9TH ANNUAL NAPOMO 30/30/30 :: DAY 30 :: CONSTANTINE JONES on DIAMANDA GALÁS
The Funeral Is Crowded
“You must be certain of the Devil cause he knows your name.
You must be certain of the Devil cause he’s counting on your shame.
You must be certain of the Devil cause he’s master of the game.
You must be certain of the Devil right now.”
Two things happened within a year of my moving from Tennessee to New York City — my Yiayia (my mother’s mother) passed away from dementia-related complications & I received an HIV+ diagnosis.
I felt both stripped of the last direct connection to my Greek culture & at the same time as if I’d inherited an entire new ancestry of folks whose lives had been fundamentally altered by (or lost because of) HIV/AIDS. This cutting away, this gathering together. The weight of the past suddenly measurable in my palm. As if she knew I needed her, it was at this moment that I found Diamanda Galás.
It might be odd, for those who know Galás’ work only marginally, to see me channel her here during Poetry Month. Some might know her only vaguely as an AIDS activist, while others may rope her work under the nebulous & reductive “avant-garde” umbrella. But poetry is so central to her practice in so many ways — be it her own writing (“You Must Be Certain of the Devil,” “Orders from the Dead”), the pastiche of archival/found material used for performance pieces (Plague Mass, Defixiones: Will & Testament, Vena Cava), or the various non-Anglophone writers whose work she incorporates into original compositions (Paul Celan, Gérard de Nerval, César Vallejo, Dido Sotiriou etc.) — that it feels a disservice to discuss her work in terms of one thing vs. another.
Much has already been written about Galás that need not be repeated here but briefly: her astounding vocal range/control, the visceral experience of her live performances, the “politically-charged” subject matter of her projects (a phrase I put here in quotes because I find it absurd to disguise issues of fundamental communal decency, like comprehensive care for people living with HIV/AIDS or the willful systemic neglect of refugees and other homeless/displaced peoples as “too political,” yet here we are) etc. There are those who call her work frightening, aggressive, abrasive, disturbing. I would agree with them completely, but also propose that such art is vital & necessary in deepening our empathy for others whose suffering may or may not match our own. Let me offer that maybe not all art is meant to be “liked” or “enjoyed” in the ways we expect of those words. “Entertainment” is not the only function. Art that disturbs can also offer comfort, but then again dis-comfort in itself is perhaps the more valuable effect.
“My voice was given to me as a tool of inspiration to my friends & an instrument of torture & destruction to my enemies.” — Diamanda Galás, 1988
Galás is one of those unique forces, as much an archivist of pain as a re-interpreter of it. Across nearly 20 studio recordings (the bulk of which are recorded live) she digs deep into the Blues tradition for her inspiration— songs from the American South as well as various regions of Greece. Re-telling is at the heart of these traditions. Versions & versions of the same stories, but unique in each iteration. There is a genuine re-vision at work here — in bringing one’s own particulars to a story so old that authorship becomes not only questionable but irrelevant. I can point, for example, to Galás’ 2017 version of the Appalachian standard, “O Death,” as the version that resonates with me most (the song is at least 100 years old & Galás alone has recorded it across 3 separate records). The song has also been recorded by various artists under the name “Conversations With Death.” A little on the nose, but that’s exactly the story: the speaker bargaining, fruitlessly, for another day. “Nothing satisfies me but your soul,” Death replies at the close. What use do I have for earthly riches or gold. What use do any of us.
“O Death, won’t you spare me over ’til another year?”
In Galás’ throat, “O Death” combines Appalachian Gospel with language-less Greek mourning. Suddenly, the story is complicated. Is made more complex. A fresh look at an old wound. My kinship with this particular version, this specific interpretation of a story brings me all the closer to it. This re-visioning is at the heart of the Blues & so many types of folk music besides. This same spirit too, of writing with many voices behind your teeth, has propelled my entire process as a poet for years — I just couldn’t pin it down until I heard it done in sound. No surprise, either, that it took a Greek-American woman to guide me to this aggressive empathy, this ferocious version of concern.
Because, after all, you would never be so angry if you didn’t care so much.
I met Diamanda Galás two years ago, at Performance Space New York. She was so warm when I approached her, practically shaking. She took my right hand in her left — her tattooed knuckles WE ARE ALL HIV+ clutching my own. What we shared I keep to myself here out of respect.
All of my work is a hand outstretched towards empathy. My own conversation with Death — a dialogue I wouldn’t have been equipped to initiate without Galás’ work as a beacon. In writing this profile I’m realizing just how necessary it was for me to embrace the traditions passed down to me. To meet what was there already, waiting for me (or someone like me) to stumble by. How warm, to re-join an existing body. To receive from it & offer back to it in return. This much, I know, my Yiayia might’ve understood — if only I’d gotten to tell her. Because the thing about illness is: it doesn’t care who you are. Death could drop by any time, like the oldest of friends.
Constantine Jones is a Greek-American thingmaker raised in Tennessee & living in Brooklyn. They are a member of The Visual AIDS Artist+ Registry & teach creative writing at the City College of New York. They also volunteer at the LGBT Center Archives, where they research Queer Greek-American histories as they intersect with HIV. Their work has been performed or exhibited at various venues across the city & their debut hybrid haunted house book, In Still Rooms, is out now via The Operating System.
