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Afrofuturism combines science fiction and fantasy to reexamine how the future is currently imagined, and to reconstruct futures thinking with a deeper insight into the black experience, especially as slavery forced Africans to confront an alien world surrounded by colonial technologies.¹ Afrofuturism is born out of cruelty, and that cruelty of the white imagination was a necessary condition out of which the African diaspora had to reimagine its future.

Source: https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/14791420.2018.1435078?casa_token=YjWMlGlLPYcAAAAA%3Awkt9-22lHFlgRlJDH-rZmdBxFLbm6UK4uEAIdNOaYsv5aBJnhZehUc5Ek-nHgKR3OBvR0eJJJWIj&

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^ Afrofuturism 2.0 - the rise of astro blackness

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^ Afrofuturism 2.0 - the rise of astro blackness

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This picture highlights the use of afrofuturism connoting to a place of home by pulling on traditional african roots.

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The Fly (1986) ⭐ 7.6 | Drama, Horror, Sci-Fi

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The term Afrofuturism, coined in 1993, seeks to reclaim black identity through art, culture, and political resistance. It is an intersectional lens through which to view possible futures or alternate realities, though it is rooted in chronological fluidity.

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Conventional wisdom holds that science fiction was written almost exclusively by men until the advent of feminism in the 1960s and '70s. But when Lisa Yaszek, who teaches science fiction studies at Georgia Tech, went digging through old magazines, she discovered a very different story.

"I was so surprised to see how many women there were in science fiction before women really came into the genre in the 1970s with feminist science fiction," Yaszek says in Episode 346 of the Geek's Guide to the Galaxy podcast. "I kept uncovering these anthologies with all of these women who were clearly well-known and celebrated in their day, and who I had never heard of."

In fact, women writers were relatively common throughout the pulp era, and the proportion of women readers was even higher. "At least 15 percent of the science fiction community were women-producers-and reading polls suggest that 40 to 50 percent of the readers were women," Yaszek says. "So there were always a lot of women in the genre."

Some people also believe the small number of women who did write science fiction were forced to assume male pseudonyms in order to get published, but Yaszek says that's mostly a myth. Pseudonyms were common in the pulp era for a variety of reasons, and men were just as likely to adopt female pen names as women were to adopt male ones.

"There are a few really well-known cases of women writing under male pseudonyms, and those two or three cases have somehow come to stand in for all the women in science fiction," she says. "But when I went to look at this, most women didn't publish under male pseudonyms."

So why do we have such a distorted view of history? Yaszek says that the first science fiction anthologies were published during a backlash against first-wave feminism, and that male editors such as John W. Campbell and Groff Conklin specifically excluded women from their lineups.

"For whatever reasons, they had it in their heads that women couldn't write," she says, "and when they sat down to make the first anthologies-the genre was finally old enough to tell its own history-they really consciously dropped women out of that history."

