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.

Art Heals: Anthromorphism

Days became weeks became months, and now here we are, still best friends with our couches.  Never before have we lived in such intimate relation to our furniture.  Pre-quarantine, if you can remember that far back, the objects in our homes were taken for granted, there when we needed them, otherwise pretty much ignored. One of the few pieces of great literature I have memorized is the following poem:

As I was sitting in my chair,

I knew the bottom wasn’t there,

Nor legs nor back,

But I just sat,

Ignoring little things like that.

Unless the appliance broke down, the upholstery ripped, or the vase shattered, my surroundings existed merely as background to the actions of my life.  Until now. The new reality of quarantine has awakened a cognitive dissonance in my brain, in which I have fallen in love with my couch.  This malady is well known to psychologists and has been extensively studied. Archaeologist Steven Mithen submits that in the Upper Paleolithic era, hunters began to empathically identify with animals in order to better predict their movements in their quest to bring home the bacon (or beef, or mastodon; not sure about my Paleolithic beasties).  Modern psychologists have found that anthropomorphism functions as a coping strategy for loneliness, when other human connections are not available. Hence, me and my couch.  And as the French say, ce n’est ne pas ma faute. Psychologist Adam Waytz and his team developed a theory of anthropomorphism that posits when the factors “effectance, the drive to interact with and understand one’s environment, and sociality, the need to establish social connections” are high, we are likely to humanize things.  Add in such factors as the need for cognition and uncertainty avoidance, and that desk chair becomes your new best friend.  How long will this last?  Will we, when we can go out again, share brunch and a hug with friends, share the sidewalk with strangers, will we abandon our highboys and settees to the dust bunnies that previously were their only companions?  Or will we remember fondly the comfort they gave us in our forlornness?  Give the gift of reupholstery.

This is Silla Gris, by the Mexican artist Martin Pacheco.  Art Heals.

Art Heals: Rhythm

My companion in isolation listens to a lot of jazz.  I like it too, but I have never been able to listen to music while I am working,or reading.  Or walking, or on the metro, or the treadmill. (Ok, I don’t really have a treadmill, but I wouldn’t listen if I were on one.) Listening to music, for me, is an activity that requires my full concentration.  I need to be still and be open.

 I am not naturally musical. Piano lessons on a neighbor’s piano when I was about 9 was a dismal failure (exacerbated by a classically trained Russian teacher, whose methods of correction involved a ruler and my fingers). I tried teaching myself guitar in the 60s, but despite my long hair and granny glasses, flower power just wasn’t working for me.  Many years later, I was given a keyboard so that I could accompany my husband, who plays the saxophone, on Christmas carols during imaginary festivities in our home.  The teacher (really nice and patient) quit after four lessons.  Back to silent nights that year. Never sang in the school choir. Can’t dance.  The verdict: ain’t got no rhythm.   But despite all that, I do enjoy music all kinds (stuck in a wheelchair for  a year due to a freak accident, I read translated librettos while listening to operas on tape, and learned to love opera).   And while I couldn’t produce rhythm,  I never felt that I couldn’t appreciate it.   Enlightenment came when I discovered two things.  The first was a book, “What to Listen for in Music,” by Aaron Copeland that gave me a great deal of insight into the principles and nuances that work like an alphabet to unlock the melodic mysteries that I thought only those with “the ear” could discern.  The second thing changed everything for me.   I discovered notan.   Notan is a Japanese word that means light-dark harmony.  All my life I have been a visually oriented person, but I could never reconcile that with my lack of musical comprehension.  I loved the look of musical notation on paper, but I could never learn to read the notes, to translate the visual into the aural.  Yet when I studied art, I found I could instinctively comprehend rhythm in the brushstrokes on a painting, or the sweeping lines of a sculpture.   An artwork is a composition, just as is a piece of music.  The rhythm in a painting comes from its balance of light and dark elements, the underlying shapes that structure the piece, whether realist or abstract, a foundation for the details of color and texture that follow.  When there is a balance, another Japanese term comes into play, ma, the “space in between.”  There must be emptiness to create a space for fullness to enter.  That push-pull between the seen and the unseen provides the rhythmic energy of great art.

