Josette Bushell-Mingo wears many hats. Actress. Director. Playwright. Poet. Activist. Chairperson of CinemAfrica film festival. Icon. After finding success in the theatre in Britain, among other accolades, the Royal Shakespeare Theatre and playing Rafiki in The Lion King, Josette moved to Sweden and continued her trailblazing as artistic director of Tyst Teatern, the sign language theatre company of Riksteatern / National Theatre. Josette was awarded an OBE for services to the arts in 2007.
Josette can be seen in “Nina – a story about me and Nina Simone” at Riksteatern, currently touring Sweden.
In this exclusive interview, Josette sheds light on her Nina Simone story, being black and working in theatre in the UK and Sweden.
photography ANDREA DAVIS KRONLUND
styling RL PEARSALL
makeup EMELIE WOOD OLSSON
location KLANG MARKET
hat CASUAL COUTURE STOCKHOLM
earring MALIN HENNINGSSON
gloves BEYOND RETRO
vest EMELIE JANRELL
fur PELLOBELLO
Can you give us a brief autobiography?
I’m a real cockney. I was born in the East of London to working class parents. They came from British Guyana, South America. My mother was a nurse and my father was an omnibus driver. That’s what it says on my birth certificate. I was born in 1964 and I am number two of four daughters. It was a very diverse background of predominantly Asians, from India, China and so on.
I didn’t know anything about the black voice and that heritage when I was young, but I attended huge choral festivals and church services which gave me a very skeptical and atheist response to God. Which was:
“When we meet… if we meet… you and I are going to have to sit down and brew some tea. Because, before you send me to hell, I need to ask you a few questions!”
How did you come into the arts?
I came into the arts because it found me. Looking back, I realized the youngest production I directed was when I was 7. For me it was just getting friends together and doing a story.
And I loved that! I made a boat and a moon and a guitar and told my friends to sit there, and I sat at the edge of the stage and went “Once upon a time…!”
“Imagination is a powerful tool that we don’t use enough. To ask blacks to imagine ourselves in greatness is a huge force.” – Josette Bushell-Mingo
Was there a lot of that kind of imagination around you as a child?
Oh, yes. I was a young athlete. A young Olympic try-out. That was huge imagination. I call it the “Bumblebee Effect”. You imagine you can fly, run and jump faster and higher even though technically, you can’t. It’s something I’ve carried with me. That was a hugely creative thing that I’ve been able to source even today.
My Mum would lock us in the house and go out and work as a nurse, and I would be the Great Storyteller, telling stories to my little sisters to stop them from being scared and crying. I also wrote for the church magazine. When I was 13 or 14, I lied to a group of people and said I was older. They invited me to come to their poetry group. I rang the doorbell and a white, sort of Oxford type opened the door.
[Josette puts on an Oxford accent]“Are you Josette?”
“Yes.”
“You are a little young, aren’t you?”
“Yes, well, you know… aahm…can I just come in?”
Eventually they let me in, “You can stay for this session.”
I stayed for a whole term. And published poems. It was fantastic! Poetry. Athletics. These were my creative environments. By the time I came to school, I entered with no other aspirations than to enjoy myself. I went to three drama classes a week. They were free and kept me away from home. There, I could be someone else. I could see things. That would stay with me much, much later as I entered the National Theatre and the Royal Shakespeare Company. Because the most important was my imagination. I could be whatever I wanted. Nobody, to this day, can tell me what I can play or can’t.
Tell us about your formal training…
I auditioned for Barking College and got in on the first try. I was 17. I auditioned on the Friday and started on the Monday. I stayed there for two years. It was the same time as Fame, so I was given a tight leotard and whoo! … dance on the table and get back off! It was the two greatest years of my life.
Then I got a place at Breton University to study a BA in theatre but in the last two weeks of college, a theatre company called Kaboodle came in to do a workshop. There was a black girl in it as well. Denise Wong. I’d never seen a black girl do this kind of shit! The performance was amazing. Very, very abstract and German and physical. I participated in the workshops and of course, I have a wild imagination and I’m an athlete, which is a dangerous combination. I was like a gazelle.
At the end of the session, Lee Beagley (the company director) said … [cockney accent] “We’re looking for an actress and wondered if you’d like to join us for our new season?”
I relive that moment every time I say it!
I left that room and ran down the corridor screaming! Because I knew what had just happened. And I sat on the end of the stairs and thought “They just asked me…”
The rest is history. I ran away with the circus and came into European theatre training.
After that I moved on to the Royal Shakespeare Company and the Royal National Theatre… royal didoo, royal dada… and found myself unique in the black sphere. At least at that time, for my generation.
How did it go, from not being black in Kaboodle to being black in the Royal companies? Was being black an issue there?