Listen to the complete interview with Lisa Yaszek in Episode 346 of Geek's Guide to the Galaxy (above). And check out some highlights from the discussion below.
Lisa Yaszek on galactic suburbia:
"'Galactic suburbia' is a phrase that was coined by feminist science fiction author Joanna Russ, and it was a way to talk about stories that did a really great job of imagining wild new scientific and technological futures, but then completely failed to figure out how new sciences and technologies might change society. So you'll have these futures where we've colonized the universe and we have all kinds of new elements and superstructures, but everyone still lives in heterosexual families with 2.3 children in suburbs that look a lot like 1950s suburbs, and sex and gender relations haven't changed. ... And Russ was like, that's so bizarre, because every time science and technology changes, society changes."
Lisa Yaszek on the Library of America:
"The Library of America is a nonprofit organization that is designed to preserve and celebrate America's literary heritage. The way I often explain it to people is, the books that you read in your English lit classes in high school and college are pretty much determined by the Library of America. So absolutely, if they say it's literature, then we all accept that it's literature. ... One of the things they've wanted to do is to widen their mandate, and to think about popular variations of literature, and how it is that detective fiction and science fiction and fantasy and weird fiction are all part of the American literary tradition. So they had hired on three science fiction editors, and I got to come on as one of those, and that's been really exciting."
Lisa Yaszek on John W. Campbell and Judith Merril:
"[Campbell] was going on and on about how women can't write science fiction, and [Merril] said, 'Well, I bet I could write a science fiction story you'd buy,' and he said, 'I don't think that's going to happen,' and she said, 'I bet I could write a story you'll buy, and you'll beg me for more.' ... So she wrote ['That Only a Mother'], and Campbell loved the story. He bought it from her, and he was like, 'Oh my gosh. You were right, I was wrong. This is an amazing story. I want more from you.' So she sent him her next story, which was a space colonization story-good standard science fiction fare-and he rejected it because he said, 'There are no mothers in it. I don't really want this from you. You should be writing more about mothers.'"
Lisa Yaszek on C.L. Moore and Joanna Russ:
"C.L. Moore says she always used to write her female characters to look like what she wished she looked like, so Jirel is a thousand feet tall, and has perfectly curled, flowing red hair, and she's young, and she's strong, and she's cool-she's actually kind of stubborn and stupid too, which is charming in its own way. And [Joanna Russ'] Alyx is so clearly a 1970s feminist response to that earlier heroine, because she's nothing like Jirel, ultimately. She's middle-aged, she's getting thick through the middle, she's not really thrilled about how she looks but she really likes her life. She has a husband. ... And I love the idea that a dumpy middle-aged woman can be a hero too, and that we don't all have to be beautiful supermodels in brass brassieres or anything like that."

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The History of Women in Sci-Fi Isn't What You Think

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Conventional wisdom holds that science fiction was written almost exclusively by men until the advent of feminism in the 1960s and '70s. But when Lisa Yaszek, who teaches science fiction studies at Georgia Tech, went digging through old magazines, she discovered a very different story.

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Science fiction (sometimes shortened to sci-fi or SF) is a genre of speculative fiction that typically deals with imaginative and futuristic concepts such as advanced science and technology, space exploration, time travel, parallel universes, and extraterrestrial life. It has been called the "literature of ideas", and often explores the potential consequences of scientific, social, and technological innovations.

Science fiction, whose roots go back to ancient times, is related to fantasy, horror, and superhero fiction, and contains many subgenres. However its exact definition has long been disputed among authors, critics, and scholars.

Science fiction literature, film, television, and other media have become popular and influential over much of the world. Besides providing entertainment, it can also criticize present-day society, and is often said to inspire a "sense of wonder".

Science fiction writers often seek out new scientific and technical developments in order to prognosticate freely the techno-social changes that will shock the readers’ sense of cultural propriety and expand their consciousness. This approach was central to the work of H.G. Wells, a founder of the genre and likely its greatest writer. Wells was an ardent student of the 19th-century British scientist T.H. Huxley, whose vociferous championing of Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution earned him the epithet “Darwin’s Bulldog.” Wells’s literary career gives ample evidence of science fiction’s latent radicalism, its affinity for aggressive satire and utopian political agendas, as well as its dire predictions of technological destruction.

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- Temporal settings in the future, or in alternative histories.
- Spatial settings or scenes in outer space, on other worlds, in subterranean earth, or in parallel universes.
- Aspects of biology in fiction such as aliens, mutants, and enhanced humans.
- Predicted or speculative technology such as brain-computer interface, bio-engineering, superintelligent computers, robots, and ray guns and other advanced weapons.
- Undiscovered scientific possibilities such as teleportation, time travel, and faster-than-light travel or communication.
- New and different political and social systems and situations, including Utopian, dystopian, post-apocalyptic, or post-scarcity.
- Future history and evolution of humans on Earth or on other planets.
- Paranormal abilities such as mind control, telepathy, and telekinesis.

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The History of the Future and Why Science Fiction Matters | Brady Kruse | TEDxMSState

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Why our world needs science fiction: Etienne Augé at TEDxErasmusUniversity

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As an example of a dystopia/anti-utopia.

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The Maze Runner | Official Final Trailer [HD] | 20th Century FOX

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As an example of a utopia.

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The Giver TRAILER 2 (2014) - Brenton Thwaites, Katie Holmes Movie HD

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What Happened to Monday | Official Trailer [HD] | Netflix

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As an example of a dystopia.

