Art Heals: Clutter

I have a yin yang relationship to clutter. I have moved house, (and often countries) 14 times, and each time as I pack I dream of a Zen existence in which I possess nothing but one exquisite vase and a closet of all white garments. But once I was settled again, I moved from room to room looking at the 10,000 books and walls of artwork and cabinets full of dishes for every dinner party color scheme and drawers of craft fair jewelry and…you get the idea. These are not clutter, these are collections. But where you stand depends on where you sit, and right now I am sitting in a three room apartment and my stand on clutter is well, evolving. When we first moved here from a largish house (two floors and more rooms than I could serially enter in a week), we pledged to live, if not my Zen ideal, at least lean and mean. One thing in, one thing out, was to be our mantra. We had donated most of the books, given some of the artwork to appreciative new homes (I did go and personally vet each one before approving placement), and sold the majority of the dishes (anticipating fewer dinner parties and more restaurant dinners). I kept the jewelry. But inevitably, stasis is followed by mutability. For my part, I had a spacious office to go to, and it became a repository for the detritus necessary for my creativity. Upon having to leave this sanctuary due to Covid, I took with me the most precious bits (meaning most of it) and crammed it into previously undiscovered spaces in that three room apartment. (Under the bed.) And secondly, I have a partner in isolation, who believes in existentialism, to wit, that society (me) should not restrict an individual’s (his) choices and thus the development of his potential. This manifests in very very neat piles of papers on every flat surface. So, clutter creep. The quarantine conditions didn’t help. My previously curated kitchen counters took on the look of the stock room at Safeway, despite my valiant attempts to display the Pringles cans in an artistic tower. Cleaning products, toilet paper, masks, latex gloves—the more things I had to corral, the more things I needed to corral them. My things got things. Corona clutter was invading my organized world, and I resented it, but felt helpless to do anything about it. But time went by, as time tends to do, even in the age of corona. Strangely, the piles around me started to look cosy, and comforting. Was I nesting, knowing I had enough—enough of whatever mysterious amount of stuff was sufficient to make me feel safe? Joseph Ferrari, who studies the psychological impact of clutter at DePaul University in Chicago, describes home as a foundation for identity, “an extension of our selves, a living archive of memory.” We function differently in our homes now. The little collections on our tables, the art on our walls, the food in our fridges, all of it now acts as a remembrance of things past, and surety for the future. We spend a lot of time in our spaces now, so we really look at them, and what we see can give us comfort. So go ahead and curate your Zoom background as you invite strangers into your home but remember that all of it is a reflection of your lived experience. Be proud of your clutter. After all, you are the one who brought it in. My favorite kind of clutter by Adnan Charara.

Art Heals: Peripety

Are we about to come to a turning point? We are certainly living in what seems to be the plot of an Aristotelian tragedy, defined by the philosopher himself as "actions that excite pity and fear." In his “Poetics” Aristotle discusses dramatic tragedy in terms of peripety, a reversal of circumstances, a turning point in the plot contingent upon probability or necessity. We have entered Fall, and the turning points are poking us like a sharp stick. Fires, floods, racial and social injustice, politics, collapsing economies, to say nothing of the pandemic that has left lives in ruins. And now warnings that Steinbeck’s winter of our discontent is looming, with a possible resurgence of the virus just as people are thinking it is on the wane. Scientists are holding their collective breath as they calculate the effects of schools opening, states removing all restrictions, and people heading to poorly ventilated indoor spaces due to the colder weather. Pity and fear indeed. But can we control the turning points in our lives? This is where the ancient philosophers debated the nuances (politely). Socrates, Ari’s mentor-in-thought, held that virtue is knowledge, people don’t act against what they know to be good. Plato refined this to include the idea that passions have an influence on what a person “knows,” thus altering their actions in seemingly self-destructive ways. Aristotle took this further, exploring the concept of “incontinence” by distinguishing between theoretical knowledge, about things that cannot be changed, and practical knowledge, about what can be changed. People don’t knowingly act against their own self-interest, but from a temporary ignorance of what is good for them. Everyone wants happiness, but people differ only about their power to achieve it. Pringles make me happy, so even though I know the consequences of eating them will be a contribution to the covid-15, I eat them anyway. So, peripety. We have come to the place in the plot for a change when the “action veers round to its opposite, subject to probability or necessity." I am hoping we turn toward the good, supported by knowledge. We have the power to affect our destiny. Vote. Take reasonable precautions against infecting others, and ourselves. Support those fighting for justice and equality our own individual ways. We are more than characters in a play determined by others. We write our own scripts, create our own circumstances. We know what can be changed, and what cannot. Twelve Pringles a day is doable. Ari and the gang. Philosophy heals too. (Thanks, Brain Taco for this image!)

