Thursday, May 18, 2017

Art Practice and Protest.





















BY NAMIKO KUNIMOTO
Assistant professor of art history at The Ohio State University


In 1950, Japanese political parties and grassroots organizations began to stand up and fight back against the Reverse Course, the conservative shift in policies of the American Occupation. Art rapidly became an important avenue for protest, and at the forefront of this intersection was the reportage movement. "Reportage painting" (ruporutāju kaiga) referred to a style of politically motivated left-wing art that sought to depict sites of political action, often in a surrealistic style. In Justin Jesty’s words, “Reportage became more than a style: it was a social practice which aimed to realize alternative communities through research and art.” Reportage artists represented events such as the Lucky Dragon Incident, wherein a Japanese tuna-fishing trawler was irradiated by an American hydrogen bomb in the Bikini Atoll, as well as urgent social issues such as impoverishment in rural villages and the Allied Occupation forces’ planned expansion of the Tachikawa airfield into adjacent farmland.

The expansion of the Tachikawa airfield provoked large-scale protests that became known as the Sunagawa Struggle. Popular anger and protest were so vociferous that the plans for the expansion of the base were eventually abandoned, although the governments of the United States and Japan had formally agreed to the development. For Japanese artist Nakamura Hiroshi (born 1932), the expansion of the Tachikawa base resonated deeply. Sunagawa No. 5 (1955) became his most famous artwork, and it helped build momentum for activism in Japan by heightening awareness about political events, by elevating the stakes of the event, and by moving art into the realm of the social – a new and radical turn coming while Japan was still under Allied Occupation.

Nakamura’s painting is a polemical indictment of the pivotal events of the Sunagawa struggle that captivates viewers through the use of montage, the highly animated depiction of bodies, and through its political currency. The title Sunagawa No. 5, for example, rather than referring to a series, ties the work closer to the site of action: “No. 5” makes reference to 5-chome, the fifth block in the district where the protest was taking place. This is where Nakamura himself participated in the demonstrations. At this pivotal time, protests were ongoing from 1955 to 1959. Student activists, residents, and Labor Party members joined forces as never before and clashed with the state police. Sunagawa became a meaningful site in terms of exploring the limits and possibilities of political selfhood in relation to larger issues of political hegemony. The powerful dynamic between art and artists had demonstrated that solidarity could bring about change. This is a dynamic that can be felt in North America today.

Following the election of Donald Trump, activism is similarly growing. The Women’s March of January 21, 2017, has been noted as the biggest march on Washington; but perhaps more importantly, the march brought into the streets millions of people in scores of cities who had never participated in a protest of any kind. The National Humanities Alliance reported that record-breaking calls and letters preserved and even increased funding for the National Endowment for the Humanities. These actions show that the people are practicing — practicing to become active voices against the state.

Participating in one protest might not change the world, but is in an act that encourages the mind and the body to shift the terrain of what is considered politically normative. Indeed, in Nakamura’s case, it was participating in the protests at Tachikawa that motivated him to complete a painting. Similarly, art groups today have rapidly formed in response to Trump’s rhetoric and policies. Indecline, an anonymous anarchist street art collective, produced a series of sculptures depicting Donald Trump nude, with a plaque that reads “the emperor has no balls.” Another artist, Illma Gore, has completed a pastel drawing of Trump nude, entitled “Make America Great Again.” Other artists have become, like Nakamura, organized members of artistic wings of the political movement. Hank Willis Thomas and Eric Gottesman created an artist-run super PAC, For Freedoms, which encourages artistic protest. Their collaborations have included billboards that display the words “Make America Great Again” superimposed over photographic reproductions of the Selma to Montgomery marches that took place in 1965.

As Jacques Rancière notes, “Art and politics each define a form of dissensus, a dissensual re-configuration of the common experience of the sensible.” Rancière sees genuine art and politics as capable of creating new relations between the visible and the invisible, potentially liberating bodies from their assigned places and breaking with the “natural” order of the sensible. Under these lights, we can recognize the potential explicit and implicit effects of protest art: it expresses the outrage of the people, documents key political events, and shifts the terrain of acceptability and normativity. Just as in 1950s Japan, anti-state artworks today are at once an expression of solidarity and a call to action, one that contributes to the growing movement for change.


