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

The Club Is Coming to the Stage

We enter and make our way to what is approximately front left of the DJ booth, where we’re accustomed to dancing at clubs in New York. “So is this a techno club or a dance performance?” yells an uncertain participant in my boyfriend’s ear. He laughs, bouncing along to Ben UFO, and yells back, “It’s both!” The club has long been a hot topic in European contemporary dance but it is only now making its way into New York performance venues, largely through transatlantic tours. R.O.S.E. follows recent examples like Michele Rizzo’s HIGHER xtn. at MoMA PS1 (May 2024), (LA)HORDE’s Room with a View at NYU Skirball (October 2023), and Gisèle Vienne’s Crowd at BAM (October 2022).

Do these performances compromise the club’s spirit — a space idealized for its anonymity, dark lighting, and thundering music? The notion of the club as a utopian escape is admittedly just that — an ideal — because of how its intense conditions can create barriers to entry. Still, the club remains sacred for many, a place to forge connections and embrace an alternative state of being. Looking at how performances transfer this spirit to new settings reveals what aspects of the club are essential and those that aren’t.

Sharon Eyal, R.O.S.E. 2024. Photography by Stephanie Berger, courtesy of Park Avenue Armory.

Eyal’s dancers make their entrance. The lighting shifts from roving blue to yellow spotlights as Ben UFO’s tracks transition to more melodic beats. Clad in deconstructed lace Dior lingerie with dark red tears painted on their faces, the dancers move cautiously in a tightly maintained pack, slicing paths through the horde with hoof-like steps and jerky leg extensions. After around ten minutes of this controlled choreography, the dancers vanish as the lighting shifts back to blue and Ben UFO picks up his dubby beats. The club, as we knew it, resumes. This cycle of tightly executed movements and free-flowing club-goers repeats several times, each time emboldening the dancers to plunge further into the crowd.

Clubbing in a building once built for the U.S. Army National Guard on Manhattan’s Upper East Side turns out to be surprisingly successful — at least for the audience. What starts as an awkward, scattered group searching for their non existent seats gradually gels into an engaged, bouncing crowd that erupts in cheers each time the dancers enter and exit. Performance patrons who might never step foot in a club find themselves swept up in its potential for communion, moving in unison with fellow ticket holders. But it isn’t until the very end of R.O.S.E. that the dancers finally break free from Eyal’s choreography and join the fired-up audience in a brief moment of improvisatory movement with the music. By keeping her dancers at arm’s length, Eyal seems more interested in the club as a backdrop for her signature movement style than wholly as a space with meaningful stories to be told.

Michele Rizzo, HIGHER xtn. 2024. Photography by Cameron Kelly courtesy of MoMA PS1.

Back in May, I attended Wire Festival, a multiday electronic music event at Knockdown Center that had no shortage of organically united dancefloors. It attracted a crowd of seasoned ravers who were eager to celebrate the start of spring as they danced alongside DJs who played well into the daylight. I left Wire in an afternoon daze to see Michele Rizzo’s HIGHER xtn. at MoMA PS1. My sleepless euphoria only deepened as the performance unfolded, starting with a lone dancer who looked plucked out of the festival.

The dancer, dressed in sneakers, baggy jeans, and a tight tank top, shuffled slowly into the gallery, perfectly in sync with the looping bars of an understated electronic melody. Soon, other dancers, clad in the same staple rave uniform, joined him — each having traveled from Europe for the U.S. museum debut of HIGHER xtn., which premiered at the Stedelijk in Amsterdam in 2018 and quickly became a fixture at kunsthalles and festivals across the continent. As the score’s tempo climbed, the choreography locked into a 16-count sequence, which the dancers executed with precise synchrony. They remained intensely focused, never making eye contact with each other, as they sought release in the endless repetition of synthesized beats. Once the dancers reached their limit, they stopped the sequence and exited the gallery, one by one.

HIGHER xtn. used the focused daylight of the gallery to highlight the meditative release found in the repetitive movements that dominate dark dancefloors. The performance’s restraint brought more consistency and intentionality than Eyal’s all-encompassing club construction in R.O.S.E. Yet both performances offer enticing entry points into club culture for those who may not frequent raves. Rizzo’s ecstatic, hypnotic repetitions reveal how the club can mirror other meditative practices, while Eyal’s interpolation of performance and clubbing helped hesitant audience members blossom by the end. Still, both works overlook one of the most underappreciated aspects of clubbing — its potential for individual expression. HIGHER xtn.’s pristine uniformity especially risks promoting the outdated techno trope that there’s a “right” way to dance to electronic music.

Maybe this shortcoming is, in fact, a benefit. For habitual ravers jaded by one too many sunrise sets, it’s a reminder to return to the club with more intention. If you pause and peer through the darkness, you’ll see hundreds of people moving to the same beat, each with their own subtle variations. This collective choreography is a ready-made spectacle that doesn’t need validation in a theater or museum. And when the music shifts slightly, you can watch the ripple effect sweep through the crowd while feeling the new beat in your body. Maybe this small bit of magic is best left on the dance floor.

