It's Not That Serious

I want to get into all of your amazing accolades, of course, but first, there’s important business to take care of. You’ve spent time in Philadelphia and I also grew up in the Philly area. What is your favorite cheesesteak spot?

I actually only lived in Philadelphia until I was nine years old, and then my dad moved us to Baltimore to try and get us out of the hood. The Wire wasn't out then, so he had no idea what we were walking into. I spent time in Germantown though, but I never really spent enough time there to find a favorite cheesesteak spot. I know Pat’s is one of the big ones and there are a few other popular places, but my friend took me to a hole-in-the-wall place once and that was probably the best I’ve had.

It’s always those types of spots that are the best actually. Do you feel that spending time in cities like Philadelphia and Baltimore has helped you persevere and succeed in navigating a rather difficult industry?

Definitely, living in Baltimore and Philly for a bit taught me to work hard and made me a little tougher. Being from the East Coast, I think people have a bit more hustle in them. When I moved to LA, I think I learned how to slow down a bit. But I think my upbringing totally shaped me and the way I approach my work.

What is the largest obstacle you faced in your pursuit of becoming an animation producer and writer, and how did you power through that?

I tried everything when I got to LA. I was editing, writing, producing, and acting — I wanted to do anything that would get me ahead. At one point, I had written and produced 2 independent films before trying to pursue tv writing. I was in a movie with Kevin Hart on Netflix, so I thought getting into tv writing would be easy — it wasn’t. I still had to go back to the beginning and start from scratch. I took a writing course and really focused on my writing and started to build back up from the bottom. There was a time when I almost gave up and went back home; I was struggling to pay rent and didn’t think it was going to happen for me, so I’m glad I kept going.

You say that the indie movies didn’t exactly help you in the way you thought they would, but did the making of them still teach you valuable lessons?

Definitely — I learned how to run a team and how to fund a project. All of the things that are important to know in general in the entertainment industry. So it ended up paying off anyway.

The logistics. That’s definitely valuable, even if the path you took wasn’t what you thought it would be. Can you give an example of an episode or segment of writing that you are most proud of?

I wrote a movie that came out in theaters. I actually cringe when I watch it now, but seeing it there was probably my proudest moment. I did the acting thing once and I don’t need to do that again.

That’s the thing that a lot of actors usually say — some don’t like to watch their tv shows or movies. But that has to be the biggest moment of fulfillment as a screenwriter though — seeing your ideas come to life on a big screen, with an audience.

Exactly. I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite project, but I think it’s something to be really proud of, coming from Baltimore and finding my way through a more non-normative path.

Did you watch any animated shows growing up, and do you think they shaped your current sense of humor? And to follow that up, if you had to describe your sense of humor in a few words, how would you?

I watched a lot of South Park. My parents didn’t really like it back then, but they love it now. It’s the first tv show that truly introduced me to satire. I love the idea that comedy can be entertaining but it can also bring up important topics and discussions. I’d say that show, The Simpsons, and just other Saturday morning cartoons definitely influenced my sense of humor, but I also put my own spin on it. I became really interested in South Park and Trey Parker, Matt Stone, and Loren Bouchard’s work. I began just studying their art and how they bring real-world situations into these 25-minute episodes; I think that’s what really pushed me to get into comedy and tv writing. And if I had to describe my sense of humor, I would say satirical, sometimes irreverent, and hilarious.

I would definitely hope you’d describe your own work as hilarious! How do you reconcile writing jokes that align with your own sense of humor, but that also toe the line of politically correct, yet still comical, in the current state of the world where sensitivity can run high? I imagine this can be difficult, especially with adult animation.

My answer to that is that for me, it’s easy. I’m not an offensive person and I don’t think my jokes come off that way. Growing up in Germantown for a bit, like I said it was the hood. Then we moved to Baltimore, where we kind of lived in a suburban area outside of the hood, but a lot of my friends were from the hood. And then I moved off to LA. I feel like having those different experiences taught me how to write for all different audiences. As the executives say in the industry, I think my humor hits four quadrants — adults laugh at my jokes, kids understand them too, and so on. On the flip side, I have a script that I just finished and some of the characters are inspired by real-life friends. That one is more niche. I feel like some people watching or reading that may not understand where certain things are coming from, but there are audiences who will really enjoy and resonate with those types of jokes. Obviously, some of the writing I do is just for adult animation, but I think I’ve gotten really good at knowing how to write with a universal sense of humor.

