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Bin Chen, The Solar-Cell Chemist – The People Issue 2024

Bin Chen, 33, is a research associate professor in the chemistry department at Northwestern University, where he manages a team of 30 people within the 80-member lab led by Canadian scientist Ted Sargent. The team is developing materials used in renewable energy applications, with support from the U.S. Department of Energy’s Solar Energy Technologies Office. Chen focuses on perovskite solar cells, a relatively new technology with great potential to increase efficiency and reduce costs. He’s also working on photodetectors using quantum dots and on field-effect transistors using two-dimensional materials, which will help computer processors run faster and use less energy. 


I got my PhD in material science, but I was studying in a place that has an abundance of sunlight, in Arizona. My lab at that time was on the second floor, and I needed to go through the first floor, which [was] the solar research center.

My girlfriend was studying at the University of Toronto, and I wanted to get a job in Toronto, so we [could] end the two-body problem. [Laughs.] Fortunately, there was a very big research group led by professor Ted Sargent at the University of Toronto, hiring a postdoc to work on perovskite-based solar cells. I clearly remember that was April 18 of 2018. So I applied, and then I got admitted, and that’s how I started my solar work. 

In 2022, Ted got an offer from Northwestern, and he asked me if I would like to move with him. This was a good opportunity to get into the U.S. system. The U.S. has maybe the best renewable research laboratory, supported by DOE (Department of Energy). That’s the NREL—National Renewable Energy Laboratory. I think that might be the best energy research lab in the whole world.

When we were in the University of Toronto, it was basically just us working on solar cells and perovskites. But there are great people [at Northwestern]: professor Mercouri Kanatzidis, professor Mike Wasielewski, and a few others. So we felt that Northwestern has a really, really good platform for us to achieve our vision.

[Renewable energy] is important because it affects our future generations. It’s about sustainable development. What I mean specifically is global warming and the CO2 in the atmosphere that keeps driving up the temperature. 

You have to actually use renewable energy, so that you reduce the generation of carbon dioxide. That’s the viable way to reduce global warming.

People like to talk about net zero—meaning that if you generate a certain amount of CO2, then you have to capture a certain amount of CO2. It’s not likely to happen if you just keep using nonrenewable energy—like, you’re still burning coal, and then at the same time you’re trying to remove the carbon from the atmosphere. You have to actually use renewable energy, so that you reduce the generation of carbon dioxide. That’s the viable way to reduce global warming. 

Solar is going to play a big part. The IEA (International Energy Agency) is doing the road mapping of how we should build a more sustainable future using different energy sources. In 2050 the total generation of electricity will consist of a large portion from solar energy. I think it’s more than 30 percent. [Editor’s note: According to energy think tank Ember, solar’s share of global electricity generation was 5.5 percent in 2023.]

How perovskite was able to scale up in terms of efficiency over the past 15 years is incredible. It improved from below 10 percent power conversion efficiency to more than 26 percent in less than ten years. The same kind of improvements took silicon more than 40 years.

To make silicon [solar cells], you have to purify the silicon at really high temperatures, like 800 Celsius. It’s very expensive, and it is generating a lot of carbon dioxide. But for perovskites, it doesn’t need to go through all this high-temperature processing. You can just make an ink of perovskite solution, and then you can cast it on a substrate or print it, like printing a newspaper—at low temperature, like 100 Celsius. So the energy cost is very low, and the material cost is also low. 

Perovskite is a very, very good light absorber. It is much better than silicon. Silicon needs, like, 100-micron thickness in a solar cell, because it doesn’t absorb light very efficiently. But for perovskite, you just need one micron. So it’s like 100 times reduction in the thickness. You can make really, really lightweight perovskite solar cells, and because of the reduction of thickness, you can make it flexible. You could use perovskite on drones or on top of your cars without adding too much weight. 

Silicon has a very defined bandgap, meaning it absorbs only a certain fixed amount of the solar spectrum. But perovskite is very adjustable—there are many, many perovskites available, because it’s a name just to describe certain arrangements of atoms in the crystal structure. So you can change the perovskite’s chemistry. You can make it absorb the blue light, you can make it absorb the green light, you can make it absorb the red light or infrared light. That opens up the opportunity for you to combine these different light-absorbing perovskites to make what we call multijunction solar cells—instead of having just one layer of materials, you now have two or three materials absorbing different portions of the sunlight.

Silicon needs, like, 100-micron thickness in a solar cell, because it doesn’t absorb light very efficiently. But for perovskite, you just need one micron.

Perovskites and silicon make the perfect pair in terms of the color of light that they absorb. Silicon solar is such well-developed technology, so people want to keep the momentum going—if you can do very little by integrating perovskite into silicon technology, then you do it. It doesn’t add too much cost, and then you get all these benefits of multijunction solar cells with higher efficiency.

Perovskites just all of a sudden opened up that possibility. In the past, people have been working on multijunction solar cells, but these are based on so-called III-V semiconductors. They’re so expensive that they are only used in basically two scenarios: outer space exploration and military.

The main challenge is the reliability of those perovskite solar cells. We have seen really significant progress in the past few years—it’s about finding the root cause of degradation mechanisms and a solution for that. We have been collectively as a community improving the device operational lifetime of perovskite from less than ten hours to now more than 2,000 hours. 

There is no standard in the industry that is based on perovskite, because it’s so new. So I think if perovskite panels can pass the standard testing for silicon panels, then they will be most likely accepted by consumers, right? We have made big progress on that as well. 

You’re testing the solar cells in very humid and high-temperature conditions. You are cycling between -40 Celsius to 85 Celsius. You are doing some hail tests, like throwing things on the panel to see if it breaks. It’s basically stress testing.

When we are calculating LCOE (levelized cost of electricity), it’s calculating the cost of the lifetime energy generation. So comparing to silicon, we have higher efficiency using perovskites—maybe it lasts shorter, but the amount of energy generated over the shorter lifetime can be equal to the energy generated by silicon over a longer lifetime. So in that case, you’ll be OK. And that’s definitely true. That’s a way to get the product to the market sooner. 

Credit: Yijun Pan for Chicago Reader

How much of a concern is it to have lead in the perovskites? There is a calculation for EU regulations called RoHS (Restriction of Hazardous Substances), and it basically calculates how much of a hazardous material you can have in a commercial product, based on weight. Most of the weight comes through the glass and other things, and lead is just a tiny amount—below the threshold. There is lead in silicon panels as well, in the interconnections, soldering things. 

If you’re talking about using perovskite-based consumer electronics, your cell phones or computers, that might be a problem—you’re using them every day. But for solar panels outside, it’s most likely OK.

People have been trying to find alternative metals to lead to develop high-efficiency perovskite solar cells. But so far, it’s not very successful. And lead-free compounds face serious stability issues. Most of those lead-free perovskites are based on tin, and those tin compounds really, really like to be oxidized. So that’s the structure breakdown, and you don’t have perovskite anymore. And also the cell fails.

In the broader picture, we need to reduce carbon emissions. It’s not just solar that needs to be there. Other sources of renewable energy will make big contributions—like wind, onshore and offshore. Wind and solar together will account for more than 50 or 60 percent. Then there are some others, like nuclear.