Art Heals: Wining

You might have noticed my frequent references to adult beverages in these missives. While I have been known to indulge in the occasional fruity concoction on a terrace in Miami, appropriately clad in floral dress, strappy sandals and large sun hat, my usual tipple is a glass of wine. Being a simple soul (see earlier blog, Plain Vanilla) I like limiting my choices: red, for colder weather, drinking to accompany beouf bourguignon, drinking with cheese and French bread, or just drinking. Then there is white, which I drink mainly to pair with fish or chicken (except for coq au vin, which, as the original recipe comes from Burgundy (I think) needs to be paired with a similar red). Sometimes I’ll have a glass of Pinot Gris on a hot day, but hot days usually lead me to rosé. And for toasting, I prefer Prosecco over champagne, but I never judge people on their bubbly behaviors. One other caveat: white wine is de rigueur at art gallery openings. Never red. Because people gesticulate in their enthusiasm for great art, resulting in sad consequences for the watercolors. I must note that when I held an exhibition in a Paris gallery a few years ago, the owner of the gallery served red, and when I objected, said, “This is Paris, of course we drink red wine.” I must also note that in that crowded space those little plastic cups did indeed go flying, luckily hitting only the gouaches covered with glass and a swath of white wall. (I don’t know a direct French idiom for “I told you so” Je ne voudrais pas être désagréable, mais… Far more likely to hear ce n’est pas ma faute.) But I digress. Now that cafes and bars and dining with friends seem to be off limits for the duration, most of us are consuming our adult beverages at home. Though I occasionally share a verre de rouge with my companion in isolation at a socially distanced outdoor table, most of my quaffing occurs on my balcony or on the couch after 5 pm. And while I have been able, so far, to stick to my usual glass-or-half-of-the-other, a recent study from the Rand Corp. indicates that more people, especially women, are reacting to pandemic stress by coping with a coupe. Which brings me to Florence, Italy in the 16th century, and the buchettes del vino. These “wine holes” were originally hatches with little wooden doors, often little wider than a man’s hand, carved into the walls of hundreds of buildings throughout Tuscan cities, mainly in Florence. Originally used to sell wine directly to the consumer (eliminating the middleman, and I speculate here, probably some taxes) they later became the perfect solution to safely sell wine during the plague of the 1630s in Italy. They were often located at a low height from the ground, ensuring some anonymity for the purchaser. Contactless delivery, no tipping. (But plenty of tippling. Ouch.) So, fast forward to 2020, and the clever Florentines are reopening these charming little doorways to serve wine, coffee and even gelato while their bars and cafes are still closed. Similar, if not quite so charming, adaptations are being made here. To help with the bottom line, restaurants have been granted special licenses to sell packaged single-serving drinks and bottles of wine from their doorways (though, unlike in Italy, you cannot consume alcoholic drinks while standing on the sidewalk.) People are picnicking under trees and on grassy knolls in every available open space, imbibing special lemonades. So, I raise a glass to all of you who drink responsibly, letting the glories of the grape enhance your life, giving you a few antioxidants, offering a coda to a difficult day in these difficult times. And remember, this always applies: “Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I’ll not ask for wine.” For this, you don’t even have to take off your mask.

Art Heals: Plain Vanilla

 

Among the side-effects the current pandemic produces in our lives is a lack of choices.  For too many, this is a serious consequence that results in poverty, hunger, possibly eviction, learning disruption and much more.  For some of us, this lack of choice is simply an inconvenience, but even so, piled on top of isolation, too much negative information, bad weather and the like, it can have a deleterious effect on people’s already shaky mental health.

I spent a lot of time living in Africa and Asia, as well as in the Middle East.  In those days before the internet brought the world’s products to the door, my choices were constrained by availability.   For most of that time we lived, in the parlance of the international community “on the economy.”  This meant learning to adapt our desires to the local products we found in the markets and on the shelves of local stores.  Forget brand names and forty different kinds of cereal.   We were just glad that the Blue Nile grocery in Cairo delivered fresh aish to our apartment.

Today a visit to the local grocery or the Amazon marketplace reminds me of those take-what-you-can get days.  Safeway’s cleaning products shelves are all but denuded every time I check.  Amazon tells me that disinfecting wipes are not available, and a shipment of plastic gloves will arrive in October if I order in the next five minutes.  Instacart wants to substitute copier paper for toilet paper.  (I draw the line there.)

Truthfully, I’ve never really cared about having lots of choices. I’m a creature of habit and don’t love making decisions, so I eat the same cereal every morning, buy the generic, store-brand whatever whenever I can.  And since childhood, I have always chosen vanilla when we went to 31 Flavors.

Little did I know that was the most exotic choice I could have made.

I recently learned that vanilla is an orchid!   Having grown up in an environment where orchids were really big pink floppy things you wore on your wrist on prom night, I was introduced to the beauty and rarity of orchids by Belgian friends who collected them, and later learned to love them in Thailand, where they abounded but were no less rare and expensive for that.  Associating those fragile blooms in any way with vanilla never occurred to me.

For me, vanilla came in little brown bottles at the grocery and was spooned into cake mixes where I also added an egg to make me feel like I was actually baking a cake. (Please no comments on my baking skills, or lack thereof.  I already know.)

But of course, that was artificial vanilla.  Now I know that vanilla is a precious, exotic and rare spice. The vine of the vanilla orchid was cultivated by the Aztecs.  Until the mid- 19^th century, Mexico remained the chief producer of vanilla, due to the difficulty of pollinating the flower. Each flower produces only one fruit pod, achieved through pollinating the blossom.  It seems that the orchid is hermaphroditic, carrying both male and female organs, separated by a membrane.  A certain kind of bee, living only in Mexico, is able to penetrate the membrane and pollinate the flower.  The vines were transplanted to Europe and French overseas colonies, but without the bee, which did not thrive outside Mexico, the vines did not fruit.  Enter a brilliant 12-year old boy named Edmond Albius, a slave on the French island of Réunion. He figured out how to hand-pollinate the orchid in 1841, using a simple method involving a beveled sliver of bamboo and his thumb.   Unbelievably, this method is still used today.  As the flower lasts just one day, imagine how labor intensive it is to pollinate and produce the pods containing the tiny black seeds that are real vanilla.

Ok, so my ongoing case of covid-curvature of the brain has brought us to this point.  Our present lack of multiple choices offers us the opportunity to examine the choices we can make and appreciate them in new ways.  Something gained from nothing is really something.

Amr Mounib gives us a flower.  Not vanilla, but just as special.  Art Heals.

Art Heals: Reading Matter

An interesting aspect of getting older is that in some respects my eyesight is getting better.  I find I must take off my glasses now, to read.  Of course, this results in endless frantic searches for said glasses whenever the phone rings or the water kettle whistles.  Reading is the only thing I can do without my glasses on.  No, I take that back.  I can also bathe. Much cleaner now.

Anyway, the glasses thing is not a problem, as I spend a lot of my time reading.  I always have, even as a child.  I used to walk to a bookstore near where we lived when I was in grammar school, an old fashioned  dark-walled store redolent of paper and ink and real cloth bindings, where I spent my allowance and  birthday money amassing a huge collection of Modern Library classics. (The Modern Library series of well-made, affordable reprints of the classics started in 1917, published by Boni and Liveright, later taken over by Random House.  The ones I bought had a pebbly buckram finish and featured at least 376 titles.  Other editions varied a bit, but ultimately over 1,000 separate books were published.)