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Namiko Kunimoto is author of The Stakes of Exposure: Anxious Bodies in Postwar Japanese Art and assistant professor of art history at The Ohio State University.

"Kunimoto’s manuscript is exactly what the field of Japanese postwar art needs at this time."
—Alicia Volk, University of Maryland

"Eschewing group-centric approaches, The Stakes of Exposure focuses on four artists whose aesthetic politics figure postwar bodies in struggle, vulnerability, desire, and connection. Namiko Kunimoto's analysis navigates between history, historical art literature, and theoretical touchstones through her lucid readings."
—William Marotti, UCLA



Thursday, May 4, 2017

Imagining Another Television.





















BY MICHAEL CRAMER
Assistant professor of film history at Sarah Lawrence College


The term “utopia” is most often used to refer to a place (most frequently an imaginary one) as it was in Sir Thomas More’s book of the same name. More’s Utopia (1516), of course, was followed by plenty of other representations of “perfect” societies. There is no single motivation behind such representations: at times they are driven by critical or satirical intent, at others by a practical program that the author seeks to undertake in reality, but in some cases, purely by a desire to imagine what it might be like to live differently, or what the future might hold. Moving beyond the realm of the literary, the term is also frequently applied to a particular orientation or attitude, often pejoratively: one dismisses as “utopian” plans that seem impossible to achieve or that fail to adequately consider the reality of the present in their aspirations for the future.

But what if we were to think of utopia not so much as an imaginary place that can be represented or a future condition to aspire to, but rather as a mode of thinking? In his Valences of the Dialectic, Fredric Jameson explains how one might apply “utopia as method,” a thought process through which “what is currently negative can also be imagined as positive in that immense changing of the valences that is the utopian future” (423). Utopian thinking, then, would entail imagining how what currently exists could, through our imaginative projection of its development or its future, be the basis of something better, the initial condition of a more positive future state. This way of thinking, however, need not be identified with the formulation of actual utopian plans: it is not necessarily a way to decide on a course of political action (although it may be used as such), but rather a way of testing the boundaries of our imaginations, of discovering how our own historical situation determines how we can envision our future, and hence becoming more aware of how ideologically constrained and contingent our sense of what is “reasonable” or even desirable is.



My intervention in Utopian Television: Rossellini, Watkins, and Godard beyond Cinema is to posit that a “utopian method” can be applied not only to speculative thought, but also to artistic practice: to be a utopian in this sense would not mean creating representations of imaginary ideal places or of the future, but rather transforming what exists in a way that imagines what it might be in the future. I argue that Roberto Rossellini, Peter Watkins, and Jean-Luc Godard, in their works for television, are doing precisely that: they identify elements of television that were present in Western Europe in the 1960s—on an institutional level, a technological level, and a formal level—and imagine how these might become components of a different, better kind of television. They take from the institutional structures and discourse constitutive of European television the concept of “public service”—the idea that television should not be seen primarily as a means of entertainment or a lucrative business, but rather a means for education and civic engagement. On a technological level, they draw out the implications of conceiving of the image not as an object but as a transmission, a form of communication that travels from one place to another but also from one individual to another, and consider the possible advantages of its placement in the home. Finally, on a formal level, they imitate the forms that had become typical of television by this time: an emphasis on speech and “talking heads,” but also the sense of proximity to the real, if unfiltered, immediacy characteristic of television news programs.

What makes their works “utopian,” however, is the fact that all three directors alter the meaning and functions of these elements: they detect a potential in television as it exists that is not being fully exploited, that is limited by the current political and ideological conditions in which it exists. Their works thus do not claim to create or represent the future, but enact what Jameson calls “revalencing”: public service becomes not an ill-defined and often hollow concept to serve as cover for the goals of the state/party or an extension of patronizing, universalizing plans to “uplift the masses,” but rather an imperative to critique the state and its policies (as in Watkins’s The War Game) by shocking the spectator with horrific images. Television’s status as a communicative transmission and its placement in the home are used not to create a false sense of intimacy or to function as the extension of state power into the living room (as it was in the hands of Charles de Gaulle), but rather to meditate on the meaning of “communication” and how media usually forbid it, or to invite the viewer to consider how television may function as a disciplinary mechanism (as in Jean-Luc Godard and Anne Marie-Miéville’s two television series, 6 x 2: On and Under Communication and France tour détour deux enfants). The forms developed by television to convey a sense of reality and immediacy are both undermined and exploited by Watkins, insofar as his precise replication of them to depict fictional (or past) events suggests their constructed character while still taking advantage of their aesthetic power. Rossellini, meanwhile, takes television’s affinity for speech to an extreme, replacing the talking heads of newscasters or presenters with lengthy discourses from great scientists and philosophers (in Blaise Pascal and Cartesius, among others), at once imitating television and radically refusing its commitment to short attention spans and easily digestible material.