In the UK, we have a colonial, post-colonial and commonwealth history. By the time, I was coming into the profession, in the late 80s, black discourse – and I use the word “politically black” rather than “black British”- was post-Pan African and connected very much to civil rights. We had people like Stuart Hall, groundbreakers in terms of the analysis of the black psyche; and we were more likely to reference our African-American counterparts. Quite rightly the diaspora tried to define itself, etc. It meant moving from a post-exotic acceptance of blackness. Two very important events happened.
One was the Stephen Lawrence case. That young black boy murdered in 1993, changed history. His case gave rise to a report about structural racism.
The other tipping point for me was the roles I was getting as an actress, where I was confronted more and more with being the first. I was playing “black” Juliet for example. At the Royal Shakespeare Company, they have an understudy system and I was understudying the lead actress, Saskia Reeves, when she stepped off the next season. Technically, the understudy should take the role. It took quite a while for me to get the lead role, but eventually I did. The company fought for me to get it because they were tired of huge trails of understudies being brought in as fodder. They would have an understudy and when the lead goes, they would bring in another star and you would still be the understudy.
I played Silvia in Two Gentlemen of Verona set in the 1930s. We know historically where I would have been… hanging from a rope? That was one of the first times I felt that tension in myself. That actually, the reality would have been different. Before I got the lead, I played the maid. That was fine. In fact, I upstaged everybody regardless! And I understood what that meant; what that compromise was saying about me. My friend Clare Holman was also in the play and we talked about it. She said, well we need to play that so you’re equal. You know, the status and class. The reviews came out: [proper English voice] “Stunning!”, “Marvellous!”. But, “Josette Bushell-Mingo …through the performance…because she was black.” That was the first time in print, at that level in the “legitimate” theatre that [my colour] was pointed out, and there was a long discussion about it. I got angry and sad.
I also noticed the costume changed. That was something that stuck with me. The girl who played it before me was white and she has all these ethereal, floating 1930’s costumes. However, they changed my costume. It was chocolate gold and so tight, I had to lie down to get into it! I looked like Lena Horn. I looked stunning, I must say, but still, why did they change that? There was something that was so glamorously exotic that they were emphasizing. I realize that now.
So, why was I suddenly sexualized in that way? I never felt it until I was in the mainstream. In the non-mainstream, I’ve played Elvis Presley; White men; women; spirits…the whole spectrum and I’ve been black. When it comes to the “legitimate theatre”, whatever that is, you’re supposed to be just one thing. For that status and power shift, to make me a black Silvia meant there were blacks of status and money. Of course, there were. But admitting it would be too much.
“moving from a post-exotic acceptance of blackness”
earring YASAR
ring SOFIA ERIKSSON
jacket SCHOTT
How do you recommend non-black, theatre people cast roles looking beyond skin colour without blundering?
I think several things have to happen. The first is that the people who are in power need to actually listen to us. They need to call us in and take our advice. Not our knowledge – our advice. The second is that you need to start to tell African stories and give those stories credence, not just bring black people into white stories. That’s the reason why I started a black theatre company, not because there weren’t any, but because we’re not doing enough of it fast enough. The third thing is that there is a “whitelash” going on, which is a backlash where white people are going:
[Bored, whining voice] “Det räcker nu! Vi har pratat om det här så länge nu! / That’s enough! We’ve been talking about this for such a long time now!”We as blacks have learnt how to avoid the pendulum swings of racism – now they like us again…and… now they don’t! So, no more avoidance. WE must tell our own stories in our own way. NOW.
The transition from being successful in England, to moving to Sweden – why and any notable differences?
Love. No other reason, as Sweden was not on my radar. I think the difference between England and Sweden, is that in England we have many more avenues to speak about diversity. In Sweden, we are so limited in our discourse. But racism exists in both countries! And the food, that’s definitely a difference – Kalles kaviar versus marmite!!
That brings us into Tyst Teater (the Silent Theatre).
Tyst Teater is a great company. We have big ambitions over the next years and I have been privileged to be a part of it. It changed my life. Every day is great, creative, tough, and inspiring – but I never forget I’m part of the majority. There is this good tension in that I’m a black woman. So, I say “You’re the white majority!”, and they say “You’re the hearing majority!” I say “yep you are right. So, how are we gonna meet?” To find solidarity, to stop exclusion for each other. How can we learn from each other?
I learnt Swedish Sign Language while I was here, which I consider my second language. Tyst Teater is a company that is now on the map. They continue to show a resilience as a community. I’ve seen how the sign language community have fought for their human rights: for the rights to the language, the rights to the intricacies of communication. I understand more and more, the fight for that language, because it is culture, heritage, and identity, and it is not considered a minority. It is a shameful attitude when Sweden talks about democracy and then considers Swedish Sign Language as “gestalt”. For me, the understanding that the deaf community considers itself as a cultural and linguistic minority is a guide – an affirmation.
You’re doing “Nina – a story about me and Nina Simone”. If you consider all the hope she had being a revolutionary …and yet… we’re still “protesting this shit”. How do you put that together?