Culture

Real Slick, Jack: Psyche Organic Arrives in New York

Shop Psyche Organic at Happier Grocery and Dimes. Coming soon to @citarellagourmetmarket @unionmarket @gourmetgarage @deciccos @fairwaymarket plus many more.

Culture

Porsche SCOPES Brings Art, Music, and Design to Toronto

The festival was a full immersion into Toronto’s dynamic creative energy. Day one set the tone with DJ collective Living Room, followed by an experimental performance by Claire Rousay that captivated the crowd. Jewelry designer Steff Eleoff unveiled her Porsche Taycan 4S art car installation—a bold fusion of automotive and wearable art inspired by her Sedona ring—while OVO Sound’s Naomi Sharon and DVSN wrapped up the night with powerful, genre-defying performances.

We witnessed SCOPES Toronto bridging underground and mainstream with day two’s lineup. DJ Korea Town Acid’s set paved the way for Angelphroot and Dameer’s debut of BASSMATI, a track blending South Asian influences with bass-driven sounds. Chippy Nonstop’s return to Toronto and Richie Hawtin’s extended set were milestones of the evening, proving that the city’s underground scene has a global resonance.

The final day featured standout performances from local pianist Harrison, Indigenous artist Tia Wood, and hip-hop visionary Sean Leon, who elevated his set with a live choir. Moonshine Collective’s film and musical performance explored themes of African utopia, showcasing art’s power to bridge culture and technology. Rising Toronto star SadBoi, who paused her tour to perform at SCOPES, further underscored the festival’s commitment to nurturing local talent.

Throughout the weekend, we experienced installations from artists like Mitsu Mitsu and culinary creations from Bar Mordecai, capturing the multifaceted creativity Porsche SCOPES brought to Toronto. This milestone 10th edition, open to all, allowed Toronto’s vibrant arts scene to thrive, underscoring SCOPES’ mission to celebrate local talent while connecting it to a global audience.

office had the chance to connect with rising star SadBoi ahead of the event. In our conversation, she shared insights into her creative journey and reflected on what performing and growing up in Toronto means to her and her work.

How are you, and where are you at right now? You told me you were traveling.

Um, I’m good, I’m feeling really good right now. I’m traveling back to Salt Lake City. I had a show yesterday in Seattle. I’m on tour right now with Coco and Claire.

How is touring life treating you? Do you like it?

I love being on the road. To be honest, I feel like I don’t know—like I’ve had good experiences and bad ones—but this time it’s really fun, especially with the people I’m surrounded by. It’s also the longest tour I’ve been on; I have about four more weeks to go. I’m trying not to think about how many days I have left.

Do you feel homesick?

Yes, because when I start thinking about how many days are left, I start to miss my dogs. I’ve just been trying to stay in the moment—I don’t even know what day of the week it is, to be honest with you.

Oh, sweet! What are your dogs’ names?

Jillian and Winston. I know, they’re crazy names.

You’ll be performing at SCOPES in Toronto, which is where you grew up. Do you feel like the crowd is different when you perform in Toronto compared to other cities?

Yes, I mean, Toronto just feels different because it’s home. Every time I come back to perform, something in my career has changed. The last time I performed in Toronto, people just wanted to have a good time, and I’m excited to perform back home again to see everyone’s reactions. I know it’s going to be different from the last time. It’s exciting to see your own growth. Toronto is a tough crowd, though. If we’re with you, we’re really with you.

So, they’re super picky? You have to gain their respect, or what is it?

I think Toronto people are in their own world, but when something really connects with them, they’ll lose themselves in the moment. But it takes something to bring them out of that. Toronto crowds are tough because even if they like you, they won’t show it outright until they’re really vibing with you.

It’s like a vibe check, right?

Exactly. They’ll enjoy your performance, but it’s hard to explain. When people visit Toronto, they often say, “Oh, you guys are so nice,” and I’m like, “I don’t think we’re that nice, we’re just polite.” Like, you can walk down the street, and no one will say anything, but it’s just our mannerisms.

You mentioned Toronto can have a moody energy, especially at night, and that the underground night scene there really inspires you. Can you talk more about what makes Toronto's nightlife so influential for you?

Absolutely, Toronto has this unique energy that comes alive at night. Similar to New York, there are the popular clubs everyone knows, but you need to find your niche—the people who know where the real parties are. I remember going to raves in high school yards, sneaking in because I wasn’t old enough. Events like Baby, Jerk!, and Yes Yes Y’all were pivotal, exposing me to DJs blending dancehall with EDM—something I hadn’t seen before. Toronto nightlife is moody and intense, but when everyone’s out, it’s like the whole city is alive.