Television as it exists thus becomes the raw material for the imagining of what it might be: its current characteristics, even if they seem to be largely negative, are not negated but rather dialectically transformed, drawing out their promise. The process, however, remains speculative: in other words, none of the three directors actually changed television’s practices or its character as an institution (and only Rossellini had any conviction that this might be possible). They show us—and here we find another key component of utopianism—an “impossible” television, one that cannot exist, due to a wide variety of economic, political, and ideological factors, on a wider scale than their individual experiments. A utopian television, then, is one that does not exist, or that exists only in something like an imaginary or provisional form. It is the fact that it does not and cannot exist on any wider scale, though, that gives it its critical power, leading us to inquire as to why this might be the case, and to imagine what kind of media we want and need. This lesson is perhaps more relevant than ever today: while the public service, state monopoly model of television that dominated Europe in the 1960s is now a distant memory, media institutions, technologies, and forms are changing faster than ever, opening up new opportunities for rethinking and reinventing the roles they play in our lives. Their development will, of course, depend largely on how they can be monetized most effectively, and those who own and finance them will certainly act in accordance with the profit motive. Rather than rejecting the forms of media that develop in this context though, we would do well to look for their utopian potential, using them to think our way out of them. To do so is in fact necessary to avoid the “bad” kind of utopianism, which would simply imagine that one could, ex nihilo, conjure something better than what exists. Instead, we must look for the raw materials out of which we could fashion that which we wish for within those things that seem, at present, the most hostile to our dreams of a better future. Only when we attempt to do this will we begin to see how much those dreams are bound up with the futures imagined for us by the likes of Silicon Valley, Wall Street, or the Department of Defense—and thus be able to free ourselves from them.


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Michael Cramer is assistant professor of film history at Sarah Lawrence College.

"Both theoretical treatise and intellectual history, Michael Cramer’s intervention matches the utopian vision of its subject as he efficiently and astutely navigates us through the thorny politics of art cinema."
—Karl Schoonover, University of Warwick

"Michael Cramer's fine book explores those paths not taken that define a genre, that interplay between film and TV pioneered by Rossellini in service of a now utopian social pedagogy. Peter Watkins' understudied work, along with Rossellini's experiments—unfamiliar to those who only know him through the early masterpieces—throw a wholly new light on Godard himself, and Cramer's luminous readings of the works are as stimulating as his overall theorization of this new, or perhaps missed, form."
—Fredric Jameson, Duke University

Friday, April 28, 2017

Sarah Stonich on memoir writing, truth, and Shelter.





















BY SARAH STONICH


Upon the paperback release of Shelter: Off the Grid in the Mostly Magnetic North, author Sarah Stonich answers questions posed by BookFox.


Q. Does writing energize or exhaust you?

Both. I’d compare a good session of writing to a long day of stone-stacking or gardening. They are very similar in that you’re left exhausted in the best possible way, with tangible results. One is such a mental endeavor and the other so physical, yet the satisfaction is oddly similar.

Q. If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?

I was never a young writer—I assumed one couldn’t presume to write before accruing some life first, so didn’t write a word until my late thirties and wasn’t published until after forty. Knowing now that my most satisfying writing is not the product of experience but of imagination, I would tell my younger self to pick up the pen sooner. I would say trust your imagination to drive the work, spare yourself any pretense of control. Ditch the ego and don’t let yourself get in the way of the story.

Q. How important is truth in memoir?

I love Stephen Colbert's term "truthiness" but am alarmed at how honest reportage is labeled "fake news." Truth matters. But, because there are so few facts in a life, memoir may be the single exception where truthiness is acceptable. Can you remember a conversation verbatim? Probably not. Can a writer truthfully portray a story, a person a memory authentically without a list of facts? I think so.

