(ThyBlackMan.com) From Mother to Son, my mum would often say: “nothing beats a failure but a try”, below is my attempt at trying to get Solange to consider shooting my Music Video treatment for her song Weary. Check it out.
The subtle yet meditative vibe of Solange’s Weary inspired me to write the following short film/music video treatment, after spending some time with her Grammy award winning “A Seat at the Table” album whilst riding the subway back and forth from Brooklyn to graduate school in Manhattan. Solange’s gift to simplify her prose provides room for various visual interpretations; nonetheless, I was possessed with a vision of Solange as a political activist who pseudo dresses like a man in effort to run for the highest office in America; 
But not before she overcomes her arch-nemesis. The question I am posing in the treatment is: Apart from systemic prejudices, how does each man/woman thwart change/growth in him/herself and therefore thwart change/growth in present-day America?
Brief synopsis: Campaigning to become the first African American female president, Solange is assassinated in this music video and here’s how it unfolds:
It’s night.
A jitney nearly rides the curb of a southern motel plastered with Solange’s campaign poster that reads: “we all belong”. The trunk pops open and the driver hops out to retrieve her garment bag; then he lets her out of the door; but when the driver moves in to escort Solange into the motel she refuses his assistance and the driver stands down as,
Solange tightens the belt on her ankle length masculine trench coat; then she proceeds to climb the motel’s grim staircase, whilst driver looks on from the jitney as Solange disappears to the top of the staircase alone.
At the door of her motel room there is a Basquiat crown drawn in blood red paint accented with the letter X, a death threat; but Solange does not cease for a moment of peril; she merely fishes for her room key, discovers it, and proceeds to open the door.
When the door shuts behind her, Solange surveys the room to discover tea candles burning low atop of a desk where a photograph of her present-day self is central, a vigil almost. Solange blows out the tea candles as she shuts on a bedside lamp to reveal the apparently apolitical version of herself fast asleep in bed.
High beams flash through the window from the jitney downstairs, a ritual; and Solange makes her way to the door; But when she opens the door there is no Basquiat crown, only her garment bag now hangs from the knob. She retrieves the garment bag and turns back into the room to discover no trace of the tea candles, the photograph, or the apolitical Solange. In fact, the room has been made up as expected.
Solange goes to hang her garment bag in the closet and a noose hangs from the rack. She blinks and the noose disappears. Solange hangs her garment bag, a moment of retreat from the visions in her mind. At last, Solange removes her trench coat to reveal the West African regalia of the Orisha, Oya, goddess of wind and storms.
It’s dusk,
and Solange has fallen asleep in her regal regalia, a political warrior (activist).
At sunrise, again apolitical Solange reappears and watches present day Solange paint her face at the desk/vanity; and when present day Solange is made up, she fastens her crisp white button up to the neck and proceeds to tie a red presidential tie whilst apolitical Solange escapes her reflection in the mirror b.g., a vision.
At last Solange goes to the closet to remove a dark masculine blazer from her garment bag; she puts it on whilst noticing her trench coat has gone missing, as the now naked hanger dangles from the rack to suggest it was violently snatched down a moment ago. She blinks but the trench coat does not reappear.
Now fully dressed in a well tailored man’s suit, Solange moves to the door and opens the blinds to reveal a podium/microphone has been erected on the balcony overlooking a large crowd of colorful moving people. The door slides open; as an Angela Davis like figure steps to the podium; the crowd roars as she introduces Solange, who stands by, a real presidential figure surrounded by female guards.
A smile breaks through Solange’s peril a moment as she scans her audience of supporters to discover her nemesis, the apolitical version of herself, roaming the crowd in her present day trench coat, a chameleon almost. At last the Angela Davis like figure out stretches her arm to formally welcome Solange to the podium; and apolitical Solange pulls a gun from the trench coat and points upward at Solange as she steps up to the microphone. Black out.
I hope you enjoyed my vision; And if you think Solange should consider shooting the video, help me get her attention and social share the treatment.
Writers Guild of America Registered.
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Staff Writer; Tylie Shider
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