These books, while affordable to a 12-year-old girl, (they cost under $2.00, and my allowance was 25 cents) were also substantial and beautiful, each hardbound cover a different color but sharing identical typeface and colophon. How magnificent they looked, arrayed on my bookshelf, organized by color as soon as I had a sufficient quantity. I read them all, creating sets as soon as I found a writer I liked—Trollope, Jane Austen, Dostoevsky (really) and my favorite, Shakespeare. (This came in useful in high school, as I had to pass a mandatory swimming test and only got through it by repeating dialog from Much Ado About Nothing as I swam the required number of laps.  Beatrice and Benedict were my ideal romantic couple at age 14.  Go figure. As Louisa May Alcott said, “She is too fond of books and it has turned her brain.”) 

These volumes graced shelves in my various homes for more than 50 years. When I moved to my 3-room apartment, I donated them to the scouts.  Lack of space has forced me to rely on a Kindle now. With it I can hold several thousand books in the palm of my hand, and when I wake in the middle of the night, go to the “store” and instantly buy any book I desire.  Of course I miss the smell and look and feel of “real” books, but time, and life, moves on, and I am particularly grateful to be able to read old favorites and discover new ones during this pandemic, when I rarely leave my apartment.

I have never had so much time to read since the long summer vacation days when I was 12.  Reading takes me out of my head and into someone else’s. That is another way art heals.

Art Heals: Curating and Collecting Art

Recently I was on a Zoom discussion with the scholar, art collector and founder of the Barjeel Art Foundation, Sultan Sooud Al Qassemi and the Palestinian artist Samia Halaby.  Preparing for this, I decided to think about the ethics of curating and collecting art.

I think curating and collecting art are two versions of the same effort: creating visibility and value for artistic endeavors. As curators and collectors, we have a grave responsibility towards not only the makers of art but also to the consumers of art.  In many ways we are gatekeepers, able to open doors for artists by our choices that can impact not only the daily lives of artists, but also influence the reception and significance of the artist’s message.  This is particularly important in the world of Arab contemporary art. Opportunities for major Arab artists to exhibit, and sell their work both in their home countries and in the diaspora have increased in recent years (sadly, often because events like war and refugee crises have raised awareness in the global north through media interest).  But despite the increasing proliferation of art fairs such as Sharjah and Art Dubai, to say nothing of the Art Basels of the world, and the inclusion of some Arab artists in major museums and galleries in the art centers of New York, Paris, London, Berlin, representation is still limited for emerging and mid-career artists.  Digital media has greatly helped in this regard, as artists are increasingly able to sidestep the gatekeepers and take their work directly to the public. But not all artists are digitally savvy, nor do many have the global contacts to increase their visibility to the point where they are invited to participate in prestigious local and ultimately international exhibitions.  And often, artists, especially those living in their home regions, have been denied visas to attend and lecture at the very international exhibitions to which they were invited to participate.

New forms of artistic values have disrupted older forms of value creation—successful artists today are often more focused on the international market and its needs.  Yet today it is more important than ever for Arab artists to have their voices heard. Visibility is primary. This is where curators and collectors are crucial. 

For my part, curating must animate opportunities for new perceptions.  This means creating conversations, contextualizing new work within the spheres of art practice, historical reference, and biography, collaborating with the artist to give both voice and direction to their vision, and providing a corrective to changing strategies of culture. I try to foreground artists that tell alternate stories of difference.  Do you need cultural references to enjoy a work of art?  I think art, especially Arab art, can be both global and local, drawing upon the visual history of Palestine, for example, which may be new to some viewers, while being emphatically present in speaking their truth about their concerns in a universalist manner.  Both representational and abstract art can fulfill this role.

Collectors form a vital partnership in this endeavor.  In this regard, the phrase “all politics is local” applies to art in a big way.  The House of Medici supported “local” Italian artists by commissioning and collecting their work, ultimately leaving it as a legacy to the world.  As wealthy Arab collectors increasingly enter the marketplace for international works of art, and major international museums open branches in Arab countries, it is important that they support and collect work by the many outstanding Arab artists in the region and the diaspora.  Such collections can seed much needed scholarship and art criticism. These three things—exhibition opportunities, scholarship and serious criticism form the legs of a sturdy platform for the visibility vital to sustaining and growing contemporary Arab art. Great collectors collect with two eyes—one on the past, the historical perspective, and one on the future, elevating the important work that artists do, helping to foreground its significance, and preserving its moment in time, and its timelessness.

One last thing, which I think applies to curators, collectors and museums alike.  Edward Said said “Solidarity before criticism means the end of criticism.”   Our criteria for exhibiting and collecting must include measurable standards of the highest quality in judging artworks.  That is the only way to honor both artists and the art they create. Art Heals.

Art Heals: Just One Thing

I took one of my longer weekend walks recently, poking about downtown DC, peering into, but not entering, restaurants and shops.  Most were still almost empty of people, despite the recent permissible re-openings, and the very visible signs proclaiming 60%, 70% off items inside.  I’m sorry about this, as retail and restaurants, especially the smaller, locally owned kind, do need customers. But I am not yet ready for the indoor experience, and I see that many of my fellow DC’ers seem to feel the same way. But for me, there is one interior experience for which I am eager to make an exception: going inside a museum again. 

I know that experience will be very different from the easy-breezy pre-pandemic days.  One of the things I loved about most museums here was my ability to pop in and see Just One Thing.  Unlike in other museum-heavy major cities, many of ours are fee-free (thanks, fellow taxpayers). Often, I would be writing or working or thinking about some art-related subject and have a compulsive urge to go and look at a particular painting or sculpture.  Wasn’t there a huge Frank Stella piece on the wall above the staircase to the second floor of the East Wing?  What was the exact wording of that Barbara Kruger statement covering the floors, walls and ceiling downstairs at the Hirshhorn?   With so much available to me for free, I could afford to take out a membership in a couple of the private museums, like the Phillips or the National Museum of Women in the Arts, and pop in there too, for my Just One Thing.  And then there were the gift shops. Oh my, fun bits and bobs with an artsy vibe, cool artist-made jewelry and books and catalogs galore. Add in air-conditioning, a small restaurant, public spaces perfect to rest my feet and people watch, and of course, bathrooms!  There was nothing more I needed in the world.  Most of them even served those cute little bottles of wine in the lunchroom.

