by Jas Keimig

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In January 1972, Aretha Franklin took the stage at the New Temple Missionary Baptist Church in Los Angeles.

Backed by Rev. James Cleveland and the Southern California Community Choir, Franklin sang the gamut of gospel hymns and spirituals, moving all in attendance to tears, to awe, to ecstatic cries. The sweaty, tearful, emotional affair was captured on the 1972 live album Amazing Grace and subsequently in the long-delayed concert film of the same name.

During the pandemic, choreographer and dancer dani tirrell watched the documentary, moved by Franklin and gospel music’s raw power.

“She tapped into this one particular song, and I saw something different in her. She was emotional, she was crying, and I was just like, ‘Oh, she’s showing up for herself in this moment,’” tirell said. “Gospel music is a space also where you can move through how you show up and how you tap into it.”

Franklin’s Amazing Grace album inspired tirrell’s latest commissioned work from Seattle Theatre Group (STG), Leviticus or Love and to walk amongst HUMANS (Book I). Pulling from the wide and varied traditions of African diasporic dance and set to Franklin’s take on gospel standards, the piece explores sin, love, and divinity through a queer Black lens. It also features The Congregation, a cadre of dancers tirrell has routinely worked and collaborated with: Abdiel, Rose Amlin, Olivia Anderson, Malik Burnett, Ashayla Byrd, Cipher Goings, Akoiya Harris, Anastasia Johnson, marco farroni leonardo, Majinn, Nia-Amina Minor, David Rue, and Keyes Wiley.

Ahead of Leviticus’ world premiere on April 20 at The Moore Theatre, the Emerald hopped on the phone with dani to discuss the work’s origins, Franklin’s Amazing Grace, and what it means to create out of Black joy rather than Black pain.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

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What’s it been like to choreograph and create in Seattle for the first time since you left for D.C. in 2021?

I’ve been doing it, actually, since I left. It doesn’t even feel like I left, I just live in a different location. I’ve been coming back and forth since I moved. It feels like I’m picking up where I left off.

How did the idea for Leviticus first germinate?

It was during the time we were in lockdown. This piece isn’t in reference to the lockdown — I think a lot of people have created work in reference to us being in the pandemic. But this piece is not a result of that. During the pandemic, I started watching the Aretha Franklin documentary, Amazing Grace, based off of her gospel album. So the impetus for this piece was to really think about gospel music, church, sin, and the way those things build in our life. That’s where the piece started. Watching that documentary, looking at how people react in church, and as a queer Black person on the trans spectrum, how does my relationship to God and church affect who I am today?

ʼCause I was gonna ask, what were some of the main themes that you were interested in exploring with this piece?

Earlier on, the piece started off as this way of talking about sin and talking about how the church has failed many people. As we really started getting into rehearsal in August of 2023, I looked at the people that were in rehearsal and the piece started to take on a different shape. I don’t wanna talk about the pain of church and the pain of people. I really wanted to talk about how particularly Black bodies, queer bodies, trans bodies, different bodies, fat bodies, thin bodies — I wanted to talk about our divinity. It’s different from Black Bois. Black Bois was focused on Black pain and hurt. For this piece, I wanted to focus more on joy, freedom, seeing Black folks and other folks as divine, as beauty. So I wanted to move away from pain — and Black pain sells, unfortunately. That’s not what I wanted to do. I don’t want to make another piece about Black pain so it can sell so people can feel good and guilty at the same time.

What does it kind of feel like to embody Black joy on stage versus Black pain? Is it drawn from different places? What is it like to make a piece around that versus pain?

It’s definitely drawn from different places. I think tapping into joy is just as emotional as tapping into pain, especially when we’re given permission to just be in our joy. A lot of times just people in general — not even just Black folks — we are not given permission to tap into our joy. So when those things come up, it is very emotional. It puts us in a tender space and sometimes it’s harder because we live in a world where joy is not at the forefront of how we exist. I think tapping into pain is easy because we feel that, and we sit in pain more than we sit in joy.

You mentioned you were inspired by Aretha Franklin’s Amazing Grace, the gospel album and the documentary. What drew you to that era of Aretha’s work in particular?

One, it’s Aretha Franklin. As a Detroiter, you know Aretha Franklin, family members have worked with Aretha Franklin. You know her body of work. The album came out way before the documentary, so I was familiar with some of the songs on the album. When I saw the documentary, it took me to another place of just like, “Who is this woman?” Because, for me, when I saw her sing and I was like, there’s something missing. Even though she was singing gospel music and is emotional, in her delivery, for me, I was like, something’s missing. And then she tapped into this one particular song and I saw something different in her. She was emotional, she was crying, and I was just like, “Oh she’s showing up for herself in this moment.” Gospel music is this thing of — you either show up for yourself or you show up because of the people you’re singing it to. Or you show up for God or whatever you believe in. Gospel music is a space also where you can move through how you show up and how you tap into it.

Tell me a little bit about the set design. From some of the preview photos I’ve seen, it looks like everyone’s on like a white spaceship!

I wanted to make it very different from Black Bois. Black Bois was a black box theater. It was all black and I didn’t want people coming in thinking they’re gonna experience the same thing … We’re not even thinking about it as a stage. It’s this place between death and heaven. Some are saying “purgatory,” but I don’t know if that’s the right word. It’s this in-between space where you’re saying goodbye to your earthly body and you’re moving into your divinity. I wanted the white to represent — not even purity because I think a lot of times people think white is pure. But I wanted a space that was clear, that did not absorb light the way that darkness does or a black box does. I wanted light to be very prominent in the piece where Black Bois was on the darker side. I wanted it more minimalist so people could really focus on the bodies dancing.

You’ve worked with so many of these dancers before. What’s it like continuing to work and create with them? Have you developed a shorthand?

They run rehearsals [laughs]. I come up with the initial thought, like “Here’s the thing,” and then the dancers begin to shift and move. I trust them immensely and so that makes it 10 times easier when we trust each other in the space. It’s weird because I know my name is on the work, in a sense, and I try to approach it where it’s all about work, it’s not just mine. And so the dancers, they take on responsibility and care for what we’re producing. That also shows up in how we are with each other outside of the rehearsal space because some of us have been friends for years. I’m the elder of the group, so there’s also a different responsibility that I have. But even in their own individual projects, if we are around, we care and we support and we pour into each other. I think that’s really important for all the work that we do collectively and individually.

What are you hoping audiences will take away from Leviticus?

Everyone’s been asking that question and my answer is, they need to take away that we’re all divine and we’re all worthy to be on this earth. If folks can walk away with understanding their beauty and their humanity, hopefully they can walk away understanding someone else’s beauty and humanity, even if it’s different than theirs. With everything that’s going on in the world right now, we cannot continue to hold on to ourselves in the way that we have been. It’s not serving us at all. And so, in this moment, this piece for me is shedding and being able to embrace and love on each other.

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dani tirrell and The Congregation’s “Leviticus or Love and to walk amongst HUMANS (Book I)” world premiere runs April 20–21 at The Moore Theatre. Find out more information and get tickets on STG’s website.

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📸 Featured Image: dani tirrell’s newly commissioned work, “Leviticus or Love and to walk amongst HUMANS,” is at The Moore Theatre this weekend only. (Photo courtesy of Seattle Theatre Group)

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