Interview #143 — Vidya Rajan

by Cher Tan

Vidya Rajan is a writer for TV and theatre, a comedian and performer, an occasional good time, and a reluctant brand experience.

Vidya speaks to Cher Tan about the necessity of nurturing care in the arts, the ongoing push/pull between IRL and URL, and what it means to be an artist within capitalism.

When did you decide that you were funny? And when did you decide that audiences were going to have to take a punt on that?

I’m not sure that it was a decision—more a slow realisation. People at uni would point and laugh at me (okay, my work) and say “you’re funny!!” I suppose it sank in at some point. But it’s clearer looking back at stories I wrote when I was very young and how obsessed I was with sitcoms (the highest form of art™), or really how everyone in my family thinks my cousin is the charming, funny one and that I’m the weird, quiet one… well, that’s the surest sign you’re actually secretly hilarious.

In terms of audiences taking a punt on it—I’ve never thought of it that way. Given that I’ve always worked in a few forms, I’ve never specifically defined myself as a comedian as such, until more recently for artist bios. It’s also perhaps what’s underneath being funny that’s always been more interesting to me. It’s a way of looking at the world. Humour and playfulness are just some ways that worldview has manifested in me, like a demon’s curse.

But also, I didn’t even know that you could be a “comedian” for a long time; I wanted to write novels or make theatre. I guess it’s relevant then that comedy can be a more democratic space to access as a performer, plus it’s more immediate with its feedback. If you don’t have many other avenues, it’s a good way to test your voice, and to feel a connection. I started performing to audiences in Perth, and certainly those were the conditions there—being, you know, Perth.

Yeah, it definitely seems that people will listen to you, or take you more seriously when you’re funny. What do you think performing on stage allows you to say or do creatively that you aren’t able to execute as well otherwise?

People often talk about comedy as a “Trojan horse”; a way to sneak in difficult topics, because humour is disarming. It’s more than that, though. Humour forces connection, in that it’s very hard to fake laughter, and once you start laughing you’ve acknowledged we’re all in this room together and are affecting each other. This is also what I love about theatre or live performance more generally. The honesty of breathing, dysfunctional bodies (though with Covid this sounds really bad).

As much as I’ve been working increasingly in television and truly fucking love it, I don’t think I would ever want to stop making live performance. It’s a place where the danger of the present moment is inescapable, and I was a very sheltered child so I need this hit. But I also love that it’s a place where you can’t deny that other people are thinking, breathing, reacting; it’s like a community in miniature. Of course, this all comes with the caveat of who’s in the room in the first place—our stages are not totally friendly to those on the margins. Who’s making the work? Who’s performing? Who’s watching, or even able to? These questions don’t always have the best answers.

You also write: poetry, plays, and for the screen. What do you think are the unifying themes across these mediums for you?

The lack of patience to write a book haha.

I’m not sure to be honest. I love working in different forms and it’s how my brain and curiosity has always worked. And a lot of those forms rely on there being an audience—whether that’s a digital performance game or something more traditional like a TV script.

I made fun of this in a speech I did for Emerging Writers Festival last year—I said that theatre makers and screenwriters are the gremlins of the writing world; they’re the people who can’t be alone with themselves. I was being facetious, but maybe there is some truth to that in a weird way. Maybe when the day comes that sees me writing a long piece of prose, I’ll know I’m finally a balanced, wonderful, self-contained person.

In terms of themes, ummm… it’s evolving, and some themes or questions are more appropriate for different mediums. But here are some things I currently like to imagine, think and write about: deeply flawed people (the engine of all comedy) especially if they are POC (I think this is a more powerful way to attack things like the issue of representation and diversity); social hypocrisy; capitalism (it’s 2020 hello); cyborgs; doppelgangers; black holes; what it means to live a good life; transcendence (a hangover from a religious upbringing); and of course, always, the internet.

Humour forces connection, in that it’s very hard to fake laughter, and once you start laughing you’ve acknowledged we’re all in this room together and are affecting each other.

As artists who live in the world right now, it’s inevitable that our work has to sometimes respond to “the market”, or to put it less cynically, react to or become a product of capitalism. How do you navigate this in the work that you do?

Damn, these questions are searing! Hmmm. I guess this is definitely something I “react to” a lot in my work. I mean I went to a posh law school, where people said things like “value-add my resume” with a straight face, so it had to seep in somewhere.

But I also really feel that my preoccupation with it has “upscaled” recently. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I’ve entered what you could call more conventionally successful places in the arts over the last while. The arts sector can be a sick place for many reasons, but one of the saddest things to me is the capitalistic pressures artists internalise to constantly package, compare and reduce ourselves. It’s sadder to me than seeing lawyers do this, because at its best—and I think a reason why so many of us join the arts—is its offer of connection and community. I’ve often navigated this by making work about it, sure. But I’m also increasingly trying to navigate it by cleaving to my ideals, as silly as they may seem sometimes.