For the moment, all this is just a memory, as I stalk past the shuttered entrances, making do with a few al fresco sculptures and the occasional bench in the Enid Haupt Garden.  But soon, hopefully, the museums will reopen, on a limited basis.  But the spontaneity of my Just One Thing will be gone.  Entrance must be preplanned, with timed tickets only obtainable online, as they were for the blockbuster shows that used to be all the rage, (most of which I missed because every time I went online, I was too d…late and all dates were already taken, despite my trying at midnight on the first day!) To digress yet again—I for one will not miss those blockbusters, impossible now thanks to Covid crowd control measures.

But like with everything else Covid-related in my life, I will adapt. Just One Thing will never return, but maybe it will morph into Just One Museum, and my time there will be more precious than ever because of all the pre-planning that will have to precede it.

In the interim, here is an old film about the creation of the East Wing.  You can hear the voices of I.M.Pei, Henry Moore and Alexander Calder!  How cool is that?   Here is Calder's mobile and Moore's sculpture, made for the NGA. Art Heals.

https://www.nga.gov/audio-video/video/national-gallery-builds.html

  

Art Heals: Slippers

Depending upon where you live, I imagine many of you are, like me, still staying at home most of the time.  By now, many of us have chosen a default position when it comes to garments, and footwear. (We are not talking about the default position called supine-on-couch.)  Having grown up with a German mother for whom cleanliness was not next to godliness but rather somewhere considerably more altitudinal, I was used to taking off my shoes before entering the house.  Things changed when I entered high school. Tiring of being the shortest person in any class, I discovered high heels (well, kitten heels).  I rode my bicycle to school in those heels, truly resented my gym teacher for making me take them off and pranced around my room as a living sociological meme (see: Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life). “Les chaussures, c’est moi.”  Much later, I moved to Thailand, where negative cultural associations with shoes obliged everyone to leave them outside the entrance of homes, shops, temples; practically everywhere.  (Mind you, this did nothing to alleviate social status via expensive footwear—on the contrary, everyone studied the labels on the insole of every shoe parked in front of the hostess’s front door.)  But because it was hot, and silky teak floors were the rule, bare, well-pedicured feet or, for men, really nice socks (no holes) took the place of any indoor footwear.  Back in the USA, I returned to my shoe obsession (thank you DSW), and rarely took them off before bed. 

Enter the altered state of consciousness I call Covid-brain.   While my mental health demands that I put on real clothes every day (things with buttons and zippers), I can’t bear to put on shoes. Shoes make me sad—they make me want to go outside and hear the clip-clop of my high heels purposefully prancing around some museum or shop or reception, sitting down to cross my legs and admire the sculptural shape and pattern of uppers and spikes. So, slippers.  And, thanks to Covid-brain, when I stare at something long enough, “hello, fuzzy feet” (see ref. supine-on-couch), I want to get to the (dusty) bottom of it.  10,000 years ago, some frigid-toed fashionista wore a platform slipper made from woven sagebrush bark (ecology, anyone).  Around 3000 BCE chic Sumerians wore slippers made from animal skins.  Phoenicians introduced design, from red dyes, perfumed leather and bling.  “Babouche” slippers were worn by Arab nomads, and later became the preferred shoe in the Arab world, as the slip-on style made it easier to shed them before praying.  From ancient Rome to modern day Japan, slippers became the polite way to cover unsightly feet indoors.  16th century traders brought the idea, and most importantly, the embellishments to Europe, Spanish and Italian crafters took over and the fancy slipper became the chosen footwear of the aristocracy.  And of course, the bourgeoisie was soon to follow (early knockoffs?).  So-called evening slippers in embroidered velvet became a thing among men-of-leisure after being introduced by that fashion-plate Prince Albert (hubby of Queen Vicky). Now, pink puffs, glass slippers, Uggs (Australians never wear them outdoors), variety for every taste and fantasy.

My slippers are developing a hole in the sole.  The same hole in my soul from this locked down, shoeless world I inhabit at the moment.

Here are some blinged-out traditional slippers from Tunisia, and some handmade ones in Venice, luxury goods provider to the world in the bad old days. Works of art, both.  Art Heals.

Art Heals: Walking

I  have just discovered that in my semi-quarantine,  I share space (well, head space) with the greats.  To wit, Nietzsche, Thoreau and Simone de Beauvoir (you go, girl).  What do we have in common?  Walking. These thinkers were traipsers, strolling or ambling or moseying along on a daily basis.  According to Thoreau

“ I cannot preserve my health and spirits unless I spend  four hours a day…sauntering through woods and over…hills and fields.”  Four hours.  Um, I did read that he also walked to his mother’s house every day from the woods for meals, so I guess he had a  little more time on his  hands than most of us. But still, it is known that walking releases dopamine and serotonin and lowers cortisol, creating a chemical cocktail that fuels creativity.  Problems get solved as you pace, ideas blossom as you ramble.  For some, walking is integral to the religious experience.  The rituals of the Hajj involve walking.  Pilgrims and modern-day seekers of truth walk the Camino de Santiago in Spain, finishing at least 100 km of its 780 km length in order to receive a compostela, the certificate stating you completed the pilgrimage.  (A shorter Good Friday pilgrimage from Santa Fe, New Mexico (28 miles) also draws thousands of walkers.)  I have a dear friend who walked the Spanish one,  fighting blisters and fatigue; she  told me it was one of the most important healing moments of her life.  For me, walking was never a part of my life until recently, and then, the healing part meant stopping for a meal or a glass of wine along the way.  Having sold my car upon my decampment to the city, I found myself on moving feet more often, but public transport was my friend, and I hardly had time to walk as a pastime—it was utilitarian, a way to get things done.  Enter Covid19.  Time became an endless dark tunnel with few exits toward the light.  Take it, spend it, waste it,  it was there all the time.  I had a lot of time.  I also had back pains from sitting in my uncomfortable chair hunched over this laptop, and the gym in my building was closed. (Who am I kidding here—I never went the gym.)   As the disembodied heads of humans swam in front of my eyeballs, I began to long to see other body parts –arms, legs, feet.   Shoes!  I wanted to see shoes.  So off I went, creating a 5-pm ritual of an hour’s  walk in my neighborhood.   I read that walking outdoors improves your mood more than doing the same on a treadmill (dreadmill, in my lexicon) because of the healing effects of nature, but being an urban girl,  I found the trees and flowers merely a backdrop to the more interesting aspects of my walk—the outfits!  Sadly, for me, as the weather warms, sartorial splendor devolves into semi-nudity (don’t they get sunburn,  or bug bites?) but of course sometimes a truly noble specimen of humanity passes by, compensating for the lack of clothing.  And there are still arms and legs and shoes for me to examine, and yes, pass judgement upon.  Aside from all these delights, I began to notice that my thought processes seemed to be following my feet; a brisk walk supported crisper thinking.  I began to get ideas! Poetry in motion does not only describe dancers, it is a metaphor for the way movement stimulates the  mind.  The better I felt, the longer the walks got.  Four hours happens on a regular basis now.   I am still stuck with making the meals afterwards, though, having no Mrs. Thoreau to free up my time.  But hey, as I said, I have lots of time.

