled back into her head, and no amount of
whining could stir her awake. When she could no longer sing, I pressed
myself against the side of her body, as a reminder that she was still
present. During the night, she slowly inched away and I immediately
inched towards her. When she reached the edge of the bed, she would
catch herself from falling off and in the morning, I’d find her on the
other side.
These cautionary procedures were not enough to satisfy me. I still
didn’t know what I would do if my mother died. Cremation or burial is
the usual option. An urn or tombstone wouldn’t do me any good though.
I needed a better solution. In the late hours of the night, paranoid
as ever, I discovered the closest alternative to preserving her living
body: I fantasized that I would tape record my mother’s lullabies,
send her to a taxidermist, put the tape recorder into her stuffed
body, and sleep with her preserved cadaver.
For many months, this solution comforted me, that is, until I went to
a field trip to the Museum of Natural History with my sixth grade
science class. I walked through the halls of the dead zoo, examining
each diaroma. Every animal was perfectly preserved, positioned
naturalistically as if it were stuck in time. A flamingo leaned over,
just about to take a sip from a realistically-painted pool of water. A
chimpanzee stood among her young, grooming them, surrounded by a lush
assortment of synthetic plants modeled after those you would find in a
rainforest. This was taxidermy at its best. Still, I was not
satisfied. These animals, though carefully intact, felt lifeless. They
seemed like sculptures to me, free to gawk at, inanimate and
unresponsive. I walked over to a lion, stared into its black marble
eyes, and cried. That day, I learned that nothing could replace life.
No methods could ever let me keep my mother. My mother would die, and
I would have to deal with it.
That night I crawled into my bed and wrapped myself in the blanket. I
waited until my body heat soaked into the sheets, insulating the
warmth around me. With my right arm underneath my neck, I filled the
empty space between my shoulders and pillow. I found a new lullaby in
the steady stream of cars I could hear through my window. In time, my
once-cold, alien sheets would smell familiar, and I would be free.