Q. What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?

As a child I had a sort of epiphany I had no language for. I do my best adult imitation of describing that moment in Shelter—I typed out words, even though there was more to that experience than words can convey.

Q. What memoirs have you read lately?

I’m reading It’s Okay to Laugh: Crying is Cool, Too by Nora McInerny Purmort – a surprisingly uplifting memoir by a young wife and mother whose husband dies of brain cancer. Not the sort of story I’d normally seek out, but my family is currently taking a similar gut-punch. Nora’s story is reminding me there is a perverse nobility and strength that comes with death.

Q. How many unpublished and half-finished books do you have?

Too many—five? Seven? Probably ten. I like to think I will finish some of those half-baked efforts, but since new ideas for books are already elbowing in, the odds narrow.

Q. What does literary success look like to you?

Making a living wage is rare for most writers. Literary "stardom" is a dream. Realistically, success for me is being positively reviewed and acquiring a loyal readership. When something I’ve written has either touched or inspired a reader or made them relate deeply to a character, that feels like success. When readers take the trouble to write or post a review online, that’s even better. Hopefully, my books get read. Since financial security isn’t a realistic goal (buy books!) there is at least consolation knowing my efforts and words aren’t just dissipating into the ether.

Q. Do you view writing as a kind of spiritual practice?

No – it’s more like play. The act of stringing and juggling words and stories feels like self-indulgence, shirking the very adult and serious business of living. That said, there is the occasional enlightening moment, when the writing teaches me something.

Q. What did you edit out of this book?

Things about my relationship with my husband, which I feel very protective of. And that’s all I’m gonna say!

Q. What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?

The Dublin stumble of writers pubs. The Twin Cities alone has enough literary history to plot out a great route for a pilgrimage. Canadians have a program called Bookmarks, placing plaques at the locales of literary landmarks to commemorate the books and authors. A few years back a map of MN authors was produced at some expense. If more were invested in a permanent literary trail, we could be a book tourist’s destination.

Q.What’s next for you?

When I finished Vacationland, I didn’t realize it wasn’t finished with me. Several characters wouldn’t let me go, and so that book has expanded into a trilogy. I’m just wrapping up Laurentian Divide and beginning research on book three.

Q. Will you do any events surrounding the paperback release of Shelter: Off the Grid in the Mostly Magnetic North?

I usually enlist other authors and have a conversation surrounding a theme. ‘Paddling, Mushing, and Woodshedding’ will take place at Common Good Books at 7pm on May 18th with Julie Buckles, author of Paddling to Winter, and Blair Braverman, intrepid musher who wrote Welcome to The Goddamn Ice Cube.


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Sarah Stonich is author of the critically acclaimed novels Vacationland (Minnesota, 2013), The Ice Chorus, and These Granite Islands (Minnesota, 2013) as well as Fishing with RayAnne (writing as Ava Finch). The founder of WordStalkers.com, she lives in Minneapolis in a repurposed flour mill.

Shelter: Off the Grid in the Mostly Magnetic North is now available in a paperback edition from University of Minnesota Press.



Thursday, April 20, 2017

"Flying Funny": The unusual gravity-defying first act of improv theater's founding father, Dudley Riggs.


"Fliffus."

"Word Jazz."

"Instant Theater."

Now we know it as Improvisational Theater.

The father of improvisation and founder of the Brave New Workshop in Minneapolis in 1958, Dudley Riggs grew up in the circus. His parents were circus performers and as a young boy, Dudley was thrown into the exciting, adrenaline-fueled world of performance. His younger years were spent mostly on the road until he reached college age, settling by chance in Minnesota and floating an idea he had held in his head for some time about applying the Freudian technique of "free association" to theatrical performance. A friend told him to lay off "improvisation"—that was the territory of jazz music.

This idea took on many iterations, all of which are detailed in Dudley's new memoir, Flying Funny: My Life without a Net, which includes a foreword by Al Franken. On Wednesday, April 19, the University of Minnesota Press and the Brave New Workshop hosted an evening to celebrate the book's publication and the wondrous early life Dudley lived that led to the Brave New Workshop's successful creation and evolution into the longest running satirical comedy theater in the United States.


While on tour in Italy with the circus, Dudley Riggs
purchased this espresso machine, which served as the
fuel for Riggs' Cafe Espresso, the birth place
of the Brave New Workshop.
The machine was so foreign to local licensing authorities
that they forced Riggs to get training as a boiler operator.