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Divergent (2014) Official Trailer - Shailene Woodley

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FAHRENHEIT 451 Official Trailer #2 (2018) Michael B. Jordan, Michael Shannon Sci-Fi Movie HD

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As an example of Afrofuturism.

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Marvel Studios' Black Panther - Official Trailer

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A dystopia is a community or society that is undesirable or frightening.

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1984 - George Orwell

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A utopia is an imagined community or society that possesses highly desirable or nearly perfect qualities for its citizens.

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Anti-utopias function as criticisms of attempts to implement various concepts of utopia.

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Difference between Dystopia and Anti-utopia

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Difference between Dystopia and Anti-utopia

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A dystopia, while in appearance no different than an anti-utopia in the sense that everything is bad, gives the impression that it was originally designed or conceptualized as a utopia. In other words, it is a utopia that has gone wrong. A dream that has become a nightmare. Therefore an anti-utopia is something that has been designed to be bad from the beginning.

Anti-utopia and dystopia may overlap as it may not be very clear if things are bad because they are designed to be that way (hell), or because something went wrong (communism/socialism). Generally, nobody designs something to be as bad as possible (except for God who designed the hell to be a bad place, maybe) and that’s why most of the time we talk about dystopias.

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Women writers involved in the utopian literature movement of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries could be considered the first feminist SF authors. Their texts, emerging during the first-wave feminist movement, often addressed issues of sexism through imagining different worlds that challenged gender expectations. In 1881, Mizora: A Prophecy described a women-only world with technological innovations such as parthenogenesis, videophones, and artificial meat.

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Famous feminist  science fiction authors 

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Famous feminist  science fiction authors 

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Octavia E. Butler - A multiple recipient of both the Hugo and Nebula awards, she became in 1995 the first science-fiction writer to receive a MacArthur Fellowship.
DescriptionUrsula Kroeber Le Guin was an American author best known for her works of speculative fiction, including science fiction works set in her Hainish universe, and the Earthsea fantasy series.

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He for She in Science Fiction: Men on Feminism in the Genre

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Performance Art/Site Specific Choreography Reel

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We're committed to keeping our readers informed.
We've removed our paywall from essential coronavirus news stories. Become a subscriber to support our journalists. Subscribe now.
Just off Columbus Avenue, a self-appointed DJ pulled up to an extra-wide sidewalk and greeted the weekend by blasting salsa from his car stereo. A small crowd gathered to dance at a distance, bringing some safety-rated joy to the neighborhood. It wasn't a packed club or a raucous street party, like the kind that birthed salsa decades ago, but it felt like a sign, an early crocus announcing the rebirth of live entertainment.

The "foreseeable future" is a contradiction in terms, and among the infinity of things nobody knows is when we'll be able to attend a live performance. It's likely to be a long time before several thousand people will pack an auditorium or weave through a lobby at intermission, before actors can grapple onstage again, a makeup artist dabs foundation on cast members' noses, or an opera singer stands in the path of a colleague's barrage of vibrating air. The immense and costly apparatus of culture - theaters, opera houses, and orchestra halls - have become a liability, ill-suited to the COVID-19 age. Instead, productions will have to find less finely tailored venues, like outdoor public spaces and hangarlike halls. Even stars, waiting out the pandemic by the phone and expecting a call from an august institution immediately when things reopen, could be bench-sitting for a season or two.

But there is a cohort of artists and presenters who, long before the great contagion, were already rethinking the physical relationships between performers, audience, and space. They rebelled against the tyranny of the proscenium, placed intimate shows in vast rooms, coaxed audiences to roam, and expanded their palette with electronics - all techniques that could now prove essential. Idled artists and disoriented presenters have begun sketching in a transformed world of live performance adapted to a murky near-future of indeterminate length, an interregnum between lockdown and freedom. They've begun to conjure an art made of new constraints in which the strictures of social distancing become expressive tools. In Stuttgart, Germany, members of shuttered opera and orchestras have launched the most intimate possible concert series, "1:1," in which a solo musician performs for a single audience member in spots around the city, including the nearly vacant airport.