Adnan Charara,  wish he were walking with me.  Art Heals.

Art Heals: Fathers

I have a little collection of penguins. Glass, wood, porcelain.  You know how that goes—you  buy one and a friend sees it and suddenly everyone is giving you penguins until they take over your bookshelves and eventually find their way into a box at the back of the closet.  But whenever Father’s Day comes around, I think about penguins.  One in particular,  the male emperor penguin. After the female of the pair lays her egg, she passes it to the male, who balances it on his feet, tucked under a pouch of skin, to keep it warm in the Arctic cold.  The female then leaves to forage for food.  Father penguin stands with that egg on  his feet for up to 64 days.

I think about this because my favorite memory of my late father is, when I was little, maybe about 6 or 7,  he would place my feet on his feet, and dance with me.  Music was informal in our house.  My father played what we called the mouth organ, which I later learned was a harmonica, loosely translated from the German.  His prized possession was a record player, that played the large format LPs. Every Christmas and birthday a new record would appear.  Italian and German popular songs, later in English (“Volare” was a big hit), musicals.  We would take it with us on our annual vacation from Chicago to a cabin we rented every year on a small lake in Wisconsin.  There  my dad would play music while he made gnocchi and ravioli by hand in the kitchen; I rounded up the kids my age from neighboring cabins to watch and assist in kneading the dough amidst clouds of flour. 

As I grew older, I spent less time with him—he worked long hours and had a 2-hour each-way commute.  I later learned that he put in the extra hours in order to get the Christmas bonus and various productivity awards, which were used to buy us holiday gifts.  During high school and college summers, he got me a  job at his company, and we commuted together.  My mother was talkative, especially in the morning—my dad and I were taciturn, not speaking at all during breakfast and the morning car ride.  But the afternoon  ride home was lively, as we discussed the doings of the day.  The company was located in the south side of Chicago, and provided my first introduction to African Americans. (I later learned that all my black supervisors in those years had been promoted to their positions by my father—black supervisors being a rarity in those days.) The office I worked in had about 50 desks, each occupied by a woman with an electric adding machine rapidly calculating strings of numbers all day long.  Rapidity was valued, and  I tried my best, but in my zeal I  blew up the  machine, setting the paper tape on fire.  The next summer I was given a different job. By now my dad had risen in the company, and had  access to the Executive Dining Room.  Once a  summer I was allowed to invite one of my co-workers to dine with him there. (I later learned that along with promoting African Americans, he also integrated the Executive Dining Room.  And many years later, he told me about the prejudices he himself had to overcome, suspicions about his accent and his Egyptian background.)  He really wasn’t a talker, especially not about himself.  Later when I moved away, when I would call and he answered the phone, there was a quick hello and then “I’ll get your mother.”  But we had good talks in the car when he picked me up from the train, and later from the airport.  Maybe he remembered the commutes.   I have lots of other great memories—parties in the yard where he recreated the Nile river and the pyramids,  an every-year birthday cake he baked that was a hazelnut torte with seven layers, each fragile section spread upon the bottom of a springform pan. 

Every father-child relationship is unique.  Every father expresses himself  in his own way.  But each balances his  children on his feet as best he can.  Happy Father’s Day.

This is Father and Son, by Zahi Khamis.  Art Heals.

Art Heals: Red

“I advise students on the subject of color as follows: If it looks good enough to eat, use it,” said artist Abe Ajay. Strawberries, summer tomatoes, red peppers.  Yum.  Yes, I know “seeing red” can mean uncontrollable anger, but more often, red has been associated with love, courage, revolution.  Scientists have found that of all colors, red evokes the strongest reaction; thus, warnings, stop signs, the “scarlet letter,” ecclesiastical robes, flags, even wedding garments in other cultures. Red is one of the first colors used by artists—red ochre was used as body paint in the late Stone Age, and Paleolithic cave paintings were done in red, the color easily obtained in nature.  Fun fact:  traces of red ochre were found on a painter’s palette in King Tut’s tomb!   Chinese created vermilion, brought to Europe by Arabs, became popular with Renaissance artists like Titian.  The pigment, known as Chinese red, was as expensive as gold leaf.  It remained the most popular red through the 20th century, but its toxicity and expense encouraged artists to switch to cadmium red.  Nature, hand in hand with artists, evolved many hues—cinnabar, crimson, carmine (from the cochineal insect, Spanish conquistadors taking it from the Aztecs.  Ultimately it was most associated with Rembrandt and Vermeer.  Colonialism and appropriation from the earliest days. 

As a curator, I am sensitive to color, as the red wall in my gallery (even mentioned in The Washington Post) attests. In my personal life, I go with black most of the time, but when asked, I always say my favorite color is red. I’ve often wondered why most people seem to have a “favorite.” An article by R. Douglas Fields Ph.D. in Psychology Today suggests “Color preferences are deeply rooted emotional responses that seem to lack any rational basis.” “But is ...color preference hard-wired by evolution or learned? Interestingly, the researchers found that Japanese color preferences were different from American preferences, suggesting a cultural influence on color preference.” Choice of color can be seen as an aggressive act, wearing all black is sometimes interpreted as sinister, the choice of a rebel (black motorcycle jackets being an emblem of “rebel cool” in American culture). Others see it as simply chic (the famous “black uniform” of New York women). It can also be practical, as is mentioned in a book, “Life Among the Poor in Cairo.” Women of all classes living in the same Cairo neighborhood chose to wear black garments (sometimes covering a more colorful one underneath). This made it possible to “level the playing field” of fashion, as cheaper materials can be perceived to be similar to expensive fabrics, at least from a distance. Me, I see both black and red as neutrals, providing background to the statement I wish to make, both in my personal choices and as a curator. I’ve had the red wall for many years now. Originally, I painted it to showcase a particular set of paintings about the Arab Spring. Since then, every painting I have installed there looks as if it were made for the wall. (Admission: I’ve unearthed my old school textbooks on color theory just to be sure.) But in many ways, the background becomes the foreground, in art and in life.  We all make choices in how to present ourselves to the world, whether in clothing or in art. Color provides non-verbal cues to our emotions, or sense of self, and the messages we wish to impart.  So, if black is your happy place, good for you. And if you choose to splatter rainbow hues like Jackson Pollack, hurrah. The philosopher Marshal McLuhan (anyone remember him?) famously said, “The medium is the message.” Art Heals.