Brave New Introduction: University of Minnesota
Press director Doug Armato introduces Dudley Riggs
to the stage, apologizing for bringing a
scripted speech (gasp!) to an improvisational theater.

A circus-style juggling act before Dudley Riggs
takes the stage.

Riggs on stage with Brave New Workshop's co-owner
John Sweeney.

A full house.


After the Q&A with Sweeney, Brave New Workshop performers
improvised scenes inspired by chapter titles from Riggs' memoir:
"The Circus at War," "Clown Diplomacy," and "Never Let Them Know
You Can Drive a Semi."

A post-Q&A reception with classic slides from Riggs' career.

Autographing new books, hot off the presses.

207 East Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis was the original
location Riggs selected for his theater.

The Brave New Workshop would go through a few more location changes,
including two locations in Uptown Minneapolis,
before arriving at its current location in downtown Minneapolis.


Check our website for more Flying Funny events.


Wednesday, April 19, 2017

"We're just Potato Famine Irish."




















BY NORA MURPHY


“We’re just Potato Famine Irish,” declared my grandfather when, as a child, I asked him about our family’s roots in Ireland. A Minnesota Supreme Court Justice, his word sank heavily into my heart and lodged there for decades. They didn’t resurface until decades later, when I began working at the Minneapolis American Indian Center.

Surrounded by Native colleagues with visible roots that grounded them in this land, I learned that "Minnesota" is a Dakota word, that the cradleboard my friend was making for her grandson was just like the one her ancestors would have made. These lessons rekindled my curiosity about my family’s past. But I also began to feel a disturbing dis-ease—an intuitive sense that something was not right. It’s taken nearly twenty years to begin to understand this dis-ease. While reconnection and healing have begun, the work is ongoing. This journey is the subject of my new memoir, White Birch, Red Hawthorn.

The longer I worked in the Native community, the more I began to see two sources of the dis-ease in my heart. One source was the loss of connection to ancestral homelands. Though I’m not 100% Irish, three of my grandparents were Irish and it is the culture with which my family identifies the most.

Why didn’t my Grandfather Murphy know about his family’s Irish heritage? Why didn’t we know the names and birthplaces of our ancestors? Was it shameful to be “just Potato Famine Irish”? The erasure of our backstory left me feeling exiled, outside of the circle of belonging. My heart wanted in, not only for myself, but for my children.

Denial was a second source of my dis-ease—the denial of the harm that European American families like mine participated in and caused to our Native American hosts when they settled here. Since then the generational layers of denial, an inheritance passed along by pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps upward mobility, hardens the heart.

This hard heart numbs itself to the reality of past and present suffering in Native communities all across America. By not responding to this pain, I realized that I was negating the basic human instinct of compassion. The more I saw, the less comfortable I was with maintaining old shields of denial and the more human I wanted to become.

White Birch, Red Hawthorn names some of the pain that European immigrants like my family caused to the three main tribes in Minnesota—the Dakota, the Ojibwe, and the Ho-Chunk. It explores the worldview of dominion inherited in stories by American icons like Laura Ingalls Wilder, Paul Bunyan, Henry David Thoreau, and Aldo Leopold. It suggests pathways for reconnection to Ireland.

Each step required lifting layers of lies and touching raw wounds trapped for generations. Only then could I begin to glimpse the possibility of healing. This possibility demanded that once I had a clearer view of the truth, I needed to look beyond facts and find a new way of living. This new way asks us to set down dominion and step back into the circle of humanity.

Above all, this journey toward healing is not over. Standing Rock is just one recent example of how our country continues to harm Native tribes and lands. Even so, I feel hopeful. Each one of us can play a part in lifting the dis-ease of denial and exile. We can examine the stories we’ve inherited, set down the conqueror’s tools, and begin to listen. It’s not easy, but every step counts.


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Nora Murphy is author of White Birch, Red Hawthorn. She is a fifth-generation Irish Minnesotan. She was born and lives in Imniża Ska, the white cliffs overlooking the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota Rivers in St. Paul. She has worked and volunteered in the Native community since 1995 and has published five previous books—children’s histories, short stories, and a memoir about women’s textiles, Knitting the Threads of Time.