This means I care about safe working rooms, and not working with assholes. I don’t want to work with people who can’t take care of their teams, and I try to bring that into play whenever I lead a team as well. Of course, it’s a process and no one’s perfect. But I want to care more about the work and the people I make it with than my individualistic brand. So even though I joke a lot about the brand stuff and really love playing up the narcissism of that world, particularly in my comedy or comedic persona online, that’s more a way for me to sit with these thoughts and maybe prompt people to see things—it’s never what I want to be or am (I hope).

How did you end up “pivoting” from law to the arts? Was there some kind of defining moment?

It was both a lot of little things and perhaps one big thing. One was realising that I wasn’t yet at the point of my legal career where I could go part-time easily or cut down on hours, in a way where I could really compromise writing and making work. There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s a requirement for most of us but the lucky few—but I’d also spent my early twenties pushing my desires to the side in order to study, work and meet personal obligations. It felt like time was running out, like I needed to prioritise what I love before I’d permanently shat the craft of anything good from my body.

But my mother also got very seriously ill around this time, and I had a really cliché Hollywood moment, padding about the dark corridors of an ICU in Perth thinking about... life being really fleeting, and how it’s basically a struggle for most people regardless of the career you choose (hashtag enlightenment!), so you may as well struggle at something you enjoy if you can, even if it’s frightening. Fun fact: La La Land was loosely based on me. But they cut out the bits where I shove lasagna into my mouth in a hospital canteen and replaced it with… jazz? Weird choice.

Speaking of a moment, it feels weird to not comment on this particular moment, of which it is affecting the livelihoods of many artists, particularly those like you who work closely with others to produce live shows. But you’ve obviously also tried adapting to the situation, resulting in your viral “Covid Introverts” sketch, and a live stream of We Are Nemeses. What does it feel like not being able to feed off the energy of a room, or the immediate response of an audience? I’m interested to hear how it’s changed the way(s) you approach your work.

That’s kind of you to call it adaptation! Both those performances came about because I was in quarantine for two weeks and had some pent-up energy. I’m fine not having an immediate response; I write for TV as well and that’s pretty standard. What’s more interesting to me is to think about an audience in relation to what the work is saying—the idea or vibe comes first, and then I think: Who is it really for? How do you want them to interact with it or feel? And, given that, what form should it take?

In terms of changing my work, it’s maybe clarified some things I was already interested in: like I’m already super into anything digital, so it’s made me want to make art that plays with digital participation more. Let’s see! Who knows anything for sure at the moment?

But I think more importantly, like many people, it’s made me evaluate where my time goes, and what a healthier working life looks like. I feel that maybe I’ll be able to pace out my performance and writing work more now in a beautiful, healthy and envy-inducing way, and that this statement won’t come back to haunt me in three months as I screech into the night over some major project.

The arts sector can be a sick place for many reasons, but one of the saddest things to me is the capitalistic pressures artists internalise to constantly package, compare and reduce ourselves.

You said above that “[...] our stages are not totally friendly to those out on the margins”. I’m curious if you think livestreaming or performing your work through digital mediums has shifted this? At the moment I’m really enjoying attending overseas talks and panels I otherwise would not have access to, and many have also expressed similar views. Do you find yourself performing to more people, or perhaps audiences who may not have known of you before?

Yeah, this is interesting! I was raised by MSN Messenger, so I think there’s a part of me that’s always going to feel like the internet is home and that it will always be my secret audience (who else can understand my broken meme brain!!), even if they’re new to me. And I also agree that this medium can open up access to artists and communities that were previously unreachable, totally. Having said that, I also want to say that it’s good to be careful about how we speak about digital hope. And not just because I read a really interesting book about it.

Thinking about how industries usually operate IRL: the work of attending events, fronting networking spaces, meeting up for endless coffees in the hope that someone will platform you in a “proper” space—these are things that largely require an able body and mind, often a ton of spare time or money, and/or a lack of family or other obligations. I think there’s always this hope that the internet will be truly decentralising, but I’m not sure if this is true.

We are little cucks to four big websites. Sure, there are times that, on platforms like Twitter and Tumblr, the digital has fulfilled its promise of amplifying voices you couldn’t otherwise encounter before, but it’s equally capable of not doing so. Yes, I’ve definitely reached new audiences this pandemic with my, um, “content”, but why is that? It’s either because people in conventional IRL spaces have gone, “let’s reach out to people who we wouldn’t usually and give them some reach” (like me), or it’s because I can structure my time more freely now and make more things I like—which just speaks to the pressures of work I was talking about experiencing before. Social forces do this, not the digital. I know lots of amazing artists from these so-called “margins” who have been making great digital work forever, but who are still invisible. We could have had those people all this time, but maybe it takes a pandemic to go: let’s challenge who we think of as being in “our” circles.

You recently made a graphic titled “What Diversity Conversations in the Australian TV Industry Feel Like”, which points out a deeply entrenched problem that comes with hiring practices within Australian arts and media. Thanks to agitators like yourself, we’re seeing more dialogue in recent years, and what I feel will hopefully lead to lasting structural change. What else have you observed in your time working in the industry, and what else do you think can be done to make sure it’s not just lip service?