Do you think comedy can be a form of therapy?

Definitely — I mean laughing is therapeutic. I had this existential crisis when I was in quarantine.

As many of us did.

Yeah — it was the first time I had an anxiety attack. I thought I was having a heart attack at first. I just started really thinking about whether or not what I do is important. It was actually right around the George Floyd protests, a lot was going on in the world. I just felt overwhelmed and I couldn’t stop thinking about whether or not my work mattered. I was upset that maybe what I was doing wasn’t important to the world, in the grand scheme of things. I remember watching a movie around that time though, I can’t remember what it was called but it was a black and white movie. It’s about a man who was a screenwriter during the Great Depression, who was also wondering what he was doing with his life and whether or not it was constructive. He ends up getting locked up and has to spend time in jail. While in jail, one morning sitting with the other prisoners, cartoons come on the television, and everyone starts laughing. These men, some of which were going to be locked up for over 20 years, or even life, were enjoying watching cartoons on tv with smiles on their faces. That made me realize — making people laugh is important. Providing an escape does make the world a better place.

Especially today, many people need that escape. It’s essential.

I think once I started thinking of my work in that way, I really started to appreciate what I do more. Everyone needs to laugh sometimes.

As one of few black animation writers in Hollywood, how do you think the industry can begin to foster a more inclusive community for all?

I think it’s definitely improving. There are so many tv shows that now have black directors, who bring on black producers, writers, and actors. There are surely still times when I am the only black writer in the room, but I think we’re beginning to improve. Most people, if they want to pursue a career in this industry, they take the traditional path of becoming a PA or a showrunner's assistant. But a lot of those people also have a connection or a friend who helped them get there. I didn’t approach things that way — I just took a chance, but a lot of people don’t get that chance. The industry can be very nepotism driven so my best suggestion is to try to open up ways for just anyone on the street to be able to apply for these positions, instead of just always basing everything on connections. There’s definitely still some work to do, but I know there are a lot of programs now that are giving creatives these opportunities.

There are tons of grants and programs to assist people now for sure, but I agree that there is still progress to be made. Not only are you a writer and producer, but your creativity also spans the design world, as you co-founded your own brand, NoOne. How do you traverse the design world; do you find yourself channeling a different creative version of yourself with this endeavor than in your writing and producing?

I was very challenged by this project because the creative parts of fashion are a bit scary to me. When we were deciding if we should take this on, I was so scared. That’s how I knew it was a good idea. My friend Lenard handles the more creative parts of the design process. I’m learning a lot from him. I want to learn more, so I’m taking a really open approach to this whole thing. I started to look at it as storytelling.

Exactly. Any creator, at the end of the day, is sharing a story with an audience. In fashion design, the designer is telling a story that the wearer then becomes a part of by putting the clothing on their bodies.

Yeah, once I started realizing that — that every creator is telling a story, it’s just the mediums that are different, it became less challenging. We mix traditional, utility styles with more non-traditional elements because that’s how both of us dress and how we approach life. We both got to our goals in unconventional ways.

Culture

Mowalola x Miss Sixty Launch with H. Lorenzo

I swing my legs over the ropes that guard the VIP entrance. Always over (I’m 5’10), never under. I’m late to the H. Lorenzo x Mowalola event, and the line is wrapped around the block. I don’t want to be an asshole, but I hate waiting in lines; it just ruins everything.

“Hey, my friend is DJing right now. My name should be down,” I say.

The youngish security guard looks me up and down. I have made an adventurous choice for this type of crowd. Neon pink hoodie, bright orange vest, my Raimundo jeans, and Jeremy Scott animal print sneakers. I let him take me in and look over his shoulder. Hmmm… I will be swathed in darkness when he lets me in. Dark night, dark clothes, dark makeup, furs, hoods, leather accessories, and sunglasses. I don’t recognize anyone, but it’s hard to tell who anyone is because I can’t see after 8 pm without my glasses. Night blindness. I can still catch a vibe though.

“She’s in the bathroom,” Mr. Guard says, interrupting my squinting.

“Who?,” I ask.

“The woman in charge of the list.”

That’s a drag. I want to dance. Lately, I am going out in the name of music.

“So…can I go in?” I ask.