These are just generation, right? And a lot of those technologies, including the two big ones, wind and solar, they are nondispatchable. That means at night or when there’s no wind, you cannot generate any electricity. So that’s a problem. We need to have better storage options—maybe batteries, maybe other forms of chemical storage. 

I do consider myself very concerned for the future. What I’d like to see happen, first of all, is the adoption of renewable energy. We cut the use of coal, fossil fuels, so that we don’t keep the temperature going higher and higher. And then we don’t see those icebergs melting and the seas going above some of those island nations, so they have nowhere to live. That’s what I have in mind when I talk about renewable energy.


This was originally published in the 2024 edition of our People Issue, the Reader’s annual special of first-person stories, as told by your neighbors, classmates, and the weirdo at the end of the bar.


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Zel Hizó, The Next-gen Zinemaker – The People Issue 2024

Zel Hizó (she/her), ten, is a prolific zinemaker, where she details her interests from Freddie Mercury to her dream dog to her favorite stuffed animals. She’s also designed​​ T-shirts and stickers; she hawks many of her projects at zine fairs around the city, as well as at her neighborhood record store, Pinwheel Records. When she’s not putting together zines, you can find Hizó crocheting, reading manga, playing the violin, or writing movie reviews on her secret Letterboxd account. As Hizó’s mom, Alanna Zaritz, says, “It is good to diversify your skills.” 


The reason why I’m mostly making zines is I just needed something to do when I’m alone or when I’m at home and I’m like, ugh [mimes being bored]. 

My first zine was my Freddie Mercury zine. For my school, we were doing, like, “talk about the person.” So I chose Freddie Mercury. I had a whole little board, and I also had my zine with me. I was like, “Oh yeah, if you want some more information, you can also look at this zine too.” I ended up giving some to my classmates. 

Some of the other zines I have made are my mixtape zine[s]. The mixtape zine is about a lot of my favorite songs from different bands. I draw the songs like how I think about them. So for Black Eyed Peas, “I Gotta Feeling,” I drew the four characters for the Black Eyed Peas as Animal Crossing characters. I had a difficult time doing this one, but it actually turned out pretty good. I did a “I’m Just Ken” one. It was Ken wearing horse sunglasses that were pink, obviously, and his hair was sand, [like] Malibu Beach. That was also pretty fun. 

Zel Hizo sits at a white table with a blue mechanical pencil in her hand. In front of her is a sketchbook featuring color illustrations of a girl with widest eyes and various other creatures.
“The reason why I started doing art is my brain tells me to do it, or, like, I’m kind of fidgety, so I need something to use my hands with,” Hizó says.
Credit: Sarah Joyce for Chicago Reader

Now I have another zine, called My Dog Baguette. It’s not a real dog. It’s my dream dog. I’ve always wanted a dog because the sad thing is that we are not allowed to have dogs in our building. So we go through this whole story of me having a dog, but at the end, I don’t have a dog. Maybe someday, once we find the right apartment.

I made one zine about all my favorite buddies [stuffed animals]. I might have to do another one because I have so many favorites. Some were gifts. But one of them we just bought at this cute little shop when I was small. It was a frog. I am so scared to lose this guy. I named her Olympia. Inky is a little squid. Wet Boy is a watermelon. Those are names that I give them. If I get a new buddy, I always have to give them a name. I have one that’s Paprika, because my dad cooks a lot, but also it was orange and it’s a mouse. 

The last thing that I made was the Frogalisa, at the Vietfive cafe. I was there with my dad, and we were eating and stuff, and I have an idea that, what if I drew Olympia—that’s my frog buddy—as the Mona Lisa? But instead I replaced the Mona with the Froga. I was like, “Dad, could you lend me your phone? I need to look at a picture of the Mona Lisa.” He was like, “OK, sure.” I was looking at all the details. I did the hair on the frog. I did the clothing, a little shawl, and all the colors. We’re gonna do those as postcards next. 

The reason why I started doing art is my brain tells me to do it, or, like, I’m kind of fidgety, so I need something to use my hands with. I use clay a lot, or I just use a pen or pencil. Sometimes drawing wears me out. So I just relax my fingers for a little bit, but then I get back to work. 

We go to CAKE [Chicago Alternative Comics Expo], Zine Not Dead, Zine Fest. We go to those every year, and we just get a lot. My mom can’t stop buying stuff. We also go to Quimby’s. We love comic book stores. But my mom got me started with doing a zine. She’s like, “Hey, what if you make a zine, and you could give it to people to learn about Freddie Mercury, and you can also give it to your classmates?” So I made my Freddie Mercury zine on my iPad, [and] we printed it out. It was pretty good. We told about where Freddie Mercury lived, and he also went to the Hall of Rock and Fame when he died. Then we had another idea to do another zine after that. So we started doing more and another one and another one. Then we started doing stuff other than zines, like my stickers and T-shirts. 

Zel wearing a large mauve sweater. She holds herself up to the light, with a pencil balanced on her nose. her hands are open at the sides of her face. A white curtain and large green plants are behind her.
Credit: Sarah Joyce for Chicago Reader

If I make any other stuff, it will be sold at or just given to people at zine [fairs]. Last [year], we shared a table with our friend Oscar [Arriola] and his niece. He’s the one who started ZINEmercado. We’re gonna be sharing another table with his niece. Last time I made about 15 bucks. I’m hoping that I can make a tiny bit more—maybe some laundry money. We’re also selling them at our local record shop, Pinwheel Records in Pilsen. We’re also good friends with them. He said the Freddie Mercury zine sold out very fast. He shipped some of them across to a different area, like, I think, New York. I was like, “Oh, this is so cool.” So it’s a lot of fun. 

[I’m inspired by] other artists, artwork, but mostly cartoons, because I grew up watching Adventure Time. I also read manga. I read some of that, and then I’m like, “Whoa, dude, this is so cool.” So I gotta try it. I mostly like to do bubbly stuff because it just feels a little bit better. I do bubbly eyes, little smiley faces, and little rosy cheeks. I try to make any character look good-looking, like my dog in the Baguette thing. I took a really long time learning how to draw dachshunds, because I haven’t drawn dachshunds before, really. Like, oh, the nose looks like this. It’s long. Their legs are short. First, I kind of drew a dalmatian. But then I drew a dachshund after.

Sometimes drawing wears me out. So I just relax my fingers for a little bit, but then I get back to work.

I use an iPad and pen, pencil, markers. Sometimes I do photography.

I like to do clay stuff, because I have a dollhouse. There’s this character that I made in preschool, and her name is Bobcat Girl. We made bottle cap people in pre-K. All you need is, like, two pom poms, some little yarn thing, googly eyes, and a bottle cap. For her house, I’m like, “Something’s missing here.” So I was thinking, I have all this clay, I do sculptures. I use air-dry clay. So I make planters for her. I do food for her, because [the] downstairs area is a cafe. She lets too many customers in there, too many spiders. [Laughs.]

I don’t do this as much as I used to, but I still make art out of clay and stuff—oh, and out of garbage. [In the future,] I might do the garbage utopia with bottles, a tower of cans. I say that you can use garbage for something, and you don’t have to just throw it away and forget about it, like, “Ope, done with that bottle.” I think everyone should do art crafts with whatever materials that they can find. Like even wood, you could do a block, just put a smiley face on it—art. 

