Rebel in the arts
By Grace Okereke
The performing arts, in theory, can be a place for expression, and it has long been said to have the power to instigate change.
Artists create work that can challenge perspectives or discuss relevant social or political topics. But after the applause from the audience has faded and the stage is cleared, what has really changed? When we organise conferences or industry events to connect and talk about sectoral challenges and triumphs, what difference is made once we all leave and return to our normal routines? When it comes to making a tangible difference, how many of us can truly say that we have that power?
Many of us have heard some variation of the saying, “If they don’t give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair” (Shirley Chisholm). At first, it feels like an inspiring call to ensure your voice is heard, especially when the powers that be do not want to include you in important decision-making processes. Because of that, I adopted it as a quiet mantra. But honestly, it never felt quite right for me. I’m not sure why, perhaps because bringing my own chair still didn’t command the respect of being listened to. I still felt easily ignored—dismissible.
At some point, I came across an adapted version, “If they don’t give you a seat at the table, build your own”. I instantly gravitated towards this. I no longer felt like I was begging to be included, as I was now creating something of my own. That, to me, felt truly empowering. I could use my voice—and help others use theirs—to carve out our own place in the industry, away from stereotypes and imposed limitations. I was ready to become Bobbi the Builder, to erect a table of gargantuan stature. And it was to be round—just like in Camelot—to ensure equity for all who chose to sit at it.
Nearly a decade and a half after making that decision—and after buying tools, learning how to use them, refining my technique, sourcing materials and assembling the framework—I feel like I still can’t quite manage to raise it from the ground. Or at least, not raising it to the height I believe it should be at
by now.
And despite having created a table that I think is well crafted, and that can expand to seat those who want and need it for their personal and professional growth, it still feels like I need “permission” to erect it. The land it stands on remains owned by the very people who continue to uphold the systems I am trying to move beyond.
As much as I would like to feel that building my own table gave me complete autonomy, the reality is that this is not the way of the sector—nor is it the way of life. We are all interconnected in some way. Even those who try to live “off-grid” in today’s world still rely, at least minimally, on materials or systems produced by the wider world. And that is where I would like to be in my career, off-grid and self sufficient.
But in reality, I still feel bound to the current (and outdated) system of working—the one that keeps me in the same position, and likely always will, simply because of its design. And yet, that system is under pressure due to political and economic turbulence in many regions of the world, with many of us now working under untenable conditions.
Building my own table represented a route to professional freedom and a way to achieve success on an equal footing with my counterparts—and with those of the artists I support. I am not trying to shun what already exists. I simply believe it is no longer fit-for-purpose, and I no longer wish to navigate it cap in hand, seeking opportunities or a sense of professional security, all while feeling othered.
I believe in what I am doing, even if I understand that the impact I hope to have may still be a long way off. Realistically, building my own table will not create change in silo. But it will never stand a chance as long as the ground it rests on remains stuck in the ways of old.