I put it together in the context of extreme lack of education. The ignorance which still prevails for me is quite extraordinary. Two-thirds of our lives are built on education and yet the teachers, the schools, the universities, the libraries know nothing about the moral, spiritual, practical, economic, infrastructure and psychology of blackness. That’s a huge infrastructural imbalance for black people to deal with, because we are meeting ignorance and racism. Again, and again, and again. It’s about understanding and knowledge. Using your empathy to place yourself in our situation. And you dare not because you know you will morally die. That’s what happens in the Nina Simone play. I take people to that corner, there is no backing down. The piece is full of unexpected shadows and scary rooms: why do you hate us so much, why history puts a gun in my hand today, and then I’m going to sing MY way out of that, because I am free and you are so welcome to join me. Nina guides me, abandons me and welcomes me home
I think your question about Nina is a huge one. What would she say?
I think we should be aware as black people that we are telling our children our history. Years ago, when my son was about 10, we got on the bus and he was heading towards the back, and I said “Get over here! My people didn’t fight and die for you to sit at the back of the bus!” He just looked at me and said “Men Mamma, vad pratar du om? / But Mom, what are you talking about?” Then I realized I hadn’t explained that to him, so I told him about Rosa Parks. Recently, I got on the bus with my daughter and she sat in one of the seats at the front, and I looked at her, and she said “Yeah, I remember the story.”
Every generation must do it for themselves. But our children are not walking alone. We’re just here to try and curl a little bit…” Ooh, you don’t have to go behind that tree…you can keep going!” Everything I do is for that next generation.
I also think that one of the things that we as blacks are needing to do, is to heal. We have got to turn our greatness upon ourselves now, and that healing will regenerate us. Witness, meaning this story was heard and seen, so that if anyone comes and says it didn’t happen, I can back you up and say it did, and I can help you carry that load.
Healing is a word that I’ve adopted again particularly when I came into contact with my African-American colleagues again. Circles of healing where blacks are speaking with each other. They can’t change the pain or the poverty, but they talk it out. Name it. And it is filled with love.
Do you think we can get to that point here in Sweden? Because right now there is a great fear and misunderstanding of black separatist rooms, people don’t understand why it’s necessary.
One, we’re not here to educate other people. Secondly, Afro-Swedes have never been in this place before, and need to understand it themselves in order to meet the world. We must have that time. Whites have their rooms all the time with no thought of the exclusion of others and other minorities. So, actually, you are not invited into their room. We did that in “Nina” …in “Raisin in the Sun”. In the first days, I said:
“For the whites in this room, you are so welcome, we won’t be able to do the show without you, you are part of our history, but there are things we will not discuss in front of you, as blacks. Because you will not understand it, and it’s not about that. There are things we will discuss that you don’t understand, but you do not need to comment.” “Åh men gud det är samma som en Sami, eller hur? / Oh, Jesus, it’s just like the Samis, right?” “Don’t do it! Don’t reduce our experience.” “And there are things we will say that may hurt, and that’s ok.” That had to be said. And that for me provided healing for all. Blacks could let go and know that their backs are covered and get on with the job of creating. Whites know their place and don’t find themselves in doors and rooms they cannot get out of.
What’s been the impact of TRYCK and Push? Has there been a marked change since their development in 2013?
Oh yes. TRYCK has absolutely been instrumental in highlighting the needs of Afro-Swedish artists. There’s some improvement in the presence of performing arts, but it’s not enough. What hasn’t changed is that people believe that the buck stops there. It’s our stories that are not being told. Plays are not being commissioned. Writers, directors, scenographers are not being nurtured because of the extremely naïve idea about culture, African and diaspora stories, and audiences’ ability to accept them or wanting them. That’s a lie. TRYCK is showing the power of the African-decent and diaspora artists. It is a vital forum to strengthen, inspire, exchange knowledge, and act as support and witness to subtle cultural acts of racism. TRYCK will only grow. I am proud to be a part of it.
“Kick-ass theatre”
I did an interview with Mariama Jobe and she said you told her to do kick-ass poetry. How do you do kick-ass theatre?
You use kick-ass imagination! It’s about timing. You do a kick-ass play by trusting your audience. There’s nothing they haven’t seen; nothing they can’t see; nothing they can’t comment about. You do kick-ass theatre because you understand both its holistic and its humanistic value, but never take it for granted. People came to “En Druva I Solen / Raisin in the Sun” with Black Coffee (forum) and there were two girls who said to me “We came, we had no idea, but we left overjoyed.” And still we get comments about it. It’s still resonating…calling…for people. We must answer that call. You do kick-ass theatre by placing yourself on the line, and understanding your place in the journey of theatre. Your place in the journey of your community.
The thing is, I know exactly who I am. Artistically, I’m not afraid and I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here. My British friends are like “You need to come home child”. I never left. I am home.