This is Zahi Khamis’s Forbidden on the red wall.

Art Heals: Deep Sea Diving

Many years ago, I found myself on a rice barge in the Chao Phraya river in Thailand, watching a diver suit up.  He was about to enter the somewhat turgid waters to search for ancient Chinese porcelain supposedly left in the hull of a sunken ship. (While the pottery was indeed Chinese, it was neither ancient nor porcelain, but it was an outing on the river and that was enough for my enjoyment.)  As part of the atmospherics, the diver encased himself in an impressive 1830s-style diving suit featuring a copper helmet bolted to a canvas onesie, the latter attached to rubber boots.  Heavy gloves strapped to the suit completed the outfit. The diver then plunged vertically into the water, and we counted the surface bubbles as we awaited with bated breath (well, with snacks and fizzy drinks) his triumphant return, hoisting a blue and white pot in his upraised fist. Treasure!

So, the other day I had several errands to run.  At my advanced age, I take the quarantine seriously, so venturing out of my apartment requires some zealous loin girding.  I started to suit up.  Pants, long sleeves, outdoor-only shoes.  Wash hands. Don mask, carefully positioned to cover all facial orifices. Reposition my glasses so the mask fits under, not over, my eyes.  Reposition mask again to keep glasses from fogging up.  Don disposable gloves. Place second pair of disposable gloves in pocket, to wear in case first pair are contaminated.  Breathe deeply. Plunge vertically (6^th floor elevator) into the waters of the outside world to hunt for treasure (yes, of course, Pringles). 

I’ve always had a lively imagination, but the corona chaos has turned me into a royal thespian (read: drama queen).  Information overload has severely affected my discernment gene.  Risk assessment, fact vs. fiction, reality vs. exaggeration; I can no longer tell, so I err on the side of over-caution.  My deep dive into the waters of commerce is giving me the bends.  I think many of us are suffering from this decompression sickness.  The pressures of lockdowns have built up over these months, and we long for release.  Surfacing too quickly can lead to fatigue, dizziness, confusion, serious illness.  But surface we must.  I need to slow down, conquer fear with facts, and emerge gradually from the waters of Babylon.

I didn’t have to dive for these fish. Contemporary art in Australia. Art Heals.

Art Heals: Gimme Shelter

“Oh, a storm is threat’ning

My very life today

If I don’t get some shelter

Oh yeah, I’m gonna fade away”

Thanks, Rolling Stones.

The thing about a great song is, we hear it and absorb it and it matters not to us what the original impetus was; it serves us when we need it.

On my daily walks around the city, I can’t help but notice the proliferation of makeshift shelters for the homeless.  Jerry-rigged from cardboard and plastic sheeting, sometimes a bit more substantial in the form of pup tents, these dwellings define shelter in only the most rudimentary form.  These inadequacies are magnified by the strictures of shelter-in-place that coronavirus demands of us, strictures obviously unenforceable without basics like running water and sanitation, and a sturdy roof to keep out the rain.  How did we come to this? And doesn’t shelter have a greater meaning than just structures?

In prehistoric times, early man used the natural environment as shelter, trees and caves, later using stones and hides and tree branches in early construction.  Then came sun-dried bricks, used for hundreds of years by the ancient Egyptians, until the Assyrians improved upon this by baking them in fire and waterproofing them with a glazing process. Greeks and Romans advanced this construction with varied, stronger materials, and innovations such as central heating through underground pipes, leading to the concept of architecture.  The word architect comes from a compound Greek word meaning “to be the first,” “who commands” and “mason” or “builder.”   Thus, construction moved from the realm of basic shelter toward the realm of design and art, (to say nothing about the “starchitects” of today, whose work is often more in the realm of the theoretical than that of the practical.) At any rate, advances in technology moved shelter from personal agency to mass production. Sometimes the adaptations different cultures made to designs, fitting their habitat, climate and heritage needs, were adopted on a larger scale.  Too often, a more dominant culture imposed its own designs, devaluing and ultimately destroying indigenous solutions.

And with urbanization, shelter expanded to include shared social spaces. Small apartments meant more time spent outside the dwelling; cafes became substitute living and dining rooms.  Lack of gardens in tiny townhouses meant recreation in public parks.  Successful urban streetscapes took into account the need for benches to rest weary feet, and public toilets for those away from their homes.  As populations increased in urban areas, seeking employment and educational opportunities, inequities, racism, financial inequalities and greed began to affect shelter, both private and public.   Some of us have a lot; many of us have very little; some of us have none.

Which brings me to my second thought about the meaning of shelter.  To shelter is to offer comfort, to provide a place of refuge, for the soul and the spirit as well as the body. Being socially distant means the public spaces where we meet each other, the extensions of our dwellings, are no longer open to us, increasing our loneliness and social isolation.  Spending days and months inside our homes, we feel as if those homes are shrinking;  our privileged architecture of designated spaces ( here we cook, here we eat, here we recreate, here we sleep) morphs into crowded multi-use office/school/playroom/kitchen/gym/therapy couch.  Hard to control the clutter, hard to meet varying needs of time and space and occasional silence.  Our shelters are no longer always sheltering.  Which should lead us to empathy.  It only takes a moment to envision ourselves navigating these all too familiar tensions in the space of a four by six-foot pup tent with only a hand-washing station shared by dozens.  There are many calls upon our compassion these days.  Sheltering, emotionally, physically, financially, is creating the architecture of humanity.

Here is Jaune Quick-to-See Smith’s “House and Home.”  Art Heals.

