“It’s Impossible to Do Things Alone”: Valérie Bah on Artists Seeking Community

document.getElementsByClassName('th-hero-container')[0].insertAdjacentHTML('beforebegin', ` IN PARTNERSHIP WITH AMAZON CANADA `); document.getElementsByClassName("cat-links")[0].innerHTML = 'In Partnership with Amazon Canada'; .gallery {/*margin-bottom: 0; top: -40px; position: relative;*/} div.gallery span.hm-tagged {/* margin: 0; */} In Valérie Bah’s debut novel, Subterrane, a filmmaker plumbs the city of New Stockholm, documenting the lives of Black and Queer inhabitants as she reports on the death of an activist protesting a construction project. It’s fiction, of course, but the notion that artists might live on the fringes—clamouring for basic needs and clinging to each other to feed their creations—isn’t so far-fetched. In real life, Bah—the Montreal-based winner of this year’s Amazon First Novel Award—is a big proponent of community and the scaffolding it creates around creators. In a world that increasingly deprioritizes art in favour of expediency and profit, one truth rings clearer than ever: all we have is each other, and really, that’s all we need. Here, Bah discusses what it’s taken to make space for her art, and the people in her orbit who feed it. You’ve said that the inspiration for the novel began with the question: How do we make art, and who gets to make it? What made you feel like you could carve out space for yourself as a writer? Community plays an important role. In Montreal, I ran with some folks who have an amazing theatre practice—it’s meta-theatre that shows the mechanism of the work, without hiding it or looking for polish or protection. There’s an understanding between the audience and the cast that “we’re in this together,” and “let’s speak to the power dynamics that are happening outside these doors.” I really think it inspired a lot of my writing and notions of what is a novel. We also had a lot of dinners and reading circles together. Those folks read a lot of my early work and offered really helpful critiques. I think it loosened me up and allowed me to write in a way that I wanted to—not to try for a conventional literary voice that’s not my own. I think it’s impossible to do things alone. Capitalism thrives on myths of individualism, whether it’s around parenting or work, right? I benefited from a lot of co-regulation. In Subterrane, the characters who live in the Cipher Falls district of New Stockholm are also creatives and Bohemians who are trying to make space for themselves in a capitalist hellscape. I was going to ask if you can relate—it sounds like you can. Yeah. I’m also interested in how many of the basic activities of our lives are art itself. We always describe art as painting or writing, but there’s so much creation that happens in everyone’s day-to-day. I was at a friend’s tattoo shop last night, and there were a bunch of younger artists working. It was interesting to see their practice—the care work, the active listening. Those are all aspects of being a good tattoo artist that don’t get recognized as part of the job. I think it’s just human to create. In cities, in particular, we tend to find fewer and fewer creative communities due to affordability reasons. What do you think the role of the artist—or the writer—is in today’s society? We could have this conversation about Canada, where, remarkably, artists get a lot of public funding. We still regard artists as doing a public service. But there are other places. Ancestrally, I’m Haitian, and I think I’ve received a lot of cultural baggage, like Haiti is a place where the state collapses and the economy crashes. And yet, there, people have an understanding that art must get made. It’s not about merit or that intangible thing called “talent.” It’s more like a part of life itself. Unfortunately, we have developed a caste system around who gets to make art (or not). Depending on what circumstances you’re born under, the work that you make will have a certain reach or will be regarded in a particular way. You see this in the culinary arts, for instance. There’s this cropping up of male chefs—usually white dudes—who are seen as renegades or solo creators or visionaries who are turning the lowly art of cooking into something greater, despite all the ancestral traditions around food made by mothers and grandmothers. That appropriation and manipulation of the “artist” label is part of our times, too. How can writers find pockets of freedom and ease to create in a world that prioritizes productivity and profit and, as you say, certain kinds of people? I think it’s important to engage with life and other people beyond the strictures of art-making. It’s about making it our business to care for, know, talk to, and become friends with your neighbour who works for the post, for example, and just taking an interest in the lives of people who don’t have anything to give you. People talk about the gentrification of Montreal, but it’s kind of a global process. And it’s affecting how people relate to each other—more transactionally. It’s important to take several steps back and organize among ourselves, with respect to care and the exchange of resources. Those are sort of prerequisites for art. I’m super inspired by those who are making their work on a particular scale and getting visibility, but also by people who are making work in a hyper-local way. I have a friend who teaches youth about abolitionism and decolonization, and she also works in a ceramic studio. There’s a whole group doing similar work in Montreal. They make bowls and mugs and plates, then go into the community and deliver food. That’s an important statement on what it is to create. You’re not just creating empty vessels; you’re also filling people’s bellies. Now that Subterrane has found a larger audience, do you think that being “known” will change the way you interact with your community? I live in a part of Montreal that’s a site of the Haitian diaspora and, more recently, the Filipino diaspora. A lot of people are caregivers: nannies, nurses, service workers. There’s a huge amount of foot traffic from people going to and from their jobs. I don’t think anyone on those streets knows me as a writer. If anything, I’m the neighbour; I’m the person who cusses out drivers for running red lights. For me, writing wasn’t about standing or hiding behind the concept of a book; it was a process of parsing out my values. What place am I making work from? And it’s an ongoing thing. I value presence a lot, and I love my writing practice and my community. The recognition for Subterrane went beyond my expectations, and I’m gratified that its ideas have resonance. I think there’s just a collective desire to feel human in these increasingly fascist times. In my daily life, I’m just grappling with what it means to live alongside folks in harmony. The post “It’s Impossible to Do Things Alone”: Valérie Bah on Artists Seeking Community first appeared on The Walrus.