“Just wait for her to get back.”

That sounded fine. I wait. The outdoor smoking area is packed. I imagine the inside to be a mirror of this, hopefully with people dancing instead of blowing smoke in each other’s eyes.

“You got instagram?” The guard asks me after about ten minutes of flirting.

“Can I go in?” I said.

He laughs. He lets me in the event without a wristband.

Inside, I understand why the other guard was gone for so long. I made a mental note to not drink too much liquid, the bathroom line is almost as long as the line outside. The party is popping, far from a flop.

I push through the crowd solo, following the speakers to the DJ booth. The immersive visuals provided me with enough light to make out Mowalola in a gold bikini and her low rise denim. My pulse races like the horse printed on the front of her coochie. That’s the point of the collection, obviously.

My hips swing around before I head towards the open bar. I smile to myself, noting that it’s a mezcal forward menu. I see a drink that disgusts me so I order it without hesitation. It’s a mezcal coffee concoction. My heart ’s ran through already, why not go all in? I head back to dance when I hear Shigecki’s set start. I’m jumping around, sweating, and when I pause for a beat I let out a yelp. There are strippers working poles opposite and behind the DJ booth. Good. Events should be sexy.

I end the night smoking my friend’s Korean strawberry cigarettes taking in the air of cool- when a man comes up to me wild-eyed exclaiming that we look just like one another. I look at him- no, not at all. I turn slowly, remembering what I should be doing: listening to DJ G2G’s set. Back inside, she is playing reggaeton type beats with lasers beaming out of her headphones (I want these). A rave in it of herself.

Too bad all the events end at 2 am in LA.

Culture

Vans Pipe Masters 2024

On the first night, Steve Van Doren and the Vans team hosted the heat draw for the competitors at a casual backyard barbecue. The son of Vans’ co-founder Paul Van Doren, Steve has worked in the family business for decades, and is now known as the Ambassador of Fun. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a cowboy hat made out of old shoes, he was definitely dressed for the part. The surfers, along with family and friends gathered in a relaxed setting as 40 men’s and 20 women’s names were drawn from a shoebox. The competition would run in 3 rounds, the top 4 men and 4 women with the highest scores moving onto the finals. When asked about their strategies, most gave answers along the lines of “get waves.” Refreshingly simple.

After waiting a few days for favorable conditions, the first day of competition kicked off with Women’s Round 1. It was finally time to see Pipeline in action. Banzai Pipeline is known as one of the most dangerous places to surf due to the powerful waves breaking over shallow and sharp reefs. With the potential to crash into the rocky edges or have leashes caught in caves, it takes a ton of skill–-and even more courage–to surf here. No stranger to these risks, the first heat included favorites Caity Simmers and “Queen of Pipeline” Moana Jones Wong, who showed off exactly why they’d been successful here in the past. Midway through the heats, Mother Nature decided to throw in another element as a light drizzle turned into a proper downpour. Rain or shine, the athletes went out unfazed, focused on getting their first points on the board.

After another short day’s break, the competition continued with the women’s second round and the men’s first. The beach was filled with spectators, locals and tourists alike, as the competition was free for all to attend. While fans rooted equally for the women and men, the most popular were the local Hawaiian athletes, which made up about half the competition. The women started off the day again, hyping up the crowd with incredible rides. One ride by Bettylou Sakura Johnson earned the first Bag of Cash of the day– a cash prize (of undisclosed amount) awarded in a brown paper bag to any surfer that pulls off a wow moment, excites the crowd, and pulls off something spectacular regardless of what the conditions might look like.

Winds picked up as the men’s competition began and two strategies quickly emerged: an aggressive approach, targeting any decent waves to build small scores; and a patient approach, waiting for the perfect wave to chase a high single score. Even the waves that were unrideable were a spectacle in itself. The sheer size, illustrated by the length of surfboards riding up and over, and the following crash of white water spray was hypnotizing. Then imagining having to experience it out on the water, duck diving under or being lifted over, brought a renewed respect for the surfers.

After watching these early rounds, it was time for office to head back to the cold. With the competition officially spanning from December 8-20, it seemed the forecast was gearing up for some massive waves— and it didn’t disappoint. Following from afar through Vans’ Instagram and live updates, we saw the full extent of what it means to surf at Pipeline. After a series of electrifying and daring surfs, the 2024 winners were crowned: Erin Brooks and Nathan Florence.