Art Heals: Canis Familiaris

Hev, hev; guau, guau; wau wau; gav, gav; wan wan; bau bau; blaf blaf; ouaf,ouaf; * That’s woof woof to us English speakers.  I was doing my usual weekend walk-a-thon when I started thinking about dogs.  Thinking about dogs in DC, even if you haven’t got a dog of your own to think about, is pretty much ubiquitous.  Because the dogs are. Ubiquitous. And because I see art in everything, I am acutely aware of the role dogs play in the urban streetscape. In his sociological treatise, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Erving Goffman talks about the “maintenance of front,” a concept Italians call “bella figura.”  DC dogs take the art of self-presentation seriously. They trot, prance, lope, wearing their scarves, bow ties, and headgear with a seriousness of mien and aplomb that belies the somewhat unorthodox choices of apparel in which they appear.  Like the ID badges sported by the seriously connected (read: everybody) dogs confer identity to their owners/caregivers.  Before our forced isolation, our work and social lives were dog-linked.  We saw them hang around WeWork offices.  Judiciously partake of water and treats left for them by fawning businesses.  Patrol happy hour hotspots.  And confer upon their owners the status so necessary for DC happiness.  But now they have climbed up a few more steps on the happiness ladder, into the sphere of wellness.  We are all aware of the health benefits of having a companion animal.  Cats, guinea pigs, rabbits, and even geese can lower blood pressure and cortisol levels and increase dopamine and oxytocin.  But just now dogs are in the lead (as they prefer to be).  The lockdown has increased loneliness, anxiety, and the physical health risks that arise from stress and lack of exercise.  Dogs’ presence can ameliorate these conditions in unique ways.  People in isolation suffer from touch deprivation, mitigated by petting a dog.  And unlike the cat or the guinea pig (well, maybe not the goose) dogs need to be walked.  Even if you have a garden with a convenient doggie door, they still need to be walked.  They need to be fed, (even though some have mastered the “open the fridge, get me a beer” trick, they still can’t pour the kibble into their bowls).  All of these needs provide their human companions with exercise and structure, especially needed in these days of quarantine fog.  Pet those pets and you will soon be vacuuming the couch and throwing away all your black pants.  A walk around the block becomes a marathon of stopping and starting and sniffing and greeting other canines whose straining on the leash creates a social distancing quandary.   Throw a ball or a stick more than twice and you find yourself enrolled in the doggie world series, with you as the pitcher and extra innings on the board.  And one walk is never enough.  That animal sits by the door with the clear message, “hey, you are home, what else do you have to do except take me out?”   As the oldest domesticated species, (the earliest undisputed dog, buried beside humans over 14,000 years ago, was found  near my home town!) dogs have had plenty of time to develop the ability to communicate with and understand us humans, meaning manipulate us into giving them treats, of course.  And how do they do this?  With a unique developmental adaptation.  They look at us.  That gaze, that melting stare, that beseeching eye, is irresistible at the best of times.  But now, as we live in a world of masks and social distancing and lack of eye contact and fear of the other, that eye to eye gaze is comforting and healing and oh so necessary.  Next time you are out, whether you have a dog of your own, or are just out for a walk, interact with a dog, (properly caninely-distanced, of course).  Dogs heal.

*translation: Turkish, Spanish, German, Russian, Japanese, Italian, Dutch, French

Art Heals: Power

As we hope for systemic changes effectuated by the recent and ongoing protests for justice and racial equality, we do know that the protests will enter the history books.  And I am happy to know that the Smithsonian Institution is collecting and preserving the signs and posters and artwork that give visual power to the movement.  Art has the power to illuminate injustice and spur social change.  And that power belongs to all of us, those who make art and those who are inspired by it.  I have long written and talked about mural art and graffiti art, which have become mainstream, whether in a pavilion in the Venice Biennale or in the fame of the artist-provocateur Banksy.   The latest powerful images I saw protestors making and carrying stood out in my mind because they were so personal and original.  I didn’t see the pre-printed posters, professionally designed, distributed in advance of many earlier protests.  People took their broken hearts and made it into art.  Thinking about all this made me remember an important exhibition I curated some years ago and of a small art-world controversy that reminds me why some daubs of paint can carry so much weight.   Let me tell you about that, with a little digression into history.

A few years ago, in the sometimesrarified world of art and artists, there emerged a controversy that I think served to illustrate a greater truth. World-famous (and rich) artist Sir Anish Kapoor acquired the exclusive rights to a type of carbon-based pigment called Vantablack, “the blackest shade of black ever made,” according to numerous published articles. Without trying to explain the arcane science behind this pigment (which is actually not exactly paint, but tiny tubes of carbon that need to be applied wearing a gas mask), suffice it to say that the substance is so light-absorbing that the human eye cannot look at it and distinguish the kind of shadows which help the brain to interpret shapes. The example shown in all the reports is that of a crumpled piece of tin foil covered with a layer of the pigment. You cannot see any shapes—the foil appears flat.  Addressing the furor regarding Kapoor’s exclusive rights to Vantablack, artist Christain Furr commented “This black is like dynamite in the art world. We should be able to use it. It isn't right that it belongs to one man.”

For a little art-historical perspective (before we get to the social justice part of this commentary) artists throughout the centuries have tried to monopolize or be associated with particular colors. A blue pigment made from lapis lazuli, only found in Afghanistan, was once highly prized and exorbitantly priced. Eighteenth century painters like Joshua Reynolds paid enormous fees to use a deep black paint called “Titian’s shade.” In 1960 the French artist Yves Klein patented a vibrant blue forever known as “International Klein Blue” (but he did not keep it for his exclusive use.) *

