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Unveiling the Inner Artist: InterArts Cabinet of Curiosity

Ayouba Swaray

Helming from the Bronx, NY, Ayouba is a 19-year-old artist who specializes in theatre and creative writing. His love for theatre sparked when his philosophy teacher gifted him a flash drive full of musicals and he’s became immersed ever since. Ayouba is particularly interested in dramas and loves a well-developed villain. He plans on performing in many productions at Trinity and will hopefully direct a musical before he graduates.

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Rose from Hadestown
By Ayouba Swaray
The first item I’m including in the cabinet of curiosity is the rose I got from the show Hadestown, which happens to be the last show I saw before Broadway closed down. This show first originated all the way in 2006, and it follows the story of young lover and musician Orpehus as he chases his soulmate Eurydice's through the Underworld in hopes of breaking Hades curse. I first listened to the live cast album in 2019 and absolutely fell in love with it. It was a sound on Broadway I’ve never heard before. It mixes and the rugged textures of blues with a New Orleans inspired sound packaged in a broadway musical. Learning about how it got to broadway made my respect for the show reach new bounds. The creator of the show, Anais Mitchell, released it as a concept album instead of a stage production in 2007 because she was unsure of how it’d be received, but it became critically acclaimed. It made its way from local productions, to regional productions, to the Oliver theatre in London, to off-Broadway, and finally Broadway in 2019. Eventually, due to me constantly talking about the show, my friend eventually found a means for me to get to it on Broadway. I was beyond elated! The Broadway cast was different from the off-Broadway cast so I was excited to go into it with a completely different sound and vision. We hopped the train, walked along broadway, admitted our tickets and boom, it was showtime. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that the show transformed me. This show is what theatre was. From the literal groundbreaking set/scenery, to the flawless executed characters and music, to the story as old as time that never ceases to get me, my love for theatre had resurgence. At the stage door, it was funny noticing how I was the only black patron present, especially since I’ve been struggling trying to find my place in the theatre world. A black ensemble member came out and, though I can’t presume, I’m sure he noticed and proceeded to give me a rose. The rose symbolizes the endless cycle of love and nature that is present in the show and I had to hold back tears when I received this gift. This is why I love theatre. Then, Broadway closed down.

The reason why this needs to be included in the cabinet of curiosity is because of the abundance of symbolic energy it holds. This show, the last show I saw since broadway’s closure, perpetuates the notion of chasing what you want and not falling prey to whatever cards are set for you, because of having the power to change your destiny. Since 2016, I’ve been going back and forth, essentially lying to myself about what I want to do in reaction to fear. Covid originally made me think I should lay my dreams to rest because of how unstable they are, but I’ve entered a paradigm shift since my tenure at Trinity. I now know I have to do everything in my power to get this dream to a reality, because tomorrow isn't promised and it isn’t up to anyone but me to crave out my future. That's why I bring the rose with me everywhere: as a reminder of my goal and why I won’t stop till I get it.
Emma
By Ayouba Swaray
Emma
Emma
Upon first gaze I note your rhubarb cheeks
Flushed symmetrically across your face
Maintaining perfect balance and spread
Southward lies your smile
That charming grin, slightly angled
Revealing a mischievous element that remains dormant
That is until you engage
Mutual contact is established
And I reach the centerpiece of the portrait
The eyes
Intensity
One can’t help but to take a second,
A moment to access and restabilize
These two spheres of pitch black
Bordered by a fierce hickory
Polished, sheen,
Magnetic, dare I say even tantalizing
Exacerbated by the artless white
Which assumes it’s position in the remaining ambient space
Stories are told, journey are met
The instant I look into your eyes
They look back into mine, and beyond.
Through the brain, past the mind, into the soul
With the finesses and prowess of a master archer
You’re good.
You’re seasoned.
So skilled at this craft that it has taken second to you.
As these assets in tandem generate a dangerous effect
The warm but cunning smile
The red innocence caked along your face
And the twin snipers who execute the task
The points trace a figure, a sculpture
Imbued with intelligence, wit, and hint of humor
-almost inconspicuous but present in the the right places-
Yes
Emma Stover
I’m intrigued