I love the fact that looking art can set my inner swing in motion.  And how that cadence can help me get through the emptiness of many of my recent days.  We already have the downbeat, let’s find the upbeat, any way we can.

This rhythmic painting is “My Country,” by Australian Aboriginal artist Tarisse King, who traces the tracks and rivers where her ancestors once walked. Art Heals.

Art Heals: Looking at Art

Let’s talk about looking at art.  Oh, you say, isn’t that what we have been doing since we started reading these missives (I know you call them missives, rather than something perhaps less flattering).  Indeed, that is precisely what we have been doing, in my meandering fashion. 

Hisham Matar recently wrote in the New York Times, “[a painting] is never finished, [it] must continue to do its work long after it has been hung on the gallery wall…a picture relies on us to complete it.”  He posits that our culture depends on free access to museums, because the art depends on it.  “How can those paintings in the museum, hanging in the dark, function?”  He observes that an artwork, previously ignored by the passing viewer, can suddenly become significant.  “Art is in constant dialogue with history.”

Matar has expressed the core of my belief and explained why I offer you an artwork each day. Art not only has a function, it functions as a living thing. It lives as it is being created but continues to live more vibrantly when it is seen.  Almost as soon as I began my quarantine, receiving information and stimulation second hand, I realized that I missed more than my friends, and brunch, and travel, and shopping and an endless supply of Pringles. I missed looking at art.  It had become so much a part of my daily life, I only became aware of its allegiant presence by its absence.   And as I began to reflect on the fear and sadness brought by the pandemic that was not going to end soon, and on the resilience and ingenuity of people around the world living in their own isolation,  I knew I had to find some way to incorporate art into my daily life again.  As the news turned ever more dire, as death and job loss and loneliness began to consume people, I turned to art and the artists I knew, who were struggling with all this too.  I thought art might heal. In these last days, with the broken bodies and souls demanding to finally be heard, demanding long-delayed justice, I hoped art might play a small role in healing, too.  I certainly have no answers, but I hope art helps me to ask the right questions.  And I hope looking at art with me has given you some respite, a little laughter, a different point of view, a little healing. I want to share the work of one of “my” artists (they are my family, too), Lukman Ahmad’s portrait of George Floyd, painted, I know, in empathy by an artist who understands injustice and shares personally in pain. Art Heals.

Art Heals: Future

We are still in our days of rage.  We are heartsick, our adrenalin spikes are exhausting us, yet we feel we must persist.  Some of us can protest with our bodies.  Others do what we can through donations, through writing, through documenting, through educating ourselves, and understanding that all the things we think we know are merely a fraction of the things we need to know.  That the outrage is global is heartening yet frightening too.  We can feel overwhelmed.  Everywhere we look now, we see—not only on our screens, but out our very windows.  The impact of this is somehow more powerful because we have been living in isolation for months.  While we complained, and worried for our health, for our loved ones, for our livelihoods, we had achieved a certain acceptance of our lack of control over the circumstances of our home confinement.  We started listening to the silence, we started watching the birds.  For a while, it seemed our world had taken a pause.  We rejoiced in the small victories, cleaner air, cleaner water, while we waited for the final victory of a vaccine that would carry us into the future, return our lives to us.   But the reality, the real real of our lives,  the inequality lurking in the statistics of vastly disproportionate sickness and death and job loss among communities of color, was waiting beneath the surface of our daily preoccupations to erupt like a volcano, spewing the fire and ash of injustice in eight minutes and  forty-six seconds of inescapable, authentic truth.

The rage must take its course.  But like the fires that burn to allow new growth, we will, we must, clear the underbrush of our prejudices and misconceptions and privilege and systemic injustice.  In that cleared space lies the future.  It will be on us to sustain those who will occupy that space, who will create new ways of thinking and acting and being, not forgetting history, but using it as seeds of progress to nourish a new society.  Despair is not an option. The only option is hope, and faith in the youth that are raging now, in preparation for the renewal that they are capable of creating, with our help.

This is “Our Children Are Our Future”  by Manal Deeb.  Art Heals.