The thrill of watching top athletes compete at the highest level of their sport, even remotely, never fails to inspire. Few sports surrender so completely to the forces of nature as surfing does. And at its core, surfing is all about having a deep respect for the ocean—its unpredictable whims, its immense power, and its ever-changing moods.

Culture

The Cost of Queendom

December 17, 2024

One summer afternoon in New York, a few days after their New York premiere of the acclaimed documentary Queendom, office met up with documentary filmmaker Agniia Galdanova and producer Igor Myakotin at a tattoo parlor on the west side of Manhattan. While Agniia received a tattoo of the portmanteau “DOCU CUNT” across her fists, she — unfazed by the needle on her knuckles — answered our questions alongside Igor about the making of the stirring story that has traveled around the world.

One of the opening scenes of Queendom depicts a ritual many of us are all too familiar with in the 21st century. Jenna Marvin, the documentary film’s central subject, takes her friend along with her to take photos for Instagram. When she finds a suitable backdrop, she poses, poses, poses, and then reviews the photos. Dissatisfied, she gives her notes, and then returns to pose, pose, pose again.

By Brook Aster
Photos by Liv Solomon

The ritual may be familiar, but nothing else about the scene — from its setting to its stakes — is ordinary. The backdrop behind Jenna is a sweeping expanse of ice and snow in a small Russian port town called Magadan. Jenna is dressed in drag, but not drag of the Rupaul’s Drag Race variety; her drag has been referred to as “creature drag.” Her signature white face paint, platform heels and surrealist costumes, with their exaggerated sculptural proportions and use of duct tape and repurposed items, catches the ire of her neighbors and the love of online admirers alike. Jenna eventually accrued a following on social media for her public and technically illegal drag performances, which often involved little more than her walking or being in public spaces but nevertheless were often met with abuse and threats of imprisonment.

But when Agniia first encountered Jenna, she hadn’t yet reached the level of virality that would eventually come in the years to follow. The filmmaker was researching different drag performers in Russia for her sophomore project, which she thought would be a docuseries, when she heard from a friend about a young drag queen from Magadan. “I was like, this is impossible. I have to meet this person,” Agniia remembers. “And I could not actually go meet her because I was in Moscow and she was in Saint Petersburg, so I sent a friend of mine with whom I’d been studying with in film school, and she went and filmed the sample.” The simple video, showing Jenna and her friend getting dressed up for a party, struck something in Agniia. The drag was an earlier, more prototypical version of the style Jenna is now known for; less duct tape and ornamentation, but still that signature striking makeup. “Something sparked. I knew I just had to stick to this feeling,” Agniia says. She decided to turn the docuseries into a documentary solely focused on Jenna.

Around that time, the entire world came to a grinding halt: the onset of COVID-19 pandemic had just led to lockdowns around the globe. With only a couple thousand followers on social media at that point in time, Jenna had tried to branch out and connect with other drag artists in Moscow and Saint Petersburg, but faced rejection; her drag was extremely unconventional, and not even other drag artists quite understood it. “I think we found each other at the right moment, because nobody knew what to do, how to cope with all this,” Agniia says. “Jenna was saying that she was lost, and she also didn't know how to develop her art next.”

Unlike some of the other artists Agniia had initially researched, Jenna didn’t need much convincing to allow the camera into her life. “[Especially] after COVID came, there wasn't really [any] drag in my life,” Jenna recounts when I speak to her later over Zoom. “I realized that what drag is for me is not just a costume, a dress, something that you leave, that you take off and then in the dead of the night you put back on. Later, I understood that this is who I am, that I am art and I am drag, and that this is way bigger and more important than just clothing or costume.”

[LEFT TO RIGHT: Agniia Galdanova, Jenna Marvin, Igor Myakotin]

When it came time to move into production stages, Agniia sent a clip to Igor, who had been referred to her by a past colleague. When Igor saw the footage, he was similarly struck by Jenna — and even more struck to find out she shared his small hometown of Magadan. “It was just so fateful to know that I also come from this town, and I've never seen it through this cinematic lens, through the vision that Agniia has,” he says. “I was mesmerized by the footage, mesmerized by Jenna. I thought to myself, I have to do everything I can [for us] to work together, whatever the collaboration is gonna be.”