"Nora Murphy defines her work as cultural outsider: she listens, she doesn’t try to fix anything, and she resists the urge to dominate. She has accomplished the difficult task of writing from what she has learned of people unlike herself, not about them. Harder still, she has learned to love another culture and yet understand it does not belong to her."
Heid Erdrich, author of Original Local: Indigenous Foods, Stories, and Recipes from the Upper

"White Birch, Red Hawthorn is not only educational, with the stories of the struggles that have been inflicted on American Indians, but also an inspirational story of Nora Murphy’s path to discover her Irish ancestry."
Mary LaGarde, Executive Director, Minneapolis American Indian

"Nora Murphy displays incredible bravery—she asks hard questions and points out the elephant in the room. She creates language to say the things left unsaid."
Wambdi Wapaha, Sioux Valley Dakota Nation

Monday, April 10, 2017

With NEA under threat, arguments across the aisle are united in surprising ways.






















BY ADAIR ROUNTHWAITE
Assistant professor of art history at the University of Washington in Seattle



From an art historian’s perspective, one of the most fascinating elements of 2017’s American political landscape has been conservatives’ defense of the National Endowment for the Arts. These statements of defense have followed the Trump administration’s budget proposal, which as is now widely known, would eliminate the NEA, the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, and Institute of Museum and Library Services in their entirety.

It is unsurprising to hear leftists point out how taxpayer-funded security for Trump Tower for a year costs more than the entire NEA budget, or to see the College Art Association registering its “complete and total opposition” to NEA and NEH elimination. Quite unanticipated, though, has been to read about Republicans not only saying they support the NEA, but also that they support it, as Representative Mark Amodei (R-NV) said in a recent statement, at “the present level of funding.”

Positions such as Amodei’s are a far cry from former Republican Senator Alphonse D’Amato’s denunciation of artist Andres Serrano on the floor of the Senate in May 1989. D’Amato branded Serrano’s 1987 photograph Piss Christ “trash,” and tore up an image of the work for performative emphasis. At that time, debates about the NEA centered on questions of art’s content, and on whether art with certain content was inappropriate for public support. Since those debates, the NEA has changed its practices, most notably by stopping direct grants to artists. It carefully distributes its grants across all 50 states, with sparsely populated states such as Vermont, Alaska, and Wyoming among the top beneficiaries in terms of per capita funding. Indeed, some important Republicans who vocally support the NEA hail from these states, such as Senator Lisa Murkowski of Alaska.

Evident in current attitudes toward the endowment, however, is not just the impact of these pragmatic changes, but a new vocabulary for discussing the role of the endowment. That vocabulary centers on participation as opposed to on content. In this respect, the recent conversation demonstrates the centrality of participation to current understandings of art’s politics, and moreover, the way ideas about participation might serve as a common ground between people who agree on virtually nothing else concerning contemporary art.

We can see this rhetoric of participation at work in Mike Huckabee’s recent Washington Post op ed defending the NEA. Huckabee points out that “hateful high-dollar” (liberal) celebrities receive nothing from the NEA, and pivots quickly from dismissing them to focus on “the real recipients of endowment funds: the kids in poverty for whom NEA programs may be their only chance to learn to play an instrument, test-drive their God-given creativity and develop a passion for those things that civilize and humanize us all.” Huckabee points out that participation in the arts raises SAT scores and fosters creativity which “finds cures for diseases, creates companies such as Apple and Microsoft and, above all, makes our culture more livable.”

Few contemporary artists, museum professionals, or educators will identify with Huckabee’s understanding of creativity, nestled as it is between an evangelical worldview and unbridled enthusiasm for capitalist enterprise. But what is striking is that his emphasis on participation as central to understanding the role of art in contemporary culture finds parallels in leftist arts practice, pedagogy, and museum programming. We too are interested in activating our publics: the period since the Culture Wars has seen a huge expansion in the predominance in American art of practices which seek to engage broad audiences in diverse kinds of making, learning, and social interaction. Not only artists but also museums and galleries prioritize participation, deploying sophisticated strategies from digital engagement to on-the-ground interaction to help audience members be active producers of their own experiences. While Huckabee positions broad participation in the arts between God and Microsoft, leftist artists and art institutions also place value in participation’s ability to address both the ideal and the pragmatic. As I analyze in Asking the Audience, participation both captures the aspirations which animate socially engaged art, and brings attention to the concrete details of facilitating particular projects with specific audiences. My book demonstrates that in the US, the late 1980s was an essential moment for the development of this participatory paradigm, which responded to changes in the funding, audience demographics, and politics of contemporary art.