Chicago is a pretty good spot to be an artist because it does have a lot of museums that have artworks changed. You get to see them change over time. You come back and you’re like, “Wow, new art.”


This was originally published in the 2024 edition of our People Issue, the Reader’s annual special of first-person stories, as told by your neighbors, classmates, and the weirdo at the end of the bar.


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Oluwaseyi Adeleke, The Universe Builder – The People Issue 2024

Graphic designer and founder of the streetwear brand Prgrssn, Oluwaseyi Adeleke, who goes by Olu, is building a universe rich in Blackness. With each piece he creates, the 28-year-old first-generation Nigerian American hopes to educate and inspire. His shop is in L1, a creative business accelerator program and storefront spearheaded by U. Chicago, located under the Garfield Green Line el station. Adeleke has turned the lack of support and direction he felt from the program into a positive by utilizing the location as a community hub, rather than solely a retail space. As trains rumble overhead and he prepares an outdoor set for a live music event that evening, Adeleke shares his thoughts on his journey as a designer, the art of telling Black stories, and the future of Prgrssn.


I got into the [UIC] School of Public Health, and at the same time, I got into the School of Design for grad school back in 2020. I always thought I was going to be a doctor, and I did the art thing for fun. I used to have this saying where I was like, “Immigrant parents make the first sacrifice, which is leaving the only home that they’ve ever known.” Then, first-generation [children] make the second sacrifice, which is basically foregoing what they really want in life to make sure that they establish a good generation for the next ones in line. I had to completely shatter that expectation.

It was a very adult decision for me to be like, “Oh, yeah, I could go to medical school and do this very clear, concise path, or I could really roll the dice, because you only got one life.” I’m going to figure out how to pay my bills, and I have been. I feel like I’m making the ultimate sacrifice, which is proving the whole reason why my parents came here in the first place—just for me to pursue my dreams, even if it might not be the dream that they initially wanted. It’s my life. 

The work that I make is inherently Black. With the last collection, we were celebrating Black fatherhood. Not only is it trying to highlight this idea that Black fathers are good fathers—I don’t really care about that—what I’m trying to do is preserve aspects of Black culture and vignettes in a way that anyone can look back on it and understand this slice of life that we’re talking about. My ultimate goal with the brand is how do I decolonize myself to remove the white gaze from what I’m creating?

A portrait of the designer inside his store Prgrssn
Oluwaseyi Adeleke inside Prgrssn Credit: Elijah Barnes for Chicago Reader

The number one question I get from people who aren’t Black is, “Can I wear it?” And it’s just like, of course, you can wear it if you want, but just understand that the clothing that I’m making is specifically for Black people. The lookbooks will always be about Black people. The collections will always be about Black people. We will also always be trying to tell Black stories. And even trying to actually break out of the mold of telling historical stories, but also telling stories as they’re happening in real-time. The next couple of collections I’m working on are really fun because I’m creating my own stories now, inspired by Black people in my life.

I did a really amazing sculpture earlier this year for my mother. The sculpture was a fake statue of water bottles. My mom, growing up, she was a hawker, which is defined as the get-it-how-you-live type of job. Like you literally got to go out there and hustle. My mom literally was able to work hard enough and had enough favor in her life to then open up her own studio to sew clothes. Then she met my father and was able to emigrate to the United States. Now her children are all college-educated, following their dreams. But you don’t know who my mom is. Oftentimes we are forced to tell or listen to stories of people like Dr. King and Malcolm X, who did absolutely amazing things. But for you, probably your biggest superhero in your life, no one has actually heard of.

I have a concept, and it’s called Building a Better Universe. That’s essentially what I call my work: universe-building, world-building. There’s a Saba lyric [in his feature on “Sacrifices” that’s] something along the lines of, “I’ll put my all in this art, and to everybody else I’m alternate.” I really love that bar, because it’s this idea that the world outside is so loud and toxic and hates Black people so much that I had to learn about myself through the historical knowledge of Black people that came before me. I would say the first seven years of the brand have been about that. So, if the first seven years were about learning as much about your Blackness as possible, then the next seven years will be now that you’ve learned so much about yourself, why are you trying to retell stories when you’re witnessing Black history in real-time?

I have a product that’s about to come out, and it’s a safety pin bracelet. The story goes like this: There’s this little girl and she runs up to this woman at the park and she says, “Oh my goodness, that’s so beautiful!” And the woman says, “Thank you very much. It’s my bracelet. I’ve had it since I was a little girl. Every time I came a little bit closer to one of my dreams, I would gift myself a safety pin. This one was for kindergarten, eighth grade, high school, college, medical school, when I finished my residency program and became a doctor.”

The little girl says, “Oh my goodness, that’s so cool. I have dreams too. Can I have one?” The woman says, “Of course you can.” The little girl says, “Really?”

The woman says, “Of course you can, I can always make another one.” So she gives the little girl one of her pins and the little girl remembers the woman said she gifted herself one every time she came a little bit closer. So the little girl says, “Wait, what’s this one for?” And the woman says, “It’s for starting, it’s for dreaming.” Before she runs off, the little girl hugs her and says, “Thanks, Pepper.” 

If you’re familiar with my brand building, you know who Pepper is, which is a metaphor for Black women. The Pepper in this scenario is actually my girlfriend. She became the backdrop for this fictional story inspired by very real Black women in my life and to help tell the story about hope. It’s been fun being able to tell the stories of impactful Black people in my life.

A portrait of Adeleke standing between two racks inside his store Prgrssn
Oluwaseyi Adeleke inside Prgrssn Credit: Elijah Barnes for Chicago Reader

We will also always be trying to tell Black stories. And even trying to actually break out of the mold of telling historical stories, but also telling stories as they’re happening in real-time.

I had a crazy realization yesterday when someone came to the store, where she was like, “I don’t really know how to build an audience.” I told her I have a very strong belief that you can’t create community, you can only facilitate it. What I’ve learned most from this space specifically is if you are someone who enjoys clothing, streetwear, Black history, you’re proud of your Blackness and all that type of stuff; I didn’t create that. There are communities of people like that already. It’s up to my brand to kind of create this space for those types of people to meet each other. 

My favorite compliment people tell me is, “Whenever I see somebody on the street wearing your brand, I’m very comfortable walking up to them.” My belief is that you have to be a very specific type of person to want to participate with the brand. On a surface level, it’s a brand about Black people who are proud of their Blackness, but I think on a deeper level, it’s a brand for just very kind people who are looking for other kind people to collectively build around their identity. 


This was originally published in the 2024 edition of our People Issue, the Reader’s annual special of first-person stories, as told by your neighbors, classmates, and the weirdo at the end of the bar.



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Jack McCoy, The Microcinema Founder – The People Issue 2024

Jack McCoy, 28, is the founder and owner of Sweet Void Cinema, a production company and microcinema in Humboldt Park. McCoy grew up in the suburbs of Detroit and came to Chicago in 2014 to study cinema at Columbia College Chicago. He’s lived in various neighborhoods across the city and currently resides in Lincoln Square.


