Why

At Earthseed we’re curious about theatre that includes community.

My people and I are generationally from small towns. When Kingston-based Jamaicans hear the name of the town my family is from the response is often, “Oh, you’re country country.” I also spent a chunk of my formative years frolicking on 10,000 acres in Central Pennsylvania. My biological mother grew up on an island of about 4,000 people. Supporting the economy of hyperlocal artists is an integral part of my personal value system and Earthseed’s business practices.

As part of our producing partnership, Sound Theatre offered me access to their 12th Avenue Arts space. When thinking about how to use that space I kept coming back to who I was as an artist. Did I want to teach in-person workshops? Did I want to facilitate a staged reading for a new play I’ve been writing? Eventually I landed on wanting to share space and be in community with other artists. For health reasons I’ve had to remain cautious and diligent. We’ve lost 6.52 million people due to the coronavirus. I needed to reenter the practice of vending when I understood how to keep myself and my community members as safe as possible. That time is now.

Why Grief?

In 2019 & 2020 Earthseed was awarded funding from the City of Seattle’s Office of Arts and Culture to produce Grief: A 2019 Wail. We hired two student artists from Cleveland High School in South Beacon Hill to co-write, co-produce, and star in an evening of theatre. They chose to address the topic of gentrification. Both students were Filipino and their families could no longer afford to live in the neighborhood they grew up in. The stories they wrote reflected those experiences. Throughout the evening, folks ate food and created art about the things they’ve needed to grieve. Some of those art pieces live in Earthseed’s “Big Book of Grief.” At Earthseed’s table at the Grief Market attendees will have the opportunity to contribute to it with their art if they’d like.

I kept thinking about the changes in my life. The people, things, and versions of myself that I’ve lost. So many people have died. I’m fortunate to make a living in this city as an artist. I found myself waiting for some national infrastructure to spring up in support of us. I awaited a coordinated effort to take stock of the universes we’d hoped to exist, harvest what’s transferrable, and build a new world. Organizing this market with Mousy Devilla feels like a step toward reconstructing a sustainable practice.