Arguably, participation as it operates in contemporary art has no content as such. Instead, it enables artists and museum professionals to create practices of engagement with particular publics to produce certain outcomes, while also letting that engagement remain dynamically animated by hopes, aims, and ideals that can’t be easily quantified.

As such, perhaps the fact that participation has eclipsed content as the central focus in public exchanges about federal arts funding means that certain liberals and conservatives will be able to find more common ground in terms of articulating what the role of the endowments should be. It will be interesting to see how this round of threats gets played out, whether in defunding the NEA, in reshaping it, or in a continuation of the status quo. Indeed, the differences between the current NEA and the form of the endowment before the Culture Wars are so great that we might well ask whether the NEA “survived” those debates at all. Perhaps it makes more sense to think of it as having been eliminated and then regenerated in a new form, namely with participation displacing freedom of expression as one of its structuring commitments. In any case, it’s clear that in the early 21st century, participation is central to debates about art’s politics both within the art world and beyond it. For the time being, it will remain essential to conversations among politicians, art professionals, and public about what art can and should do in this uncertain moment.


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Adair Rounthwaite is author of Asking the Audience: Participatory Art in 1980s New York. She is assistant professor of art history at the University of Washington in Seattle, and has published essays on a range of topics in contemporary global art history in journals such as Representations, Camera Obscura, Art Journal, and Third Text.

"Asking the Audience provides an invaluable foundation for understanding the emergence of institutionalized social art practice over the past fifteen years. Adair Rounthwaite's detailed discussion of the role of pedagogy and education grounds these projects in broader intellectual trends during the 1980s and early 90s."
—Grant Kester, University of California, San Diego


Friday, April 7, 2017

Manifold Beta Now Available



Manifold is an intuitive, collaborative platform for scholarly publishing. With iterative texts, powerful annotation tools, rich media support, and robust community dialogue, Manifold transforms scholarly publications into living digital works.


The Manifold team is delighted to launch a public beta of its new publishing platform for interactive scholarly monographs: http://staging.manifoldapp.org/.

Funded through the generous support of the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, Manifold is a collaboration between University of Minnesota Press, the GC Digital Scholarship Lab at the Graduate Center, CUNY, and Cast Iron Coding.

We began work on the project two years ago, aiming to create a responsive platform for interactive books that would help university presses share long-form monographs through an appealing and elegant interface. After many meetings and planning discussions, and following 1300+ commits to our public code repository, the initial version of the platform is ready for review.

On the beta site, you will find a selection of projects from the University of Minnesota Press that may be read, annotated, highlighted, and shared through social media. These include two recently published full-length scholarly books, a selection from the Forerunners: Ideas First series, and four projects just beginning to take shape on the platform.

This post continues (and was originally published at) manifold.umn.edu. Click for a full list of projects currently taking shape on the platform.

Friday, March 31, 2017

Lorna Landvik on returning to Patty Jane's world





















BY LORNA LANDVIK



One of my first editors was a woman named Leona Never, who while reading through slush pile submissions back in the ’50s came across a manuscript she insisted her boss not only read, but publish, pronto. It was Peyton Place.

Leona was old-school and managed to rise up in the sexist women-are-secretaries-men-are-bosses era to become a real force in the publishing world. I met her in 1996, when Ballantine was publishing the paperback of Patty Jane’s House of Curl. She had a whispery voice and in the years we worked together, she’d tell me, “You write a different book every time.” I took it as a compliment—I think she meant it as a compliment. While I think I have a certain voice, I never wanted to tell the same story over and over.

By the time I write The End, it usually is. I’ve resolved problems, tied up loose ends, and humbly thanked my characters for coming into my head and letting me tell their story. I feel both a sense of relief (whew—I did it!) and a zip of excitement, because finishing one novel means I can begin another, with a cast of characters (usually two or three) who’ve shown up and are impatiently chewing gum and practicing swings in my mental batter’s box, waiting for their turn to be called up and play.

And yet . . . I am surprised by random whispers I hear from characters in my past books. A song can come on the car radio and it reminds me of Slip; the looming height of a spruce tree can make me think of Fenny; a particularly starry night brings Fletcher to mind.

