By William Smythe
When I first met Zack Orsborn, it was through my own creative club, Memphis Writers. Started by Daphne Maysonet, Memphis Writers met weekly right after the start of the pandemic. Daphne created Memphis Writers mainly as a way to stay on top of her own creative impulses and, to paraphrase, “I couldn’t stand just sitting around doing nothing; what’s to stop all us creatives from just being outside, talking shop?”
After she moved to Augusta a year or so later, Daphne gifted a fellow writer, Hannah Cole, and me with the reins. I’d be in charge of scheduling and media output while Hannah took on hosting duties and finding opportunities for writers. Since I managed the socials, I was also in charge of vetting newer members. This is where Zack comes in, I promise.
One day, I get a message from a newer member—Zack, I mean—and he’s lost.
“I can’t find the group. Where are y’all?”
I tell him that we meet at a table—any available long table—on the fifth floor of the Crosstown Concourse. Usually, I’m there well before anyone else, but Zack got eager and arrived much earlier than I anticipated. I’m on my way toward that great brutalist structure when I get another ping:
“I found a table. Look for the bald guy in a white tee.”
Of course, that’s only one way to describe Zack Orsborn. Two other great traits are a well-groomed beard and eyes that constantly seek—eyes that inscribe, invite, and imbibe the world around him. I’ve seen similar eyes in my own mirror before. Eyes belonging to such a creative mind are designed to take in all the beauty and horror of modern life.
The mediums Zack usually works in are the visual and sonic arts: painting and music. But today, at this meeting, he asks for feedback on a manuscript he’s been working on called Rare Materials. He has since published it. You can find his book at Novel.
After Memphis Writers disbanded, most of us scattered to the winds. But a year or so later, Zack hit me up saying that he’d started his own collective: Like Really Creative. He asked if I’d be interested in joining, and, so far, I have loved being involved.
There are weekly check-ins every Sunday over Zoom; a collage party at Ugly Art Co. monthly; every Saturday around 9, there’s a walk and talk with fellow creatives at Overton Park; and now, there are even artist meetups called Muse. They meet on the first Monday of the month at DKDC.
With all of this effort and community, part of me wonders if Zack received inspiration from our previous meetings.
“Oh no,” he gently corrects me. “Memphis Writers was not a major factor in creating this group. Although, it certainly drew me out of a creative slump once or twice.”
After a friendly smile, Zack continues:
“No, the real inspiration was a journal I found called The Artist’s Way. I started with daily journaling and affirmations. It drew this creative energy out of me. I like thinking of that energy as my 5-year-old self, back when I was a total extrovert. The book got me to return to that little Zack, and I’ve been consistently creative since 2020. I still have the occasional down-spell, but it has since dwindled. I’m a recovering addict, and addiction gave me an excuse to live in fear. But after The Artist’s Way, all of that changed.”
Zack tells me that he began this collective with podcasts and YouTube interviews, talking with fellow artists about their inspirations and such.
“But, to be frank, I want to expand into making artist self-help books,” Zack extrapolates. “And even possibly coaching for folks! I’d like to bring to others what has helped me.”
Curious, I ask if Zack feels his queer identity and artistic nature go hand in hand.
“I mean,” I overexplain, “we have such amazing writers in our community like Susan Sontag, David Sedaris, and the great Harvey Fierstein, for example.”
He, of course, chuckles amusedly and nods his head in agreement.
“I 100% believe queerness and art live outside of the mainstream,” Zack confirms. “So many people in our community have complex, rich stories, and many of those stories are born from the struggles they endured as queer people. Growing up in a small town in Mississippi, gay as hell and effeminate, I had been mocked for both. So I put up a mask. But all those feelings that I had locked away, that I had repressed, came out in my art.
“In visual art, you communicate through colors. Bolds, for example, can express strong emotions. Subtler colors finely detail those emotions. It’s very therapeutic. But it’s not just painting! I express myself with music, too. My first music album was about accepting my queerness. It was in high school, where I created a song and put it out on YouTube. Though it felt freeing to put my soul out there, everyone made fun of it—students and teachers alike. It affected me deeply. After some healing, however, I’m so happy I made that song. Queer voices are so needed right now. Truly amazing art is being created.”
To close out the conversation, I asked if there were any artists here in Memphis that he’d love to tell people about.
“Oh gosh,” Zack said, taken aback. “Well, first off, I’d love to mention three amazing creators. Anthony Lorenzo—an architect turned conceptual artist—he’s the first person I ever did an interview with. His work is astounding! I can’t forget Jazmine Marie, an amazing poet and collage artist. Her work has been featured before at the Brooks, which is exciting, and I hope to have my own viewing there too. Finally, of course, our girl, Ms. Hunny Blunt. Those drag shows she puts on at Lamplighter are a godsend—powerful as hell!”
Before we depart, Zack gives me one simple ethos:
“I believe healing is synonymous with creativity.”
And I can definitely agree with that. Occasionally, I will make poems for just myself, but perhaps I should take that next leap and put it out there for others to see. To bear my soul, to set up a table for others to join. To paint with the broad, bold colors.
