tatyanascott

Tatyana Scott

Hi! My name is Tatyana Scott and I am an artist, writer, and comedian who practices in Chicago, IL. I have a BFA from Eastern New Mexico University and a MA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. I’ve shown my art lots of places including in art galleries primarily in New Mexico, Massachusetts and Illinois, the National Liberty Museum in Philadelphia, and in Smithsonian publications.

I work at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago helping art students find jobs. My social practice is devoted to labor rights for people working in creative fields, and my studio work focuses finding joy in the mundane and on civic engagement. I write bi-weekly on my blog and periodically for other publications. You can find me at art fairs and events around Chicago, to keep up with that, follow me on Instagram.

In 2024, I began an ongoing series of paintings titled A Love Letter to My Commute. This series depicts the sense of community encouraged by public transportation in Chicago. It was the catalyst into my examination of civic relationships through infrastructure. The interdisciplinary nature of this project includes mediums such as essays, a zine, and paintings.

Infrastructure is politically threatened, and the general understanding of what infrastructure is makes it difficult to defend and advocate for. My art places various forms of infrastructure at the center of people's understanding of community. Infrastructure is the roads and trains we travel on to see our loved ones, it’s how we get to our jobs and how we thrive in them, it’s the pipes that send water to our homes making it easier to brew a cup of coffee for our friends and families. It’s the networks of trade that get that coffee to us. It is something to value, take care of, and most importantly it is something that connects us to people we have never met, in the periphery of our lives.

Shortly after getting hired at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, I became involved with the newly formed Art Institute of Chicago Workers United (AICWU). I signed on to the union’s public letter during my probation period. I spent a year and a half bargaining our first contract and now I serve as the Vice President for Local 35 ✊

On Screaming:

In 2009 I was was in my early teens and on tumblr, looking at feminist and queer lit 101, fandom stuff, and generally developing a very online persona. I saw a text post one day that said something to the effect of “do you ever want to just go outside and scream?” It resonated, being a teenager is hard. You don’t have the agency of an adult but people stop treating you with the understanding they afford children; your body is changing, often in horrendous ways, and if you were assigned female at birth suddenly your body becomes public property. Yeah, sometimes I just want to go outside and scream. The town I grew up in had a fire siren, kind of like an air raid siren but for volunteer firemen, about three blocks from where I lived. I went to the park it was in when it was being tested and as it started to blare, I screamed.

Decades later I am working an office job. Between interpersonal politics, world events, and the noise that always exists in my head I feel a bit like an animal trapped in a zoo. Luckily I work with artists, and one shares her screaming practice with me. She, a couple co-workers, and I walk down to the highway that separates us from the lake and wait for cars to go by; on her cue, we scream. I become obsessed, we establish a weekly scream. We save time on our calendars to do it. After one scream by the highway, a couple walks by us. The man appears confused but the woman is delighted. As they pass she says, “I should do that sometime too!”

My union stages an action fighting for our contract. My co-workers and I march in circles chanting about our wages (or lack thereof), about respect, about having a voice. A co-worker later texts the group, “I didn’t realize how much I needed to go out and scream for an hour.”

I tell my comedy writing group about the weekly scream at work and they are delighted. They encourage me to make it a part my set. My coworkers are in the audience as I lead the room in a scream— in between laughs.

The United States elects Donald Trump to office a second time by popular vote. I’m at an election watch party and I drink too much. It’s past midnight when I leave and I’m desperate. The noise in my head matches the noise of the world. I go to the lake and find a couple there who share a joint with me. I come home and get just a couple hours of sleep before going in to work, looking as ragged as I’ve ever looked. The entire office is decked out in black: mourning. We all go into the alley behind the office, stand in a circle and scream.

The the artist who introduced me to screaming as a creative practice invites me to facilitate a community scream at her art show and I gleefully accept. Someone lights a campfire behind the gallery that is positioned near the L. I offer copies of my resume as kindling to start the fire. We wait for the train to go by and scream as it does.

I am afraid of saying the wrong thing. I’m afraid of being tasteless and uncool— pedestrian. I fear not being marketable. I’m afraid of making powerful people uncomfortable. In the grand scheme of things, does any of that matter? Yeah, I may resist being a freak but I am pretty sure people can still tell. I might as well put some oddball art into the world in the process. I might as well awkwardly attend an artist talk and ask a stupid question. I need to start leaning into the freakishness again. I am trying to remember that I can do whatever I want forever.

Email me at [email protected]

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