Sweet Void Cinema started conceptually in 2020 as a collaboration between myself, Jon Anderson, Jose Perez, and Aliya Haq, as a production company first and foremost. Aliya Haq came up with the name—we had dozens of meetings trying to figure out what to call it. We had a feature fall apart in early 2021, so we had a little bit of excess money. We had talked about having a space that would have enough room for a screen, and then we found this place that was pretty perfect. We slowly, over the course of the next year as we were producing shorts, started developing it as a theater. I think it was late 2021—Jose, Jon, and I took a U-Haul up to Milwaukee to a theater that never opened, and they were selling all these mint-condition theater seats. We had this guy, Jack Stearns, come in and build out the rest of the theater. One of our employees, Lino Gil—his wife, Jamie Nance, is a wonderful artist. We had her paint this mural in the space. 

The microtheater side of [Sweet Void] started to really take off, as we were really dedicated to screening work that was as accessible as possible for people. At first, that really meant free. As we started working this year with Josh Mabe and [Reader contributor] Joshua Minsoo Kim, we’ve done some more paid screenings that are really just to give experimental cinema that hasn’t really been screened in the city a place to live. At least to me, it seemed pretty clear that there has been a lack of this type of work being screened in the city.

Our mission as a production company is to create work that speaks to everyday Chicagoans. We’re trying to make films by and for Chicagoans. We have a couple of transplants like myself, but a lot of the people that we work with have lived here their entire lives, like Jose Perez, who lives in Little Village. We just produced his feature last year, What Rhymes with Magdalena? [2024]. When it comes to the type of work we’re trying to screen, experimental cinema is a big thing that has definitely drawn in some audiences, but in general, we’ve been trying to make it as accessible as possible for Chicagoans of any level of professionalism or genre to be able to get their work screened.

We have this monthly shorts festival that started in late 2022; basically, we accept anything that was made by a Chicagoan. If they made it in the city, if they edited it in the city, whatever—we screen it. Really, Sweet Void Cinema is about accessibility and giving young filmmakers—or old filmmakers—a chance to get their work either produced or screened. (I’d like to throw out there also, we are technically vertically integrated, so we beat Sony to the punch by about three years. That’s a bit of a joke, but it’s also honest.) 

Close-up of Jack McCoy holding film cans
Jack McCoy with film cans at Sweet Void Cinema Credit: Yijun Pan for Chicago Reader

We’re trying to make films by and for Chicagoans.

[My day-to-day work] is different based on the week. Like this week, I have [to] quality check a feature I directed back in 2022 that we’re trying to submit to Slamdance. I’ve had to hunt down a home base for Harvey Pullings [II]’s shoot next weekend. I’ve had to coordinate an experimental film festival [called Peripheries] that Nick Swanton [put on] along with Joshua Minsoo Kim, M. Woods, and Elise Schierbeek from Video Data Bank. Joshua with [experimental music newsletter] Tone Glow had a screening on Friday and Saturday, so I helped run the Saturday screening. On Wednesdays, we have a screenwriting workshop that I run. What else? It’s really kind of strange, on a daily basis I don’t really know what I’m actually gonna be up to. Then I’m also starting to think, “What are we gonna do next year? Are we gonna do a feature?” I’m not sure; who’s to say?

The screenwriting workshop has been going on at Sweet Void since January 2022, and I’m more proud of it than anything else we do here. Every week, somewhere between six and ten people have joined in person or virtually, and collectively, we’ve written hundreds of pages. Two of the three shorts we’re producing this year are from the workshop—Jay Villalobos’s Brain Rot and Jason Nimako-Boateng’s Dogs, Foxgloves and Other Slowly Dying Things—and I wouldn’t be surprised if a couple of the shorts written this year end up on our docket next year. It’s become a good way for film students, graduates, people who never went to film school, or people with a passing interest in it to learn and grow as writers. I went through the screenwriting program at Columbia College and found it to be rather lacking, in discipline from the teachers and in rigor from the students. Here, we have cultivated a motivated community which pushes each member to grow, and grow we have! I’m very proud of the group. 

My love of film came from, largely, the movies I grew up with, which were a lot of blockbusters, like James Cameron movies, dumb action movies with Bruce Willis or Harrison Ford (who my mom loved). I sort of moved, when I was in college, toward more of the arthouse people, like Ingmar Bergman or Michelangelo Antonioni. I definitely, with the pandemic, was watching too many movies. Being able to quantify how many movies I’d watched in something like Letterboxd, I found pretty recently, was something that was very unhealthy. If I’m watching like three features a day, that’s not . . . that’s not very good. [Laughs] And I do think there’s a serious problem with filmmakers right now, where it seems like the primary thing they care about are their movies—as opposed to, say, real-world issues, or, I don’t know, religion, or their family—and you see that really reflected in their movies. And I think you see a certain cost come into the movies themselves when that’s the case. So personally, this year, I’ve been trying to be able to square what I care about outside of film with film itself.

[Since] the pandemic hit, I’ve been particularly . . . nervous, I guess, would be the right word, and wary of getting sick again. I had cancer; I did six months of chemotherapy back in 2018. So I’ve really been pretty strict with a mask policy, both on our production end and in our theatrical distribution. At certain points, we’ve had people COVID test before coming into the theater. We’ve had to shut down the theater a few times if cases have been particularly bad or if someone in the office has gotten sick. But it’s definitely been challenging. Since basically very few other places in the city have any type of COVID policy, there’s a bit of a weird anachronism that I think people sometimes feel coming in—they’re like, “Oh, I need a mask?” Well, yeah, you do.

Close-up of a man sitting in an empty small theater, arms folded
Jack McCoy at Sweet Void Cinema Credit: Yijun Pan for Chicago Reader

Really, I think it comes down to the city and the state and the federal government never really having handled it and feeling like it’s my responsibility in the space that I do control. But I also know, like, the moment you leave the space, that there is absolutely no control over it. It’s just a bit frustrating.

What I would like to do is allow Sweet Void to be more of an autonomous entity and be able to really just focus on writing and directing, since that’s what I love the most. Still programming at the theater would be nice, as well. With Sweet Void, I’m hoping that it can be a center of microfilmmakers being able to get a start in the city. Chicago’s been where a lot of really phenomenal filmmakers have come out of at many different times in history. It seems like right now there’s a real dearth of any type of cultural innovation, and I think that’s largely due to rent prices—people being priced out of different places like New York or LA that have historically been real centers of culture. 

I think for the film world, [Chicago] is a pretty perfect city. Rent isn’t astronomical, so I think there’s an actual chance for working-class people to make movies here. Getting permits and locations is significantly cheaper, as well. And the tax incentive here in Illinois is really great—I think it’s the second best in the country.

Even as meager as the money that we have [is], we have a real opportunity for people who don’t ordinarily get the opportunity to make work to be able to make work—ideally, good work, a thing that people across the country and the world would want to see. I guess that’s a lofty ambition for Sweet Void, but I’m hopeful that there is some type of future trajectory for it to play that type of role. Or at least maybe signal to people who have large amounts of capital that they want to put into movies to be like, “Ah, Chicago, that makes sense.”