Art forms and their institutions shape each other and fade away together. When opera and orchestral music outgrew aristocratic party rooms, they birthed specialized forms of architecture. Opera houses (in the 18th century) and symphony halls (in the 19th) accommodated larger audiences and beefed-up ensembles, required more resonant instruments and heftier voices, and prompted composers to imagine longer, louder, larger works. Amplification, arenas, and pop music all fed each other's development. Today, the whole intertwined arrangement of form and infrastructure is spectacularly vulnerable. Staff must be paid, and big buildings cost money even when they're dark.

Because nobody knows whether today's rules will still be in force tomorrow, most institutions continue to trot out season schedules that may never come to pass. The Metropolitan Opera is preparing to open its 2020-21 season on September 21 with a gala performance of Verdi's Aida, starring soprano Anna Netrebko, followed on consecutive nights by Les Contes d'Hoffmann and Roberto Devereux. At this point, that schedule looks delusional, and for a slow-moving juggernaut like the Met, the choice is binary: You either turn the lights on or you don't. (And the consequences of another dark season are dire.) This fallow time gives opera houses and symphony halls a rare chance to tend to their facilities. Lincoln Center and the New York Philharmonic had planned to begin renovations on Geffen Hall in 2022; maybe they could scramble and start as soon as construction crews can begin work safely. In the meantime, activity might shift to more versatile venues, without fixed seats or immovable stages, with fewer hallways and technical restrictions - spaces like the Park Avenue Armory or the Shed at Hudson Yards.

If culture is to thrive, even amid deprivation, it will have to nurture new forms of invention in different kinds of space. The theatrical requirements of the next phase - tiny casts, restricted audiences, simple sets, and plenty of space - will be intensified by a scarcity of money. Flexibility is precious. Instead of clinging to long-range plans, then scuttling them one at a time, organizations need productions that can be rustled together more or less on the fly. The mantra of the next few years must be smaller, quicker, cheaper.

Even big institutions are coming to grips with a reality that threatens their existence. "Importing a major international opera production is a heavy financial lift, and the ultimate in advance planning," says Jane Moss, Lincoln Center's artistic director. "We may not be able to do that. But there can be extraordinary creativity in small things." Moss envisions the kind of performance she can scatter across Lincoln Center's campus, with its plazas, lawns, arcades, a park, and venues of various sizes. "Can you do an installation where the audience is moving around to different destinations, like a pilgrimage?" she muses. You can, but success can be dangerous: "The more ingenious and intriguing you get, the more people want to come together to see what you've done." And an unforeseen bottleneck could prove disastrous, even lethal.

Across the country, Cal Performances, based at the University of California, Berkeley, recently unveiled a rich season of chamber and orchestral concerts, world music, and dance that amounts to a mission statement by the new artistic director Jeremy Geffen. That series, too, looks improbable, but has some flexibility built in.

"Our obligation is to be ready for reentry whenever it happens, and you can't be ready unless you plan," Geffen says. "We're running multiple scenarios, some that incorporate social distancing in our concert halls, some that incorporate streaming." Geffen says he is optimistic because everyone, from artists to technical staff, understands the need to improvise. "If I'm optimistic at all, it's because I work on the campus of one of the great universities, where there's traditionally been great resistance to remote instruction. Now, higher education has moved to remote instruction overnight."

The arts are becoming woven into our daily lives in startling ways. Every night at 7, New Yorkers stage an impromptu percussion concert with an orchestra of thousands. Zoom meetings resemble the gridded TV-screen constructions of Nam June Paik. And even without music, we all become dancers in an elaborate urban choreography as soon as we leave our homes. Each of us watches warily as others approach, gauging body language, speed, and trajectory, and we adjust our own movements accordingly. City kids of my generation are rediscovering the peripheral-vision anti-mugging skills we were raised with. Our children, who grew up moving through their world with eyes lowered and ears occupied, unafraid of bumping into strangers, now have to learn situational awareness from scratch."Choreographic issues are part of our lives now," says Annie-B Parson, the founder of Big Dance Theater. "The presence of the body in space is suddenly electrified and important."

In dance, the logistics of spacing people out can be a productive constraint. "I've always loved the six-foot distance. It's really beautiful and elegant," Parson says. That aesthetic worked its way into her choreography for David Byrne's American Utopia, in which she spread dancers out in a wide mesh. Even pre-coronavirus, Parson was already attuned to the poetry of a single body or small object set in vast surroundings. "I had an idea for a piece with a tiny log cabin in the middle of a giant space. Inside was a little fireplace that you could smell from far away, and just a few people would be admitted at a time. Sound came from the balconies." That work never happened, but the idea has lately been tugging at her again.