The writing of the poem honestly came from a place of artistic desperation. I’ve never felt more uninspired and artistically deprived in my whole life. Something I treasure so dearly to me, that is supposed to come almost second nature to me, is now the source of my loath and anger. This festered up in me so greatly that I had begun to reject any ties or reminders of art to me. I’ve never had this happen to me before. The work was not hard, per say, but I could not find myself being able to do it, for any attempt at making “good art” would end in mediocrity or failure. This birthed a rift between me and art. I decided to avoid thinking about or doing it at any cost, I took down my theatre banner and memorabilia, and I locked art away deep in the recesses of my mind since it had become a nuisance that I had to avoid. Even typing that out doesn’t fail to shock me. The decision affected me mentally and academically since my anxiety refused for me to just be “okay” with neglecting work and my grades began to suffer. Still, I could not muster up the motivation or care to churn out something that serves as a painful reminder of my shortcomings. Then the depression set: was I truly not as adept in my skill than I thought I was? Was I just using this as a means to not confront my deep seeded feelings towards art and my shrewd perception of perfection. Days went by, emails flooded in, the anxiety worsened. It seemed so easy. ‘Just pick up your laptop and type away. It doesn’t matter as long as you have something’ but it did. It did matter. And that was the most exasperating part about it. Today I was laying down in bed ruminating about life, specifically in accordance with my Trinity experience and realized how I was feeding into the same cycle that almost made me give up on theatre while in high school. I start to not meet the impossible expectations for myself and instead of confronting them, I ignore them and commence the self destructive rampage that further deteriorates my mental health. It was hot and sticky, my room was a horrible mess, but no more excuses were to be permitted. I lugged myself onto my desk, opened my laptop, and began the journey toward finding my passion again.

I choose poetry as that’s the medium I felt strongest at. I decided to choose a picture I liked of my giftee (Emma Stover) and write a first person narrative poem of me looking at her for the first time, truly analyzing her face, and the qualities about it that makes her presence so unique and multidimensional, but mysterious. I’ve never done anything like this before, and it made me nervous to get back into creative writing after having not done it in so long, but before I knew it, my pinky fidgeted and my fingers started flying away. Typing and deleting, adding and deleting, I was once again back in the zone. Though it was very slow and admittedly irking, everything was flowing back in again. My imagination, my vocabulary, my poetic knowledge. Emma Stover is someone I’ve been getting to know really well, especially as we both share an acting class together now, so it made it easy to assign the emotions and characterization to her physical features that fall squarely with the kind of person I know her to be. It was a challenge, of course, but one I was actually enjoying figuring out and working through. After my revisions, the poem was finished, and I felt good. I thought the work was very well done and I was proud of it but...this feeling was different. Unlike the other times, I didn’t get the euphoric rush of joy upon finishing an artistic piece. This felt more cathartic. Like I had been holding my breath for a long period of time, and I had finally released it. I’m still processing those feelings and what I plan to do with them, but till then, here is my gift to my dear, cherished theatre buddy, Emma Stover.
Midnight Vent
By Ayouba Swaray