This was originally published in the 2024 edition of our People Issue, the Reader’s annual special of first-person stories, as told by your neighbors, classmates, and the weirdo at the end of the bar.


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Seitu Hayden, The Wrist – The People Issue 2024

Seitu Hayden, artist and illustrator (including graphic biographies of Malcolm X and Barack Obama), has had a career that straddled publishing and advertising. He was a college student when he created Waliku, a Black life comic strip that ran in the Chicago Defender in the 1970s but looks contemporary today. Waliku was part of the Museum of Contemporary Art’s 2021 “Chicago Comics: 1960s to Now” exhibit.    


My intent, coming out of high school, was not to come to Chicago. I’m 71 years old and I’ve been here since 1971, but I’m from Fort Wayne, Indiana. My intention was to go to New York, to the School of Visual Arts, camp out on the front door of Marvel Comics, and get hired.

My mom had introduced me to Richard Green, who was known as Grass Green. He was a Black cartoonist, working for Charlton Comics. He was also doing a strip for a local Black newspaper. He was the first person I could talk comics to in Fort Wayne, and he hired me to ink his work and inspired me. I wanted to become a comic book artist.

I got into the New York School, but they didn’t have a dormitory. So Chicago became the second choice, the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts. I read somewhere that Walt Disney went there and they had a major in cartooning. And I thought, “If Disney went there, that’s good enough for me. I found out later he only stayed for a semester.    

The Chicago Academy gave me a scholarship for the first year, but what sealed the deal was that they had a connection to what was then a very new Herman Crown Center at Roosevelt University. So I had a place to live. And it was full of young people—international students and students from all the art schools in the city. For somebody who never knew much about Chicago to be living downtown at that time, in that place, it was heaven.

The very first person I met when I moved into the dorm was Marvin Jones, a photography student at Columbia. He helped me get a comic strip in the Daily Defender. It was called the James Gang, but I changed the name to Waliku as I got more into Black Body, a national student group I joined. They came up with a ceremony where myself and some other people were granted African names, and my mom picked out Seitu. It means artist, and from then on I used it instead of my birth name, William Eric. I transferred to Columbia College the next year and did four years there.

Credit: Elijah Barnes for Chicago Reader

We had a lot of the printing industry here, but for publishing it was Britannica and places like Reuben H. Donnelley, which is where I got my first job coming out of school, working on ads for the yellow pages. At one point I met a man named John Ortman, an art director at Foote, Cone & Belding. He could draw his ass off. He was a holdover from the time in advertising when art directors could actually draw. But at some point they said, “No, you’re the idea guy, you ain’t got time to draw. Get somebody else to do that, get a wrist to do it.” That was the term in the industry for somebody like me, who would draw up the ideas of the copywriters and art directors. Ortman was my introduction to the commercial illustration world. I became his assistant, the nighttime guy. The money was in doing storyboards. And, as much as I wanted to do comics, I was at the point in my life where money was way more important.

Most of my career success I attribute to the Black press and Black-owned businesses. I did a comic strip, Shop Life, for a magazine called Shoptalk, put out by SoftSheen. And my first ad agency job was for Vince Cullers. He opened up the first Black advertising agency I think in the country.  At the point I joined Vince, they had Kellogg’s, Illinois Bell—the Black accounts, of course. I always talk about Blackvertising—you’ve got smaller budgets, lower expectations, but you always overperform.

A copywriter there said to me, “You want to be a wrist all your life?” I said, “Man, from what I’ve been able to see, creators have a hidden expiration tag on ’em and only management can see it. And at some point they’re going to think you’re too old to come up with ideas for the consumer we’re trying to reach now, and then you’re going to be out on your ass.”

I love cartoons. That’s what got me into art in the first place.

I got to work for Foote, Cone & Belding, J. Walter Thompson, Ogilvy & Mather, and then Leo Burnett. I’ve worked in-house, be it as a freelancer or on staff, at the four biggest agencies in this town. But I was coming in on the tail end of an era. What I’ve witnessed is the changing face of illustration because of what’s gone down with technology.

By the time I got to Foote Cone, I had given up on my comic book dream, but I met a guy there who wanted me to draw an independently produced comic called Tales From the Heart, about a young woman’s time in the Peace Corps. We did five issues before somebody at Marvel got wind of it and offered us a deal, a chance to do a graphic novel for an imprint of Marvel called Epic Comics that was a creator-owned label. So they put out two graphic novels, The Temporary Natives and Bloodlines. At that point I thought, maybe I’m going to make it in the comic world after all. Maybe my dream is going to come true. But it never connected. This is all happening while I’m still doing commercial art and storyboards, in the early 90s.  

My own personal joke is I’m a art ho. If you’re paying, I’m drawing.

At Burnett, they put all us artists underneath the Capps Studio banner. I ended up staying there till they cut me off at the knees when I was 59, which is when that hidden expiration tag popped out on me.  

Now I’m a little bit all over the place. I did a Spider-Man sticker book—got to draw my favorite Marvel characters. What I’ve been doing this year is storyboards for an educational YouTube show, Hip Hop Boobly. Now that she’s two and a half, my granddaughter has brought me back into the world of children’s programming. Because I love cartoons. That’s what got me into art in the first place.

And I’ve got Saytoons stores on CafePress, Zazzle, and Amazon Merch. I think about the stuff that I’ve sold all over the world—that in Switzerland or Australia somebody’s got a T-shirt designed by me, and they didn’t care if I was Black, white, or whatever, they just liked what they saw, thought enough of it to buy it.  

So where I am now? I’m still a art ho. I keep telling myself I need to do my own thing, like some kind of autobiographical comic about the foibles of my crazy life in an art career in Chicago. I keep going back to that dormitory. It was a magical place, a magical time.


This was originally published in the 2024 edition of our People Issue, the Reader’s annual special of first-person stories, as told by your neighbors, classmates, and the weirdo at the end of the bar.


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Norman W. Long, The Natural Listener – The People Issue 2024

Composer and sound artist Norman W. Long got hooked on experimental music in the 1990s as a student at Illinois State University. He evolved his multi-media practice as he earned a master of fine arts (in “new genres”) at the San Francisco Art Institute in 2001 and a master’s in landscape architecture at Cornell University in 2008. Long has applied his expertise in field recording and ecology to documenting the changing nature of south-side neighborhoods and parks, especially Big Marsh Park in South Deering. Chicagoans can experience this with him firsthand on the soundwalks he leads with the Midwest Society for Acoustic Ecology.


I started off playing clarinet through middle school, high school, and some college. Then, along with my listening habits, I started getting into more . . . what you’d call industrial, avant-garde, or electroacoustic music. Like many Black musicians, I started listening and learned how to listen in the Black Catholic church. I went to Catholic school at Our Lady Gate of Heaven in Jeffrey Manor. It’s no longer there. I’m not Catholic—I just went to the school. The choir director for the church was my sixth-grade teacher. 

For the most part I listened to mainly Top 40 as a kid. Sixth and seventh grade, I started listening to more house music and hip-hop and getting more into rock music. I already knew older people who were listening to house music on WBMX and WGCI, so I knew where to turn for that, but for the hip-hop stuff, it was WHPK. I taped stuff off the radio. I can’t really brag about listening to super avant-garde music. My taste got more complex and more esoteric as time went on, and my curiosities just went further and further the more resources I had to explore. When I got into ISU, I started borrowing and listening to records at the library there. 