That graphic was obviously tongue-in-cheek and drew broad strokes, but I hope that it exposed something real through the comedy, which to me is this: a lack of care is at the heart of most awful industry practices. If you truly care about something, whether it’s racial inequity or making sure your collaborators feel heard, the work of acting on it will not feel like a heavy punch you need to dodge. It feels necessary, and at times even close to a joy.

Not a gross smarmy joy—that’s performative and doesn’t come from the right source—but just the joy of realising you don’t need to be a bloody lonely fortress protecting your product and kowtowing to bad institutional traditions. You can make material differences just through how you approach your team, let alone the content of your art. You can open yourself up to the scary process of being really wrong a lot of the time but feel good knowing that something better will come through that. This is totally a struggle for everyone, including me! I am so wrong a lot and have so much further to go, but not being alone in it is what feels good.

There’s a lightness in realising that it’s possible to reduce the violence you create in the world—even by just a little! I sound like I’m on shrooms, sorry. Look, it’s 5 months into the pandemic and I am pure emotion haha. Anyway, that’s what needs to be better: active care and humility, from which flows good communication and transparency. When I’ve observed something fall short—whether that’s something that’s just a little suss or full blown shittery—it’s usually because of a lack of those qualities. So I guess my answer to what can be done is… undergo a total spiritual change and don’t raise awful children.

Oh, also, here’s a quick fix: let POC artists define their own interests and be led by that! We won’t fuck it all up, I promise! I don’t actually want to spend my time making flowcharts, or only speaking/making work about race (except for when I do). I also just want to write about vampires and ass and pocket universes, you know?

I don’t actually want to spend my time making flowcharts, or only speaking/making work about race (except for when I do). I also just want to write about vampires and ass and pocket universes, you know?

Do you have any advice for emerging theatre-makers, comedians, performers?

In general I think it’s the usual sort of thing: be kind and find good people to work with. Don’t waste time comparing yourself to other people because the industry/world/hype beast who feasts on us all will be doing that for you.

For artists of colour though, I think I do have some hard-learned advice, which is that gatekeepers do not know your world better than you, so don’t let them make you feel small. Often this manifests in “we’ve already got one POC who does that”. That’s bullshit. If we can watch like a hundred TV shows about the angst of some UTI-causing dude musician in Bushwick, then we can hear just as many unique stories from POC on similar seeming topics.

Also, trust your gut. If you feel like you’re getting bad advice about things, or feeling pressure to twist yourself into a new shape to get access, don’t just accept it because “you’re so lucky to be there”. This is really hard to unlearn, as the world positions you to be servile and there are costs for speaking out—frankly, I am still getting there too.

There is so much to learn from people who have been in these industries for ages, no matter their background, and it’s a great thing to do so. I truly love the generosity and talent of so many of the mentors I’ve had, but the point overall remains. Apart from my own experiences with it, I hear about this all the time from colleagues.

Who are you inspired by?

Sort of everyone and everything! That’s very unhelpful, sorry. I often find inspiration in consuming stuff that’s way outside of my field—like I go to art galleries a lot and my housemate who’s a DJ introduced me to this whole world of electronic/dance/club music in the last year so I’m very cool now. I think anything that breaks down your bubble is inspiring.

What are you currently listening to?

Right now I have a documentary on in the background that’s about dragonflies. Apparently they’re really ancient and only live for a very short time. Sounds bad. The last couple of things I listened to were Princess Nokia’s new album and Ryoji Ikeda’s Dataplex—it’s one of my all-time faves, and very good to work to.

What are you currently reading?

I am reading an Agatha Christie Poirot novel. The nights are cold and I need comfort! I am also slowly making my way through The Hindus: An Alternative History by Wendy Doniger. It is a very huge book and was banned in India and has mostly been serving as my laptop stand during zoom calls.

How do you practice self-care?

Hmm, I think it’s important to have something outside of your usual work. I fuck with visual art a lot as like, a consumer, but I also make stuff privately once in a while. I think it’s nice to not monetise every aspect of your creativity and just be pretty average at something sometimes?

As an artist, I also think it’s important to know why you got into stuff in the first place and return to that feeling. Like I make art because I’m in love with the world! Even if the feeling that prompts a piece can sometimes be anger or irritation, those are the types of love and engagement with reality and just fucking being alive. When I can’t connect to that or think I’m getting too burnt out, I try to do some breathing, go for a walk, or toss on a space or nature documentary (oh no I mentioned one above, now you know my mental state at this very moment!!!).

If all else fails, I sometimes think about how the sun will extinguish itself one day—it’s a pretty relaxing thought.

What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?

I don’t bloody know really. It’s changed a lot over time. At the moment, it’s a term that means I can sometimes find genuine connections that are outside of the usual dominant hierarchies, with other people who use that label. It’s maybe increasingly a way of talking about solidarity, and trying to understand what that means in relation to the lands we’re on as migrants.

I think at best, and in time perhaps, it won’t be a reductive term—but one that’s about a complexity that’s both human and exciting. It’s a term that encompasses a changing, giant umbrella of things after all. That’s a bit celebratory even when some of those things are bad sometimes. I like people and ideas that resist simplicity, that aren’t afraid of ambiguity or contradiction—in my art and I suppose, in my politics—it feels more truthful and thus, more free.