Art Heals: Dear Friends

Dear Friends,

I write this salutation automatically.  It is a phrase, like “how are you”  that simply oils the social wheels.   We don’t really expect an answer other than “fine”or “fine, how about you?” (Except for those awkward moments when people reply, “ well, I have this pain in my  toe….”)   The phrase exists in other languages, eliciting the same sort of answer. “Comment ça va?  Ça va bien, et toi?”  “Come stai?  Tutto bene.” “ Wie geht’s? Gut, danke.”   Even if answered in the negative, “not bad” is the fallback position: "pas mal," "non c’è male," "nicht schlecht."  Positivity is the default position.  But no longer.   That simple question has become fraught.  The last few months has brought us Covid 19 and the economic crisis that followed, the killing of George Floyd and the subsequent uprising, with the many families of those harmed or killed by racial injustice and the protestors on the front lines of danger and pain and death, health care and essential workers on the front lines of heartache and fear and death,  and the heartache and sorrow of the families of the over 100,000 people who have died, and the nearly 2 million sick in the US alone.  How are you now? 

Remaining untouched takes on new meaning too.  Covid enjoined us not to touch, not to embrace.  The protests enjoin us to do the opposite, to hug, to express our pain and solidarity in physical ways.  Both ways, contradictory as they are, charge us to manifest our care for each other.  We are brothers and sisters in pain.  The words “how are you” must  now be followed by “what can I do to help?”   Each in our own  way, we have the means to help.  There is no right way, there is just everyone’s individual way.

In the Thai language “ how are you” is expressed as “have you eaten?”   Dear friends,  and friends I haven’t yet met, how can I nourish you?

This piece by artist Ben Belghachi  speaks to my hunger for connection, and to say Art Heals.

Art Heals: Resistance

I woke up this morning to sunshine and balmy temperatures.  And grief.  How is nature not shedding tears of rain, hurling thunderbolts of lament, blackening the sky with clouds of sorrow?

How to find healing in these days?  Most of my concerns in my life as a curator have dealt with art as a tool and a voice of social justice. Resistance is hard. Especially now, when no one feels really safe, or in control, when doing what is necessary, staying home, seems passive instead of active, where does resistance fit in?

Given the injustice we have all seen this week, and the systemic injustice faced by communities of color throughout our history, how to protest, how to resist?  A quotation from the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., has been frequently cited these last few days. What stunned me is that he said this 53 years ago. It could have been said today.

“Let me say as I've always said, and I will always continue to say, that riots are socially destructive and self-defeating. ... But in the final analysis, a riot is the language of the unheard…. [America has] has failed to hear that the promises of freedom and justice have not been met. And it has failed to hear that large segments of white society are more concerned about tranquility and the status quo than about justice, equality, and humanity. And so in a real sense our nation's summers of riots are caused by our nation's winters of delay. And as long as America postpones justice, we stand in the position of having these recurrences of violence and riots over and over again. [Martin Luther King Jr., "The Other America"]”

This is a brutal reminder, but for me, I do not want it to be a dispatch of despair.   What can I do to give voice to the unheard?  The artist Joseph Beuys has said, “The only revolutionary power is the power of human creativity. The only revolutionary power is art.”  It may not be the only one, but it is a strong one.

Resistance art has taken many forms, including what I call the presence of absence—boycotts, refusals, repudiation.  Others harness the power of the visual, painting portraits of anguish that howl louder than screams. 

 

  

 Resistance by Zahi Khamis,    African Guernica by Dumile Feni,                    

Arab Spring Exodus by Helen Zughaib

We must use the tools we have.   An artist is supplying information on organizations that can use our money to pay bail for those jailed, especially now during protests, helping to prevent the injustice of incarceration for the poor, while the wealthy walk away.   Some artists use canvas or paper, or the walls of the city.  Some use their own bodies (look up Waafa Bilal, Tattoo Casualty, too graphic to show here).  Writers, poets, lyricists, supply us with words so loud and poignant and truthful that they explode ignorance and hate.  From the Bible, through James Baldwin, “The Fire Next Time.”   Next time is now.  The fires are here.  Fires burn, but they cleanse as well.  Resistance must give birth to renewal. If we do what we can, it may not be too late.  I pray art heals.