There was a graduate recital for clarinet. One dude did a Steve Reich piece. He was basically playing his clarinet to a tape. I thought, “Wait a minute, I thought that was cheating,” not understanding tape music and what he was doing. I was like, “I’m really drawn to this.” I went back to the library, listened to [Reich’s] Music for 18 Musicians and Drumming. I started listening to other avant-garde music.

I started grad school in ’99 at the San Francisco Art Institute. My work had been heavily influenced by a strange confluence of people: bell hooks, Mike Kelley, Doris Salcedo, and other artists who did massive works. Also this tradition of African American yard shows had a lot of influence—a lot of Yoruba traditions and the placement of objects and juxtapositions of such to give meaning. One of the books that I found to be really helpful with my particular visual aesthetics was by Robert Farris Thompson, called Face of the Gods: Art and Altars of Africa and the African Americas. I still kept my interest in music—and especially experimental music. Another huge influence was a guy named Paul D. Miller, aka DJ Spooky. 

I started taking my MiniDisc recorder out for my walks. I started focusing on, ‘Let me get some environmental sounds and then process them.’

I was doing these massive works with concrete and stuffed animals, making huge installations. I realized it wasn’t gonna be sustainable for me. It was really fortuitous that Martin Schmidt from Matmos was still working there [at SFAI]—I was able to get tutorials from him for basic programs like SoundEdit 16. 

I was able to TA a class for [sound artist] Laetitia Sonami. She taught me how to use Pro Tools, field recordings, soundwalks. I got a lot of great readings from her, but also really great exercises and assignments as far as digital music goes. I was able to have installations that may not have a lot of things in them, but adding sound to them ended up being somewhat satisfying. 

I started doing more field recording. Walking meditation was really important to me. By 2004, I had a series of panic attacks—headaches, vomiting, and all sorts of things—and had to go on medication. I thought, “This is a really good time to think about meditation and self-care.” A lot of that came through walking and listening—that also helped me regain focus.

I started taking my MiniDisc recorder out for my walks. I started focusing on, “Let me get some environmental sounds and then process them.” I started working with other people on video; I would record my walk, and they would record video for it. Or I’d record something from my walk to a performance, and then the performance would be me mixing in my walk to the performance—for instance, I would take a commute from Oakland to San Francisco, and I’d record my commute, and the sounds of my commute would be what the performance was, in combination with sounds from a police scanner and some digital sounds. I didn’t really get into synthesizer sounds until later. My art practice, it morphed into sound-art performance practice, and that’s where it was by 2005.

The visual art practice wasn’t really there anymore. I wasn’t interested in engaging with the art scene; I had such a negative experience in San Francisco. In 2008, I had some friends that I was doing performances with; I had a chance to perform some of my sound works. These guys had a residency at Kavi Gupta Gallery [in Chicago]. The organizers, Lee Montgomery and Jon Brumit, asked me if I wanted to do another performance for Neighborhood Public Radio, which was the project in residence there. 

Credit: Kirk Williamson for Chicago Reader

By 2009 I was able to get an installation up at the Florasonic series for Experimental Sound Studio [ESS]. The Florasonic series was in Lincoln Park, and I thought it’d be cool to put all the sounds of Lincoln Park in the [Lincoln Park Conservatory] Fern Room; there was a lot of granular synthesis and a lot of dub-style echo that was going on. I was able to have some sort of relationship with a gallery [ESS] that was reputable in the city; it was a very positive thing that I wasn’t really expecting. I was working a regular job, but I was able to do that and get put in touch with people like Eric Leonardson, who I’m on the board with for the Midwest Society for Acoustic Ecology. 

I didn’t perform too many times as a solo musician—it was very sporadic. It felt like I couldn’t get any gigs. I started playing regularly with Angel Bat Dawid & Tha Brotherhood, working with mainly synths and samples. There were quite a few projects that Angel had me in. I would say 2018 is when I started playing more with people and doing more solo things as well. That was due to John Daniel and Michael Stumpf’s label, Reserve Matinee—[they] put out a compilation of some of the older work I had done [2018’s Electro​-​Acoustic Dubcology I–IV]. 

That was really nice, to see more people of color being interested in what I do. . . . I’m not practicing, learning, or researching in a vacuum.

I started doing the soundwalks in 2015. The Midwest Society for Acoustic Ecology partnered with the Night Out in the Parks program. When we first started doing them, I started leading them at Washington Park, and then once Big Marsh opened, I started leading walks there around 2016.

Credit: Kirk Williamson for Chicago Reader

Being able to have more relationships and friendships with people who may not have the same practices I do but have different perspectives, backgrounds, or resources they pull from—I find that to be very interesting. Over the last few years, [I’ve seen] many Black folks who are very interested in field recordings and experimental music. That was really nice, to see more people of color being interested in what I do—or parts of particular discourses around ecology, history, electronics, or synthesis. That affected me a lot. I’m not practicing, learning, or researching in a vacuum. There are people who are listening now. 

I keep doing it to get in touch with my own higher self. That’s really important to me, coming from a background where I don’t feel as valued and I wasn’t anything to anybody. But with the art, I am something to myself. I’m doing what it is that is mine to do.


This was originally published in the 2024 edition of our People Issue, the Reader’s annual special of first-person stories, as told by your neighbors, classmates, and the weirdo at the end of the bar.


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I’m M$. B’Havin

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I’m M$. B’Havin, The Brand-New Blues Diva -The People Issue 2024 Chicago Reader

Norma Jean McAdams is a 73-year-old hip-swinging diva who sings the blues as I’m M$. B’Havin. It’s a dream she put off for decades. In high school, she adored singing but suffered from stage fright and self-consciousness about her face and body. She had severe acne and the kind of generous hourglass figure that wouldn’t come back into vogue till 40 years later. When she was 24, the Texas native came to Chicago for an entry-level administrative job in Schaumburg. Disco dancing at clubs such as Coconuts in Edgewater and Faces in the Gold Coast allowed her to free herself from the mild-mannered expectations of her day job and unleash an exuberant, sensual side. But after she married her husband, Paul, in 1981, she put all that aside to settle into life as a suburban mother of two.

For the next three decades, the couple moved around the country, but in 2012 they returned to Chicago to be close to their daughter, who’d recently graduated from Columbia College. After Paul underwent open-heart surgery and Norma had a cancer scare, time began to feel precious—they resolved to return to some of the joys of their younger selves. For Norma, that meant singing and dancing. In 2018, the couple became regulars at Buddy Guy’s Legends. Paul would sometimes jam on guitar while Norma fantasized about getting onstage—something that began to feel more urgent after lockdown. At her first attempt, during an open-mike night at Buddy Guy’s this past February, she couldn’t get over her stage fright. But she made herself go back and try again, and now she’s leading a band with Paul called I’m M$. B’Havin & Her $exagenarian$.


