Jeremy O. Harris
Thrilling playwright meets author for an entertaining chat as he takes over the world one play, film and fancy party at a time
Of course a rendezvous with Jeremy O. Harris should involve a whole drama. He’s the provocative yet perceptive playwright whose Broadway debut, ‘Slave Play’, was nominated for a record-breaking 12 Tony Awards; the co-writer of ‘Zola’, an instant cult classic movie based on a toxic Twitter thread; the actor who shows up in leftfield cinema as well as glossy television, including ‘Emily in Paris’; the notable patron of emergent dramatists; the style icon – a 6-foot-5 sprite with a magical mix of Harlem Renaissance and Harajuku. A giggle from Harris comes across like a beckoning to Wonderland. And, it turns out, setting off on his trail can be rather like falling down a rabbit hole.
From Fantastic Man n° 40 – 2025
Interview by JEREMY ATHERTON LIN
Photography by ROE ETHRIDGE
In late January I flew from wildfire-scorched Los Angeles to freezing New York City to meet Harris, but he was suffering a fever. He’d just returned from the Dior show in Paris. The following week at the Guggenheim, a group of actors would read from his epic bilingual play-in-process, ‘Spirit of the People’, set to open this summer. Also imminent was the news of his appointment to the host committee of the 2025 Met Gala, which will kick off the exhibition ‘Superfine: Tailoring Black Style’. But for the moment, he was out of commission.
In his febrile state, Harris was hallucinating that I was at the foot of his bed interviewing him while I was actually in a cafe around the corner anticipating his elegant arrival. After grasping the situation, he messaged to suggest I go to his apartment for real. I was nearly due back at JFK, but having come all this way, I accepted the impromptu invitation. When I showed up at his unlit apartment, Harris couldn’t see me. (His contacts weren’t in, plus I was wearing a mask.) Meanwhile, I was trying not to scrutinise him too closely.
That initial encounter was brief and blurry. And yet gabbers are going to gab. We exchanged thoughts on stormy American politics. We began a dialogue about our shared name and past lives working retail. He had the presence of mind to postulate that certain “feminised” or “soft” skills, such as being alert to pop culture, are “way more accepted in a place like Barneys than a place like Yale sometimes.” Barneys is the much-vaunted department store which closed its properties in 2020, three years shy of its centenary; Harris was a high-ranking salesperson at a Los Angeles branch. Yale is the Ivy League university where he received his master’s degree. Harris, it seems, has a tendency to go to the top, where he becomes the kind of disrupter American institutions actually need.
We promised to continue chatting by video. On the afternoon following Valentine’s Day we picked up the thread. I was back in California, and he was back up to his usual (lightning) speed. Harris, who describes his speaking style as “Valley girl,” is prone to starting statements with “Again,” even if he’s introducing an idea for the first time; it creates the uncanny impression that one is playing chase inside his head.
JAL – Can we go back to retail for a minute?
JOH – Yeah.
We were talking about Barneys closing, and you spoke about the vulnerability of going into a shop.
I mean, I think that online shopping got popular because it’s vulnerable to go into a store in three dimensions and have someone waiting on you, to come out [of the changing room] and show them – to present. It reminds you of being a little kid again, or all the ways in which you might fail to live up to what you imagined you looked like when you picked that suit up. When you walk out and see the shopkeeper and the mirror, it’s very vulnerable.
It’s interesting that it reminds you of being a kid. Do you remember there being a moment when you made a deliberate choice about how you wanted to dress?
I think that there was no particular moment. I think that’s just a side effect of being Black and in a Christian household in the South. Like, presentation becomes very important. Especially if you’re working-class, you never want to look bad. So there’s constantly a conversation happening around how nice your shoes look, how good your hair looks, how you’re presenting yourself, which makes someone hyperaware of how they are presenting to the world. The seed was planted early on that matured and blossomed.
I’ve been thinking about the word disarming. In your roles in both ‘The Sweet East’ and ‘The True Beauty of Being Bitten by a Tick’ [a recent and a forthcoming indie film, the latter of which Harris co-wrote], you have to disarm the person you’re interacting with. With a sweet smile. With a flick of the wrist. To show that you’re somehow safe. I’m wondering how much that comes into your life.