Thinking back on this, and seeing the protest posters bravely held aloft against military riot shields, I was reminded of an exhibition I held called “Forbidden Colors.”  I asked artists to consider the use of color both objectively as a way of arousing certain feelings in both artist and observer, and metaphorically exploring artists’ responses to various forms of censorship or political pressure. The show took its name from a 1980 Israeli law forbidding art of "political significance," which in effect banned artwork composed of the four colors of the Palestinian flag: red, green, white and black. Palestinians were arrested for making or displaying such artwork. The ban was lifted after the signing of the Oslo Accords in 1993. The significance of this ban is enormous. I am often reminded of Picasso’s words, “Art is not made to decorate rooms. It is an offensive weapon in the defense against the enemy.” Red, green, white, black. Mere colors, colors that exist in the world, independent of human intervention, possessing such power that an authoritarian government seeks to ban their display! Color possessing such power that the mere sight of red, green, white, black, could incite riot, rebellion, demands for justice, hope, despair, nationalism, pride, love. Artists instinctively understand this power. They are willing to pay any price, make any sacrifice, to be able to penetrate the gaze and touch the soul with a dab of cerulean blue or the deepest black. And anyone who makes a poster, paints a portrait, draws a mural, illustrates a cartoon, picks up a pen or a crayon or chalks the sidewalk, possesses that power.  Art is a strong weapon in the fight for justice, for the rights of patrimony, peace, freedom. Art continues to hold our gaze; it forces us to look, and hopefully, to see. Protest is a right.  Expression is a right. Colors cannot be forbidden. My hope is that repressive regimes here and everywhere will look into that blackest black and see not the depths of despair but the infinite freedom that is the birthright of all humanity.  Art Heals.

*(For more on this subject, read “Color: A Natural History of the Palette” by Victoria Finlay or “Blue: The History of a Color” by Michel Pastoureau.)

From the “Forbidden Colors” exhibition, this is Censored Memory, by Adam Chamy

Art Heals: Let's Dance

Perhaps the first archeological proof of dance comes from 9,000-year-old cave paintings in India, or the dancing figures depicted in ancient Egyptian tombs.  Historians believe that celebratory and ritual dances are essential to the development of early human civilizations. 

Why am I talking about this?  Well, yesterday the weather precluded my taking my daily walk and my body and my mind reacted in an uncivilized way.  I was achy and grumpy and certainly not civil. My body was telling me, “move, girl.”  Then I came upon some news footage of people dancing as part of a protest near the White House.  This made me think about the words movements and movement.   To move is to change position, physically.  To move someone is to stir their emotions, to persuade.  To move is to take a stand: “I move that the Board ratify these changes.”  “The motion passes five to four.”   To move is to keep pace: to move with the times. Moving up.  Moving on. Moving forward. The women’s movement. The civil rights movement. The anti-war movement.   A movement can be a piece of music, a pattern of dance steps.  Which brings me back to those dancers at the protest.  Rather than being antithetical to their purposes, their dancing was a natural consequence of their demands.  The urgent call for movement demanded movement.  And the long pent-up feelings of the protestors, the adrenalin rush of rage at injustice, combined with the joy of solidarity and the hope for change found its natural expression in that dancing.

Gotta move.  Back to the historians.  Researchers think that as early humans needed to cooperate with each other to survive, dance may have been a kind of social interaction that established that cooperation.  (Weird fact: in a study of some of the world’s best dancers, researchers found they shared two specific genes that are thought to predispose people to be good social communicators.)   But what of us two-left-feeters (meaning me)?  You already know about my rhythm deficiency anemia.  Here’s proof.  Many years ago, while we lived in Holland, my companion in isolation and I decided to take dancing lessons, having grown up in the era when shaking what our mamas gave us did not require moving our feet in any perceivable pattern.  Problems arose in that only one of us spoke Dutch (me) and one of us was supposed to lead (not me).  So the teacher spoke, I translated, we argued about the accuracy of my translation, and we danced, several crucial beats behind the music and everyone else.  Chaos.  Not good social communication.  But that is ancient history.

Now I see dance as movement, as an important component of feeling, of healing.  I don’t need to be an expert, just as I don’t need to be in a position of power or authority to effect change.  I just have to move.

Recently the New York Times featured an article about how music and dance are sources of healing in Ojibwe culture. I quote the author, Dr. Brenda Child, “Traditions of song and dance help restore the balance that is drained by bodily sickness and deliver spiritual sustenance to those who have lost loved ones. Art, in other words, allows us to survive.”

Art Heals.  Let’s dance.

This is Shinnecock Fancy Shawl Dancer, Tohanash Tarrant, Bruce’s Garden, New York City by photographer Phoebe Farris (Powhatan-Pamunkey)

Art Heals: Hair

Many things have been growing during our time in isolation.  Growing impatience.  Growing waistlines. Growing outrage.  Growing skills.  Growing plants. Growing children, if you have them.   And hair.  Growing hair.   Business meetings can be conducted on Zoom.  Doctors and therapists have instituted virtual consultations. Teachers have taught algebra, baking, yoga, meditation, mask making.  But home haircuts, like home dentistry, is another matter entirely.   Not that we haven’t tried. Haircutting tips are the most searched for on YouTube and Google.  Big money has been spent online in the search for clippers and scissors (really not a good idea to use the scissors you use to cut apart the chicken; believe me, I know).

But why this urgency?  Why are flowing locks such an irritant in the midst of much greater concerns?  How did hair become a symbol of, well, a symbol of something?

Let’s ask Venus. (Not Williams, though I love her hair no matter how she wears it.) But Willendorf and Brassampouy, those two beauties of 30,000 BC. Their elaborately  styled  and braided coiffures rocked the Ice Age.  Hair served a purpose for men, too—Celtic warriors bleached their beards with lime—this somehow intimidated their enemies.  Samurai hairstyles created a nice secure nest for their helmets during combat (motorcyclists, take note). Roman soldiers’ short back and sides defined the military look for ages to come.  Long hair and natural hair became a political statement in the 60s, (and a Broadway musical).  “The way we wear our hair” became a statement of our identity.  It was a choice freely made, not dependent upon wealth.    We could care for our hair at home, as our mothers did with clippers and razors and oh Lord, bowls, when we were little.  And Clairol told us we were worth it as we struggled with the chemical balance of little bottles out of a box. But the caring for our hair became a social opportunity, as hairdressers and barbers filled a need for counselling, friendship and communication.  That was truly worth it.  That, I think is the urgency.  Haircuts are another form of touching, of caring, of communication that we have had to give up in isolation.  Sure, we want to look good.  And the hotter it gets, the more I want to cut my bangs.  But mostly, we want to go back to they days when shaping our locks shaped our camaraderie.  

It isn’t hair, but it makes me smile: a ceramic sculpture by Laurel Lukaszewski.  Art Heals.