I graduated from high school in San Antonio in 1970. All my classmates saw me as a singer. I was in the a cappella choir and church choir and something called Talecade, which was a club of 50 talented kids. But I didn’t see myself that way. I’ve had bad stage fright since I was a kid. My parents would come see me in elementary school, and I’d be onstage, and the next thing you know, I’d faint. Or I was throwing up in a trash can.

In high school, my mom enrolled me in a Wendy Ward charm course to help me get over my stage fright. She thought it would build my confidence to learn etiquette and how to dress. My teacher thought I had talent, so she encouraged me to enter a beauty pageant. I won San Antonio Junior Miss in 1970. I didn’t win state, but I did win the Texas Junior Miss creative and performing arts award for singing. Winning the San Antonio Junior Miss contest felt like a fluke. 

As a young woman I had terrible—and I mean terrible—acne, and it prevented me from doing a lot of things I wanted to do. I had a figure too—a rear end. I was always trying to hide it. I mean, it’s hard to hide. I even went to a doctor in Downers Grove because I wanted him to do a butt reduction. By the grace of God, he wouldn’t do it. It took almost two decades of therapy to help me accept my looks and work through my stage fright. 

In the 90s, I started taking my daughter to art therapy. She’s on the autism spectrum, and I wanted her to have as many opportunities as possible. Her therapist said I had artistic talent, which no one had ever said before. I read [Julia Cameron’s 1992 book] The Artist’s Way and started taking classes to explore my talents. I discovered I’m a poet, an artist, a dancer, a singer. 

When something like that happens at my age, you start thinking about your life and the exit door. All of a sudden, it’s like, ‘Wow! I’ve been a mother, a wife, and a friend. But who is Norma Jean?’

Credit: Elijah Barnes for Chicago Reader

In 2015, I found out I had early stage-one colon cancer. I had to go through a very extensive operation to remove the tumor. When something like that happens at my age, you start thinking about your life and the exit door. All of a sudden, it’s like, “Wow! I’ve been a mother, a wife, and a friend. But who is Norma Jean?”

In 2018, my husband and I went to Buddy Guy’s Legends for the first time because a friend of ours was visiting. It was like a religious experience. There was music that just invoked something in me—the fun, the excitement. I started dancing, and then things progressed. I met a lot of people. The blues community is so loving and warm, and I really felt like they were my family.

My husband played guitar when he was younger. Then you start having children, and your priorities change. Now my daughter is 40, and my son is 36. Paul and I are remembering all these things we’d like to do or wish we could have done. 

Buddy Guy has jam nights on Wednesdays. They usually have the house band or other jammers come up, and you tell them what song you’re singing, and then boom! Last February, I signed up to sing. My husband and I had been practicing Koko Taylor’s “I’m a Woman.”

When I got onstage, I had that deer-in-the-headlights feeling again. I couldn’t get any words out. A blues musician named Nicholas Alexander jumped up, walked me back and forth, said, “Look at all the people. Smile at them.” He was trying to get me back into my body, but I couldn’t do it. 

Then I came back a week later and finally sang. Not that great, but I sang. That night I spoke to Buddy Guy himself. He said, “Once you start, don’t stop.” And I’ve taken him to heart. I continue singing, even if I have a bad night. 

Credit: Elijah Barnes for Chicago Reader

There’s a woman I have to give credit to, too: an 88-year-old blues legend named Mary Lane. She saw my potential and helped build my confidence. Even though we’re close in age, she’s been like a mother. Very loving, very supportive. If I messed up, she’d always highlight the good things I did that night.

This May, I started my band with my husband and some friends we met through Buddy Guy’s. Paul gave me my name. Well, he called me “M$. B’Havin.” I added the “I’m” to distinguish myself from others with similar names. My band members are between the ages of 60 and 69, so I call them the $exagenarian$. I chose it because it sounded nasty. Most people don’t know what a sexagenarian is.

I mostly sing blues or blues-adjacent songs that are relatable to me, like Koko Taylor’s “Voodoo Woman.” Sometimes I change the words to fit me better. My sister-in-law turned me on to a group called Saffire—the Uppity Blues Women. They have a song called “Too Much Butt,” which I like because of my derriere. 

Sometimes when I start something, if I don’t feel I’m good at it, I’ll stop. Or I’ll put something down long enough to forget how much I loved it. That’s what I needed to start my singing career: Buddy reminding me, “Once you start, don’t stop.” I’m 73 years old. If I stop now, that’s it. I don’t think I’m being fatalistic. My career won’t be in decades; it’s moment to moment. I don’t want to lose that fun. 


This was originally published in the 2024 edition of our People Issue, the Reader’s annual special of first-person stories, as told by your neighbors, classmates, and the weirdo at the end of the bar.


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The People Issue – Chicago Reader

Sometime the summer before last, the Reader team gathered in person for an all-staff event organized to review our guiding policies and mission statement, take staff photos, and welcome new team members. Among longtime staffers who hadn’t seen each other since the start of the pandemic, there was a palpable mix of awkward excitement about reconnecting face-to-face, along with the equally awkward giddiness of finally meeting new colleagues we’d only known through their work or brief Zoom appearances.

It was a warm, lovely day, and I was grateful for the chance to connect one-on-one with the editorial team for the first time as a new managing editor. Yet, admittedly, what stayed with me most—and became a recurring topic in side conversations—was my trip to the event, spent in the backseat of a rideshare driven by a candidate for the Metropolitan Water Reclamation District commissioner.

“You’re just the person I wanted to see!” they exclaimed after our polite introductions revealed who we were to each other. The feeling was mutual. I’d always wanted to meet a political candidate in a casual setting, hoping it might reveal a less media-attentive side of their personality.

Continue reading the People Issue 2024 introduction here >>



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Firebrand prepares to make a mark again

In the daze of the election results last Wednesday morning, I got a Facebook message from Harmony France telling me that the company she cofounded back in 2016, Firebrand Theatre, is planning a comeback. I needed good news, and that announcement was one little ray of light in an otherwise terrible day.

France and Danni Smith cofounded Firebrand, a company dedicated to producing musical theater with a feminist perspective, before the 2016 election. They produced several shows over the next few years, kicking it off with 2017’s Lizzie, a rock musical by Steven Cheslik-DeMeyer, Alan Stevens Hewitt, and Tim Maner about Lizzie Borden. Their short production history also included a stellar 2018 revival of Tony Kushner and Jeanine Tesori’s Caroline, or Change (produced in partnership with TimeLine Theatre), a revival of Dolly Partonʼs 9 to 5 (also in 2018); and Michael John LaChiusa’s Queen of the Mist in 2019, starring Chicago legend Barbara Robertson as Anna Edson Taylor, the first person to survive a trip in a barrel over Niagara Falls.

Firebrand’s last show before the 2020 pandemic shutdown was 2019’s Always . . . Patsy Cline, in which France and Christina Hall traded off performing as the title character and as superfan Louise Seger.

At the time of the shutdown, France was getting ready to open in Grey Gardens at Theo Ubique (now just Theo). When it became clear there would be nothing on Chicago stages for a while, she decided to leave town.

“I’m very instinctual,” France tells me in our Zoom conversation. “That’s where this whole thing is coming from. And my instincts were to get closer to my mom. She was in Virginia. We didn’t know what was going to happen. I think people forget that. There was no vaccine. I didn’t know if state borders were going to close.”