Well, I think because I moved around a lot as a kid, I went to a bunch of different schools, and so I had to learn how to make friends quite quickly, because, like, I was weird. I think I picked up a bunch of affectations to disarm quite quickly the battlements that young children especially put up to protect their little communities or to build walls. And I became someone that was able to – again, I couldn’t infiltrate every group, but I became someone that could infiltrate a lot of them, more than the average person.
Would you say that’s about reading the room and listening and being alert to people’s signifiers?
One hundred per cent. One hundred per cent. That’s for good or for bad. I mean, I’m on a podcast with my friend Sam [Taggart], who is the only other person from my high school that, like, got famous. And he had me on the podcast [StraightioLab] to talk about the fact that I started a gay bullying train on him, basically because he was the other new kid and I got anxious that he was going to take my spot. And I think I intuited, without knowing, that he was gay, and told everyone he was gay. And then they bullied him about it and it was horrible. It was really horrible. I switched schools, so I missed it.
Did you apologise to him?
Yes, I did. I did. But it is funny, because I think that my ability to read a room meant that… Because Sam did not seem gay at all in any real way. It was just, like, a thing to say in the mid-aughts, you know? But it was a wild thing that ability to read a room gave me – one of the bad things it gave me.
Did you interact with him in between?
Yeah, because I found out he was gay when I ran into him at a Chicago gay pride. I was, like, “Wait, you actually are gay. That’s so insane.” And I told him the story sort of innocently, thinking it was funny, and he was, like, “That was the worst experience of my life.” I was, like, “Oh. Fuck.”
Did you have a realisation at the time? Or do you think you put it away and hid it?
That it was a mean thing to do? I put it away, because in the moment it was all about survival and staying in a comfortable community, right? And also, I’d been called gay so many times, I was just sort of, like, “It doesn’t matter. People just get called gay.” You know what I mean? And I do think I’ve always had a thick skin. So I think it made it difficult for me to truly feel the harm that I had caused until much later. I was, like, “Oh wait, that actually affected you?” Because in my mind it was… Again, at the time I assumed he was straight. So calling a straight boy gay was just, like, what you did.
And who were the people that you spread this rumour amongst?
They were the popular kids.
Jocks and cheerleaders?
Not jocks and cheerleaders, but they were the kids who got good grades and were rich. A lot those kids were very, very rich.
Were you friends with them outside of school? Did you go to their houses?
No. I was just getting into that part of the friendship, right, when Sam was proposed as another person. He actually lived in the rich kid area. I didn’t. I was the outsider who had gotten in. And there was a new outsider who had direct proximity to them who would easily be able to get in, and they were thinking about letting him in, and I was, like, “Oh, there’s only going to be room for one new person, as big as this house is.”
I asked Jordan Tannahill [the author, a close friend of Harris’s] for a question, and he goes: “I’m so fascinated by his mother, Veronica, a no-nonsense hairstylist with limited formal education but immense ambition for her children. In what ways does Jeremy see himself in her, and how does he think he has individuated himself?”
I think that my mom has always had a lot of curiosity about the world and has always wanted to escape the world we came from. So I think that’s the correlative thing. I would also say that I’ve struggled with individuating, because, again, she had me when she was 19, so we spent so much time together. And yeah, it was really interesting to see her navigate me putting the ambition she had for me onto her. When I was able to buy her a house and retire her a bit, I was, like, “Now you have to go to college. You’ve always said that education was important for me and blah, blah, blah. Now I think you should go to college.” To watch her struggle through the frustration of getting good grades…
When’s the last time she did your hair?
When I was in for Christmas.
What did she do?
She just braided my hair. Combed it out.
I don’t have hair, but it’s very intimate, isn’t it?
It is. It’s one of the most intimate things. It’s a lovely thing to have a mom that doesn’t give you shame about your hair but knows how to protect it, knows how to make it grow.
Were there days when you spent several hours at her salon?
Yeah, one hundred per cent.
Did you give your opinions about other people’s hair?
Not really, because I kind of don’t like other people’s hair. Like, Mom wanted to teach me how to do hair and I was just, like, “I don’t like touching hair.” And it was actually one of the things that would’ve been really helpful, if I had had that ability to just simply be a person who could wash hair and cut hair. If I had learned that skill, I would’ve in my twenties had so much more money.
Do you ever have for a moment that fantasy of not being a public figure, of taking more risk-averse routes?
