Contribute to the issue and find links to resources and ways to support the victims.More »
As victims began to be identified, and tributes on Facebook began to disperse, I was struck by how social media was a harsh reminder of how small and tight our arts community really is regardless of how you identify with or participate in it. To bear witness to how intimately we are connected and how closely we share our creative lives is overwhelming in the face of tragedy such is Ghost Ship.
I never visited Ghost Ship, but I have spent uncountable hours in warehouses like it: making, teaching, visiting artists’ studios, looking at art, dancing, and breaking bread. The night of Ghost Ship I was at a friend’s get together a few miles away, also a warehouse built out by and for artists. These are the spaces where vulnerable communities—those with lower income, people of color, trans and queer folks, women and artists—work and create their lives outside of and in spite of housing and job crises, culture wars, elections, and those lacking the support of generational wealth. It is where we go.
This grief is not over there—it is ours. This grief is us. So we hold and create space, in our small corner, to reflect, listen, and struggle to comprehend the impact of Ghost Ship through doing the things we know best—what we do—sharing music, art, and writing.