While in Virginia during the shutdown, France says, “There’s just the logistics of running a company that don’t go away. [Smith had stepped away from Firebrand prior to the shutdown.] I didn’t want to do online programming. I didn’t want to do any of that. I really was kind of feeling the temperature of the situation. It felt like a time of rest. It felt like a time of reset. There were a lot of conversations that happened during that time. There was a lot of unrest. There was a lot of revolution within the theatrical community.”

The shutdown was also a personal reckoning for France, who tells me, “Part of where I was when Firebrand went on hiatus was white-knuckling it, frankly.” The stress of running a nonprofit theater, particularly one dedicated to operating under the higher costs of Equity contracts, was taking a toll. During the past few years, France earned a master’s in social justice from the California Institute of Integral Studies. “My exact degree was women, gender, spirituality, and social justice,” she notes with a laugh. 

The impetus for forming the company in the first place, as France told Reader contributor Zac Thompson in 2016, was in part the sexist body-shaming she’d encountered as someone who is “curvy” by conventional musical theater standards. France and Smith were interested in bringing more diversity in casting to the musical theater scene in the city, as well as “employing and empowering women by expanding opportunities on and off the stage.” 

As she tells me in our conversation, in going back and revisiting podcasts and other interviews she and Smith did at the time Firebrand formed, France realized, “We wanted it to be obsolete at a certain point. The whole point was, ‘We wanna show up. We wanna make change, and then we hopefully want people to take that example and get to the point where we’re not needed.ʼ”

But waking up to the grim news Wednesday was the impetus France needed to restart Firebrand.

“I woke up, and I said, ‘Hell no. Firebrand is coming back.’ Because that same need that started it to begin with, we still have it.”

In many ways, Firebrand will be restarting as if they’re a brand-new company. France mentions that they lost their nonprofit status for a while during the hiatus. (It has since been reinstated.) Before the shutdown, they had been in talks with Victory Gardens Theater to become a resident company before that organization apparently imploded. “The people that used to be involved in Firebrand are scattered to the winds,” she notes. 

One thing that France made clear from the inception with Firebrand was that it wasn’t going to be solely about producing work created by women. “You cannot tick every box. The [musical theater] canon doesn’t lend itself to that,” she says. She also notes that commercial viability is part of the balancing act as well. 

Firebrand is coming back at a time when the musical theater landscape in Chicago has shifted. BoHo Theatre, which had always included musicals in its mix, closed for good in 2023 after their genderqueer production of Jonathan Larson’s tick, tick . . . BOOM!. Porchlight Theatre, like a lot of other companies, has scaled down the number of productions in their recent seasons, and Mercury Theater Chicago hasn’t announced a new mainstage production as of yet (though several seasonal shows are coming up in the Venus Cabaret space).

But France is determined to both resurrect Firebrand and to do so in a way that won’t endanger her own well-being. “We started with a $600 check, and we have not, to this day, received one of those big grants. Never. It’s all been grassroots.” She adds, “I would say this is the very messy stage,” which involves “dreaming and scheming and writing every single thing that’s coming into my brain down on paper.” She emphasizes, “It’s important we set up the infrastructure in a certain way. Running it made me sick last time. And I can’t do that.”

It’s early days, but France says that anyone who is interested in coming aboard to help Firebrand relight the flame can reach her at [email protected]. “There are specific needs, and we’ll be putting a list of that together.” She adds, “I’m not afraid to be transparent this time. Last time, I wanted it to look like it was this company that had all these resources and all these things, and really it was like a mad woman behind the curtain with her laptop.”

Now might be the perfect time for the mad women to get together and make their voices heard.

Triptych of headshots of three men. A Black man in a black leather jacket is on the left. In the middle is a Black man in a brown suit jacket, wearing glasses. Both Black men have salt-and-pepper beards and mustaches. A clean-shaven white man with short dark hair, wearing a dark suit jacket, white shirt, and burgundy tie, is on the right.
From L: William Gill, Joel Hall, and Joseph Pindelski Credit: Courtesy Joel Hall Dancers/Rachel Neville Studios/Tyler Core

Joel Hall Dancers and Center name new leadership team

Late last month, Joel Hall Dancers and Center announced that William Gill and Joseph Pindelski would be taking over as artistic director and executive director, respectively, for the 50-year-old company. It wasn’t a completely surprising announcement; both men had been serving in those positions in an interim capacity for the past year. 

Gill, whose career began at Joel Hall, has taught dance for over 30 years and performed with the acclaimed modern and contemporary Dallas Black Dance Theatre for nine seasons. Among many other credits, he’s also the resident choreographer for visual artist Nick Cave, collaborating with Cave on his exhibit “Heard,” which played in New York’s Grand Central Station as well as in Australia and Hong Kong.

Pindelski first joined Joel Hall in 2021 as managing director. His previous experience includes stints with Pivot Arts, the Den Theatre, and Goodman Theatre locally as well as the American Pops Orchestra in Washington, D.C., and with the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Founder Joel Hall said in the press announcement, “I feel that my company and my legacy are in the hands of a strong team, and my ‘home’ is secure.” Founded to “showcase and celebrate the artistry of Black and Brown LGBTQIA+ performers,” Joel Hall Dancers has also long been a cornerstone of dance training in the city, particularly in the jazz dance tradition. The company is a founding member of the Chicago Black Dance Legacy Project. 

The company also recently opened its new home studio at 4511 N. Clark, in partnership with Black Ensemble Theater.


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The O’My’s celebrate their new album with a homegrown all-star lineup at Metro

The O’My’s Credit: Daniel Dukane

Nick Hennessey and Maceo Vidal-Haymes—best known as the core duo behind genre-bending outfit the O’My’s—are hyperactive in Chicago’s music scene, collaborating with like-minded folks and pushing their sound with each and every project they release. Their brand-new fourth full-length, Trust the Stars, walks a thin line between funkiness and grittiness while serving up a fresh take on rock ’n’ soul psychedelia. “Nothing Much,” which features Chicago singer Jamila Woods, is breezy, whispery soul, while “Skipping Stars,” featuring rapper Pink Siifu, is space-rock–kissed funk.

The O’My’s are celebrating Trust the Stars with a record-release show at Metro, and they’ve curated a vibe-stuffed lineup for the occasion, including gifted singer-songwriter Shawnee Dez (also a Reader staffer who hosts the biweekly culture podcast The Sit Down). Frsh Waters is a hungry, charismatic west-side-repping rapper known for his work in Pivot Gang. Last month he had a great feature on the collective’s latest single, “Who at the Door?,” and joined Pivot Gang front man Saba for an exciting performance marking the tenth anniversary of Saba’s solo album Comfort Zone. Rounding out the bill is improvisational, experimental artist Sparklmami, whose multicultural blend of neosoul, jazz, and pop makes for stimulating performances. This eclectic night promises to remind us of just how blessed we are that so many talented artists call Chicago home. It really must be something in the water.

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The O’My’s Shawnee Dez, Frsh Waters, Sparklmami, and DJ Coco Nico open. Wed 11/27, 8 PM, Metro, 3730 N. Clark, $25, $20 in advance, 18+


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