Throughout the years, characters in Patty Jane’s House of Curl would pop up in my head (and for a while I’d almost expect to see the fictitious beauty salon on the real street I set it on!), but several years ago, the occasional whispers grew into a yammering—that is, the characters yammering “We want more of our story told!”

And so, I dove back into their world to find out what’s what and who’s who and who’s doing what to whom. And why. And where. And how.

It was so fun. I knew fairly quickly the big life-changing event that Nora was going to experience, but I didn’t know I’d go to 1920s Norway to learn more about Ione. New characters appeared, demanding to be woven into the story, some playing big parts, some happy with walk-ons.

Welcome to the Once in a Blue Moon Lodge. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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A launch event is scheduled for 7 p.m. on Tuesday, April 18, in Excelsior, Minnesota (hosted by Excelsior Bay Books). Register here.
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Lorna Landvik is the author of eleven novels including the best-selling Patty Jane's House of Curl, Angry Housewives Eating BonBons, Oh My StarsBest to Laugh (Minnesota, 2014), and coming in April, Once in a Blue Moon Lodge. She has performed stand-up and improvisational comedy around the country and is also a public speaker, playwright, and actor who gets much pleasure from mixing up margaritas on stage in her one-woman all-improvised show, Party in the Rec Room.


"At long last! Patty Jane and her irresistible band of big-hearted merry-makers return to us. Lorna Landvik’s humor is wrapped around a core of love, common sense, and good cooking. Pull up an easy chair, pour a glass of wine, and enjoy this grand family reunion."
—Faith Sullivan, author of Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse

"Lorna Landvik creates characters and places so warm and real that reading Once in a Blue Moon Lodge feels like coming home (if you're lucky enough to be surrounded by people and places as weird and wonderful as Lorna's—I think I am)."
—Nora McInerny, author of It's Okay to Laugh (Crying Is Cool Too)

"There is a charm and warmth to this hopeful tale in which love is the glue that holds people together. Landvik's love for her characters is evident."
—Kirkus Reviews

Thursday, March 23, 2017

"I was going to be one of *those* teachers: the natural and inspiring who wore stylish sport coats, whose classroom was a sacred space of literature, of rebellion, of learning. But nobody told me how hard it was going to be."






















Yesterday, the Minneapolis City Pages went live with a front-page feature on Tom Rademacher, a middle-grade English teacher and Minnesota Teacher of the Year who has written a book about the messy, messy, messy business of teaching. Select excerpts from his book, It Won't Be Easy, bring to vivid life moments from his teaching career in which he decides to quit, decides not to quit, questions his decisions, and ultimately engages with kids who challenge him. We've since gotten comments from readers that range from "This is extraordinary" to "An amazing must-read" to "We'd love to have him come talk to our class." It's truly a piece that sticks with readers.

Here is a brief excerpt from the excerpt:

One year, my school went through renovations in the “looks like a nice hotel” range. We were very protective of our pretty new space, and there was no confusion that teachers were to be held personally (and spiritually) responsible for any stains that might develop in the course of housing hundreds of teenage bright ideas.

So it was that I reacted strongly to a student bringing (gasp!) and opening (gasp! gasp!) an energy drink (ick, but whatever!) in my class.

...

He was equal parts entirely unsurprised and furious and humiliated. Had I been seeing straight, I would have recognized that. But in that moment, and with that kid, and on that day, I made it all about me.

My half-yelling at a kid who wanted to punch me or cry or both started with my telling him all the ways that he was wrong. At some point, I’m pretty sure I pointed to a couch and said that it was worth $3,000, and pointed to myself and said, “It’s my job to make sure that couch is this nice next year and five years from now.” Right, because that’s my job.

I said the phrase, “We have a school to run here.” Jesus.

Read the full, fantastic feature here.


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Tom Rademacher is author of It Won't Be Easy: An Exceedingly Honest (and Slightly Unprofessional) Love Letter to Teaching, which features a foreword by Dave Eggers. Rademacher is an English teacher in Minneapolis. His writing has appeared in EdPost, MinnPost, and on his blog, Mr. Rad’s Neighborhood, and he speaks about teaching at universities, conferences, and TEDx events. In 2014 he was honored as Minnesota’s Teacher of the Year.