No. Because I probably have that gene that, like, leans in towards risk or something – that thing they say is missing in the brains of, like, that guy who does free soloing, or in people that gamble a lot. Like, I think I must have that same missing part of my brain.
What’s free soloing?
You know, when people climb mountains without a harness.
What about noise? I’m somebody who needs space, and my pace is really slow. How do you do with noise, chaos, busyness?
I mean, I live in New York, you know what I mean? I like noise. I like chaos. I like feeling like things are alive around me. I’m not really someone who… [yawns] I don’t really like moving slowly. I’m a fast-paced person.
Did you go out last night?
I did. I went out. Last night was a very fun, very chill night. My fiancé Arvand’s not here, so my friend Rafa took me to Valentine’s Day dinner, which is very sweet, because his boyfriend is out of town. And so we jokingly were, like, “Is this the start of our betrayal? Is this going to be the beginning of the affair?” It was very cute. And I did imagine some fun story like that, or some movie or something. And then I ran into my friend Antwaun, who was, like, “Come meet us at Manuela,” which is the new bar that Hauser & Wirth just opened. Because Antwaun and his boyfriend were also weirdly having dinner at the same restaurant. We went to a very popular Valentine’s Day dinner spot. And then we were, like, “Okay, cool, let’s meet them at Manuela.” And that was right when Natasha Lyonne texted me and was, like, “We’re going to The Bowery.” We walked to Manuela. Manuela was closed. Antwaun didn’t answer his phone. So we were, like, “Okay, let’s go meet up with Natasha.” And I forgot it was ‘SNL’s’ 50th anniversary. So all of these famous people were at The Bowery. So it became this very raucous, fun night of being, like, “Oh hi. Oh hi.” It was a mini Met Gala or something. And then I mentioned that I really wanted to go to Baz Luhrmann’s bar again. So we were, like, “Oh, let’s go to Baz Luhrmann’s.” So we walked over to Baz Luhrmann’s bar, and when we got there – my friend Julian came with us, and Julian had this little bag, and I was, like, “What’s in that bag?” And he was, like, “I need to go to the bathroom to change.” And he went to the bathroom and changed into his, like, jockstrap and club outfit. And he was, like, “I’m going to this big gay party at Basement.” Which is this new fake Berghain in New York that they’re really trying to make a thing. And I really hate it, because Berghain works because Berlin has a very specific club culture that was etched and built over many, many years. And I understand that as tourists we love it and it’s amazing, but also, we love it because it’s not New York. I think what New York does best is this type of glamour club. We don’t have a dungeon culture here. You know what I mean? It exists, but it’s more like – in San Francisco I would trust people to have a dark, seedy, catacomb-filled sex club, more so than New York. But anyway, that being said, he convinced me to go with him, and we ended up going, and we were there until five. And then we came home and he and I ordered bagels and went to sleep.
When you are in The Bowery and you greet people, do you do double kisses?
It depends on who it is. [Laughs] That’s a weighted question.
What do you think of the Met theme and your involvement?
I’m excited by the theme. It’s actually quite funny; I’ve had so many white people come up to me and be, like, “I just feel like it’s a weird theme. It just feels crazy. What am I even supposed to wear?” Blah, blah. And I’m, like, “Did you have such anxiety about ‘China: Through the Looking Glass’?” Know what I mean? I think there’s something really interesting about loudly proclaiming about Black style, and about Black male style, that’s really bold, with a real provocation that I think is very fun.
Is it also foregrounding an existing, maybe lesser-known tradition of actual Black tailoring?
Totally. Totally. And it’s also positioning a chance to really think through the biggest makers of style in American culture. You look at what Timothée Chalamet is wearing on every red carpet, and it’s like he’s dressing like a Black boy from 2008. There’s the rise of the sweatsuit, the rise of the sneaker. All of these things are directly linked to Black culture.
I also messaged Matthew Leifheit [the photographer, another friend of Harris’s] to see if he had a question for you, and he responded: “Oh, I don’t know. I feel like he would have an interesting answer to some version of ‘Do you want to upset people?’”