The key to COVID-ian culture will be to leverage that sort of sensibility and make logistical choices feel like artistic ones. I can think of a dozen powerful experiences from the recent past that might seem suddenly timely. The High Line is closed now, because its history of funneling crowds in both directions along a narrow pathway makes it uniquely unsuited as a public space. But in October 2018, audience members lined up for the quietly moving Mile-Long Opera, marching in quasi-single file and giving politely wide berth to hundreds of individual singers spaced out along its length. The Pulitzer Prize-winning composer David Lang, who wrote the piece, doubts the opera is ready for a revival: "Seeing all those people wearing masks and singing at you could be terrifying," he says. (As it happens, last year, Lang also wrote Protect Yourself From Infection, a prescient choral work based on a government pamphlet published during the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic.)

But guiding an audience safely through a landscape while performers remain still could be fruitful and sublime. That is also the idea behind John Luther Adams's 2009 work Inuksuit, in which 34 percussionists fan out across a hill, a park, or any open space, mingling their thuds and tintinnabulations with the locality's distinctive ambient noise. "Composers are better positioned to save our culture than traditional music is, because if you're designing a new piece and a new experience you can try to make the situation seem as normal as possible," Lang says. The first fallback options - play to an empty house (as a small sub-ensemble of the Berlin Philharmonic has done) or distribute a few hundred listeners around a hall that could seat 2,000 - would only emphasize the melancholy weirdness. That kind of event can have an impact as a ritual of mourning, a dramatization of all we've lost. But it's no way to lose ourselves in some alternate, virus-free world of the imagination.

The Armory's Drill Hall is an immense place ideal for compact shows. A 55,000-square foot expanse with a high vaulted ceiling and a long balcony, it has hosted massive productions and one- or two-person performances to phenomenal effect. In Goldberg, a 2015 production staged by the artist Marina Abramovic, pianist Igor Levit performed Bach's hour-long Goldberg Variations on a piano that glided glacially along a runway into the center of the audience, then completed a single revolution, while the lights gradually dimmed to almost total darkness. At the time, the project felt arch and puzzling; now it seems almost prescient.

"We want to preserve the sensation of intimacy without actual proximity," says the Armory's president and executive producer, Rebecca Robertson. She cautions, though, that what looks like a spare, meditative event often requires days of frantic teamwork and complicated load-in - activities that are impossible now. Producing a COVID-safe evening out means mapping out every step for performers, audiences, and staff, and asking dozens of new previously unconsidered questions. Where do the temperature screeners stand? Can a show be short enough for safety and still leave audiences feeling like they got their money's worth? How do audience members avoid squeezing through a ticket barrier, performers move from dressing room to stage without bumping into anyone, stagehands work in synch without making contact, or acousticians compensate for the scarcity of soft, sound-absorbing bodies in the seats?

The phased reopening might be the moment when the Shed's McCourt Theater, with its puffy parka wrapping and rolling shell, proves its worth. "The building was designed for a future we knew we couldn't predict," says artistic director Alex Poots. Dedicated to commissioning new work from scratch and guided by a philosophy that all genres and arts are created equal, the institution is now trying to put its theoretic nimbleness into practice. Production staff are studying ways to dispose audience members around a large space. Lighting designers are working out a flexible matrix that can be controlled from a laptop. Operations managers are plotting ways to bring audiences into the theater directly from the plaza at Hudson Yards, eliminating the need for escalators, elevators, or choke points. A row of individual portable bathrooms can be set up along one wall. And most important, Poots is recruiting artists who can use the constraints instead of chafing against them.