Time: 1:48am April 28 2021
*Balloons play*
So I sit here by my lonesome. Creative juices depleted to the last ounce. Ruminating on what’s become of me. How did I get here? When did it take such a turn? When did I become so...unhappy? The tumultuous brawl for stability, for contentment has proven to be too formidable, even for me. Even as I type this out, I catch myself having to take sporadic heaves in and out to quell that painstaking persistent feeling inside me. It’s perpetual. Nasty. It’s miserable. But I best make sure I attend to it’s needs before the allusionary balance is shifted and the already pathetic facade lifts it’s veil.
*Piano Plays*
So I walk around, constantly on the precipice of a breakdown, tears verging, smiling and animated, praying no one provokes the beast. But they know. My friends know. My family knows. Shit, I know. *laugh*. The actor can’t even pull off being happy. There are different ways I’ve tried to remedy this problem. I’ve found myself grabbing onto nostalgia, forcibly launching myself into a time where rudimentary feelings granted me the gift of bliss. The complexities of life didn’t throw every issue it could socuwer my way. The nuisance that is the thinking brain didn’t keep me up at night contemplating how truly cruel this world is and if it’s worth living. No overdrawn tangent or bombastic string of words were needed to describe how I felt. I was just happy. But those memories have long been tainted. Relaying back to those thoughts only angers the beast resting east of my chest, for thinking about the past only exacerbates the feeling of lost hopelessness I have. What good is holding memories if the only purpose they serve is rebranding that cursed fate you’re doom to...I don’t think I will ever feel that happy again.
*Piano 2*
So I try a different approach. Escaping this bleak and unforgiving reality for as long as I can. It progressed from ignoring my responsibilities to neglecting my family and friends to relying on weed to provide me a haven. A haven I can inhibit until the curtain rises again and the sun starts its performance once more. But it caught up to me. The light dragged me back to reality and I had to face the fact that my life was in shambles. Weed proved to be no match for my existence. Ignoring the present wasn’t an option. As for the future…*huffs* It's been months since I’ve entertained that concept. So boom, i'm depressed, we all get it. So what am I gonna do about that. To be quite frank...I have no idea. Every day, thos beast evolves and adapts itself, improving it’s salvaging of my happiness.
*Guitar*
I’ve found ways to align myself and feel joy again, even if it’s only a spark. Thrifting, playing soccer, watching shows, hanging out with friends. Still, the beast permeates through and alters my perspective. But I’ve been better at fighting it, or I've been trying at least. The beast is a worthy rival, that I’ll give it. And who knows, maybe I won’t be the victor when it’s all said and done. But here and now, in this moment, I’ve decided I won’t go down without a fight. It’s a lot easier said than done, and I don’t expect steadfast results anytime soon. But who knows. One day maybe...just maybe, I’ll remember what it feels like to be happy again.
Reflection
This process started at a very low place for me. Without the aid of my primary creative outlet(theatre), I felt trapped and it started to take a serious toll on me. I found myself in the shower for over an hour just thinking about my life and it was already late as it was. I had all these feelings in me and they had to be released. This was something that couldn’t be executed through a poem. I walked to the library but as I walked in, all my friends were walking out. There were no more excuses. I sat in the library for a while. It was completely quiet. Tranquil. I looked to my laptop to see what I would write. What could I do now to expel these feelings? I started writing to myself in first person. Started drawing out these emotions and what they meant to me. Started giving them form, life. They started to become less like demons terrorizing me, and were conforming to whatever I made of it. This sounded familiar. This was familiar to the monologue I wrote to myself to help accept my coming out. My fingers couldn’t stop and I was making good progress, but I felt like I needed something. Another dimension to the piece to make it feel dynamic, more full. Then I just remembered the sounds we were working with during class and it hit me. I would make this a monologue and add the music to layer my feelings. I had the first part of my monologue done and started experimenting with the sounds I felt would function best as the ambience for my performance. The sounds were compiled for a collaborative music project in which they mesh together no matter when they’re played. I eventually settled on the sound “Balloons (Bb) - Sparse” The sound was chilling yet comforting. The strange, almost paradoxical feeling this sound produced was perfect for my current state. I have no knowledge of audio engineering or how to manipulate it to my advantage so I used my voice memo function on my IPhone and it surprisingly worked really well. I did a couple of test runs and was shocked but excited with the quality. The music did exactly what it needed to do. I continued writing and editing, adding in sounds and textures that I felt best fit well. The experience was rejuvenating. For the first time for as long as I could remember, I felt like an artist again. I was being creative, mixing different mediums and turning the pain in my heart into art. I finished the script and was satisfied with what I had in store. I then started to reflect on this project and my first interarts project. How much I have grown and developed just within the span of this school year. How much I learned about myself and understood how much more I have to go. I felt proud. I felt proud of myself. I began to record. I had the tabs lined up for the music. I took a deep breath in and released. My chest began to deflate. My shoulders stopped tensing. This felt so real. So cathartic. I reached the end of my monologue but found myself going off script and impulsively said “Good Luck Ayouba.” This is also how I ended my monologue in the first semester. It was nearly 3:00am. I was exhausted, drained, and famished. But I was proud. And that's all that mattered.
Oh Mother, My Teacher
By Ayouba Swaray

I choose this picture because it reminds me of my mother, who too is a Liberian woman who was alive during the midst of the war. I’ve been wanting to write something about my relationship with my mother and this seemed like the perfect picture to go with it. Unfortunately it wasn’t a watkinson picture and had an ironclad copyright hold on it. The picture shows 4 school children sitting in on a lesson, while the instructor is at the board teaching her students the Alphabet. The child at the very end of the seat they’re sitting on is turned around (looking away from the board) while the rest of her peers are attentive and engaged. This reminded me of my relationship with my mother and siblings. While I was told to follow the instructions laid out for me from birth so that I can fulfill the future that’s best for me and my family, as I started establishing my identity, I realized that the teaching went against who I am. No longer can I be under the tutelage as it would mean a complete denial of who I am. So slowly but surely, I educated myself and while I’m grateful for all she’s taught me thus far, I’m afraid it’s time I part ways.

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Ayouba Headshot