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.