The two followed Jenna for over three years; Agniia first relocated to St. Petersburg, where Jenna had taken up residence after leaving her grandparents’ home in Magadan, and later Jenna moved in with Agniia in her home in Moscow. All the while, Igor and his team worked remotely from the United States to meet Agniia’s production needs. Inevitably, with all their time spent together, Agniia and Jenna became close.

“There is an unspoken rule in documentary filmmaking that you have to keep this line, and you can’t overcome certain boundaries,” Agniia explains. “In my first film, it was not an easy subject [to do this with] as well. I was following a family for seven months, and [we became] close, but I always was trying to keep my distance, and was constantly thinking about it. How much should I say? How much should I give?” But as she got to know Jenna, it became clear that this time, that distance wouldn’t be possible. “With Jenna almost from the very beginning, I was like, fuck it. That’s not going to work with this one. I'm going to break this rule 100%. I never regretted it, because that's actually what built up the trust that is there.”

As Jenna's public performances continued and began to garner more public attention, her online audience multiplied. Among her virtual admirers was French fashion maven Michèle Lamy, who would eventually sign onto Queendom as an executive producer. Lamy's discovery of Jenna led to an invitation to walk in the Rick Owens show in Paris — her first time modeling, and her first time leaving Russia in her life. Of course, Agniia and her camera followed. But most of their excursions were not so glamorous; many of Jenna's performances shown in the documentary were undertaken at a real risk to her physical safety, and by extension, to the safety of Agniia. But neither of them were daunted.

I remember who I am. And this is what carries me through this life.

After all, Jenna was used to both taking risks and documenting them well before she was the subject of a film; she and her friends long filmed the often impassioned, sometimes violent reactions of strangers and policemen to their mere existence in public spaces in drag. And after a protest performance in which she wrapped herself in the Russian flag, Jenna was kicked out of beauty school, her last attempt at a practical route before pursuing her drag as a full time venture.

The only time Agniia tried to dissuade her was on Paratrooper’s Day, a Russian military holiday often characterized by the drunk soldiers roaming the streets. The risk for violence was especially high. “On Paratroopers Day, people say you can't come out in skinny jeans or with nail polish,” Jenna describes. “[I think] you should do the opposite. You should really make a statement and come out wearing what you want to wear. I think that clothes, what we wear, is really at some point beyond our psyche, our mind, our understanding. It is as if it's a certain kind of spice that is enticing you and you follow the scent of that spice and you don't see anything else except that scent and you follow it. That's how I see it.”

“I was like, ‘girl, maybe we should not do that,’” Agniia says. “Igor was stressing out and she told us, ‘well, you don't need to follow me. I'm gonna go and do it. I don't care if you're coming or not.’” In the end, Jenna ventured out for her performance anyway, protesting the then-recent invasion of Ukraine. Agniia followed. Not shown in the film is that the two were arrested, and managed to talk the police out of their arrest.

Not too long after, she would have to leave Russia again, this time moving for Paris for good; the film follows her struggles to get a visa in time to leave the country after the onset of the war. “It's already been three years that I've been in France, and it is important for me to understand and remember who I am, and to remember that pain, those moments when we were back in Russia doing drag, fighting with the police and law enforcement,” Jenna says. “It is important that this resistance continues and that those voices are not being silenced. Yes, here there’s much more freedom, there are pride parades and queer people can get married, but this is an illusion because there are also places where you cannot get married and you cannot enjoy the same freedoms. I cling to who I am, who I was from the very beginning. I remember who I am. And this is what carries me through this life.”

“Meeting Jenna gave me hope for the future of the country, because governments come and go, people in power come and go, but the generations change at the same time,” Igor says. “So it warms my heart to see that someone like her came from somewhere like that. If I saw her back then at a similar age, it would be even more personal. I think I would’ve accepted myself as gay quicker, and I wouldn't be nervous or closed and not open to the world or myself… Working with this project also meant that we were amplifying the voices of many, many people who couldn't speak like Jenna could.”

For Agniia, the honor of telling Jenna's story is only paralleled by the honor of having her in her life. “We found each other,” Agniia says. “And what I learned from Jenna is so precious; about life, about art, about surviving. And I appreciate it a lot. This film grew so much larger than just a documentary, because I have a family now, a working family.”

Queendom is now available to stream on Apple TV.