[Laughs] That’s so funny. Especially given the fact that he’s one of my exes. No, I don’t want to upset people. Again, one attempts to write something that a lot of people would like. And I guess if there was any impulse to upset people it’s, like, maybe to upset their relationship to the questions they’re currently asking. But not to upset them in a way that would make them be angry. I don’t really care about making people angry in that way. Maybe some people. There’s a monologue about Donald Trump in my play that I’m, like, “Oh, if he heard that, hopefully he’d be mad.” I do want to upset powerful people who wish me harm.
I studied theatre, and I realised recently that I miss it. And what I miss is rehearsal. I wish everybody had rehearsals in their life. The whole point of a rehearsal is to fail over and over again. Do you know what I mean?
Absolutely. And that’s my crack: failing, failing, failing until it gets to the closest version of right it can be.
When’s the last time you got into an argument and/or avoided getting into an argument?
Probably a couple of weeks ago with my partner. We love to argue. He’s a lawyer.
Do you still win?
Yeah. I think it frustrates him that I think faster than him sometimes.
Does it frustrate you?
Yeah, I think I get frustrated by people who think or talk slowly. And he likes to contemplate before he says something – not someone who’s quick on the attack, you know what I mean? But he also has a better memory than me. And he’ll be, like, “Well, this thing you said on March 3rd…” I’m, like, “I don’t think everyone’s response to it was the way you painted their response. I think that’s a personal thing. But I did, yes, I did in fact say that at that dinner.” That’s where he beats me often.
Did you when you were younger, or do you now, contemplate authenticity and pretentiousness?
I mean, I think that I indulge in being pretentious. I love being pretentious. That was my armour that people would have to attack to get through my battlements. And very rarely did their attacks win, because being pretentious, you’re able to look away and be, like, “Sorry, I’m watching Bertolucci’s ‘The Dreamers’ tonight.” But yeah, I thought about it a lot, because I was called pretentious. And also I’m from a poor family and went to private schools my whole life; I was already other within my family. And I think to have pretence is to also be seen as looking down on other people. And so I had to find a fine balance between holding my pretentiousness – holding the flag of pretentiousness and waving it like it was a good thing – while also learning how to be a person that was a man of my people, [which] was also important in my small community. And I feel like I figured out that line. It took a long time, but I figured it out.
How is fame sitting?
I like the way you put it: being a public figure, or known. Because I’m not famous famous; I have the perfect level of notoriety. In New York City, because everyone who works at a restaurant is also working in the theatre, I can always get a table. That’s something that’s very fun, being able to be, like, “Oh, I think maybe use my name: Jeremy O. Harris wants the table. Maybe I’ll get one.” And that can work. But I also think it makes you more hyper-aware of yourself in ways that are annoying. I was at Basement and it’s, like, “Do I go into the catacombs and roll through the sex thing, or am I going to run into someone who auditioned for my play last week?”
“Do I have the capability of being anonymous?” I would imagine that’s going through your head.
Yes. Yes, exactly. Is there any such thing as anon? Grindr’s hell. There was someone one time who basically wrote an online review of our hookup. It was positive, but it was still so negative for me. I was just, like, “Wait, I don’t want this.”
Did they name you?
Yeah. Yeah, it was very funny. But yeah, it was weird. Stuff like that makes it, like, “Okay, so I guess I just comfortably sit in the corner where I am.” But then also there are times where you’re, like, “You’re fucking crazy. No one knows who the fuck you are. You write plays.” And then it’s fine.
Be safe and healthy today. I’m so glad to see you when you’re not febrile.
Okay, Jeremy, it was so lovely to chat with you. I’m so happy to see you finally. Oh, I have a question: Have you ever dated another Jeremy?
No. My partner’s named Jamie. And, I say in my book, we both had entertained that delightfully narcissistic fantasy of dating somebody with the same name. Have you?
Never. I would never do it. It’s disgusting to me.
Oh!
It’s interesting – I think specifically the name Jeremy is an annoying name to have to say twice.
Because you’re constantly, like, “Do I do it with two or three syllables?”
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s a crazy thing to have two of in a couple.
That would be a lot.
Yeah. I asked mainly because I’m going out to dinner tonight with my friends the Alexes. They’re both named Alex and they’re married, and I’m just, like, “That is insane.” You marry someone with your name and it feels like one of them has to disappear a little bit for the other one to exist.
Oh, wow.
You know what I mean? I feel like that a lot with people who are close to someone who has the same name as them. One gets more quiet so the other one can be loud.
Grooming by Adam Markarian.