"I'm finding that they really want to lean into the restrictions and the challenges. When I call and say You're not going to get everything you want, they just laugh out loud and say We can work with anything. We just can't work with nothing. "

To see how some artists might alchemize social distancing into a collective experience, I called the opera director Yuval Sharon (another Macarthur winner). Just before the world locked down, Sharon and his company, the Industry, opened Sweet Land, about the first colonial battles over America's turf. The performances took place outdoors, with the audience migrating through Los Angeles State Historic Park. "Negotiating the pop-up venues ... can get a little tricky," wrote the critic Mark Swed in the Los Angeles Times. "There are steps to trip on in the dark. It is easy to scrape yourself on raw lumber. There are no amenities, no opera house coddling. No wine bar, chocolate, coffee, or much of anything."

The production had to shut down in March (though the cast returned for one last run-through so they could preserve it on video) and it's too logistically complex for the current moment, but the approach might endure. "I'm interested in giving audiences an enormous sense of freedom," Sharon says. "That can be the freedom to answer the question of What does this mean? for themselves, and it can also mean physical freedom. Many of the projects we've done have no set path for the audience to go. But I also love the notion of putting tape on the floor and using distance to create unexpected patterns." Sharon has been mulling the idea of an L.A. production of The Force of Things: An Opera for Objects by Ashley Fure, which Lincoln Cente's Mostly Mozart presented last summer at the Gelsey Kirkland Arts Center in Brooklyn. The audience files into a room lined with subwoofers and hanging paper columns; the ultra-low hum sets the paper vibrating, translating an inaudible rumble into a woodsy rustling. The second part takes place in a larger gallery, with players spaced far apart, surrounding the audience.

"This might be the moment that piece has been waiting for," Sharon says. "The depth of the sonic experience, the ability to hear live music in a reverberant space, even when it's done by an intimate group of players - that could be cathartic."

None of the artists and presenters I spoke to were blithely optimistic; none saw calamity as a career opportunity. All recognized that even as some parts of society flail back to life, the interlinked ecosystems of theater, opera, dance, and music will struggle far longer. Colleagues will remain idle, audiences will be afraid, institutions will stumble, or even disappear. A global performance circuit that depends on frequent flying and lavish support will necessarily turn inward, scale down, and go local, a situation that could produce a whole new set of revelations.

"If we can't import talent, which is what our whole industry thrives on, we lose a lot of profound experiences," says the MacArthur-winning wizard of the flute, Claire Chase. "But look at what we gain. An institution that has never paid much attention to new work or local artists all of a sudden has to pay attention to them. Until now, the way to get programmed at a major New York institution was to do a premiere in Australia or Europe and then have it brought back. That might change." Chase follows with an e-mailed list of "folks who will show the big houses the way," including two Brooklyn-based organizations, the three-composer collective Kinds of Kings and the Iranian Female Composers Association.

For now, these enthusiasms and ideas bang up against frustrating impediments. Orchestras can't play in tune or in time if they're spaced at six feet intervals. Performers need each other's physical presence. The choreographer Kyle Abraham (yet one more MacArthur laureate) has used dance to treat gritty topics: police brutality, dementia, the prison system. But COVID-19 has thrown him off balance, and when I reached him, he was feeling lonely and rattled in a Los Angeles Airbnb, thinking about all the work he cannot do. "I can create a lot of sketches by myself, but at some point, I need to put some fat and muscle onto them, and I'm influenced by the dancers I collaborate with. They learn the dance from my body, and I need to see theirs."

The urgent need we all feel now will eventually become material. Isolation makes it impossible to take a simple gesture for granted, and one day it will intensify the drama of two dancers coming close enough to graze each other's skin. "People will be more sensitive to touch," Abraham says. "Human contact is going to play to the senses in a visceral way."

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What Socially Distanced Live Performance Might Look Like

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We're committed to keeping our readers informed. We've removed our paywall from essential coronavirus news stories. Become a subscriber to support our journalists. Subscribe now . Just off Columbus Avenue, a self-appointed DJ pulled up to an extra-wide sidewalk and greeted the weekend by blasting salsa from his car stereo.

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— Transitions inspired by tik tok
— Playing with mirrors
— Transitions to different devices on video (inception kinda thing)

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Stuff to think about
— locations
— collective elements in our videos
— props

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High Visibility?
Dystopian Devil costumes?

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https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSaQynxR/

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSaQf5KM/

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSaQu3d5/

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSaQPE3m/

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSaQ246e/

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A Futuristic Short Film : "True Skin"  by - N10N | TheCGBros