Gripping Jan Yoors Biography

“Without judgment, Dean describes how the polygamous relationship of Jan, Annabert, and Marianne developed and evolved.”

Perfect for a long bus ride to visit my family for the holidays, the memoir, Hidden Tapestry: Jan Yoors, His Two Wives, and the War that Made Them One (Northwestern University Press, 2018) contains corroborated tales that the author, novelist Debra Dean, acknowledges sound improbable. And she’s not even referring to the trio’s unorthodox living arrangement.

Frankly, the first mystery is not how bigamy comes to pass among the bourgeoisie in the Netherlands, but how the friendship of Annabert van Wettum and Jan Yoors that forms at summer camp blossoms into romance after 12 years of separation. Their initial meeting, when Annabert is 7 years old and Jan is 12, is told from Annabert’s point of view although Dean’s source material comes from both parties. As a result, Annabert seems more invested in the relationship. However, one detail tips the scale slightly: after pretending to be married to a fellow camper, Jan assures Annabert that he will marry her one day for real. Later in the biography, the dynamic continues to feel unbalanced: Annabert kept Jan’s photo beside her bed, while Jan called her his “little sister” (p. 101). As Annabert matures, though, the scale tips yet again. After not hearing from Jan for some time because of World War II, Annabert receives a brief update from him and from a friend of his; to the friend, she admits that having met when they were “tiny children,” they “don’t know each other” (p. 103), seeming wise beyond her years. When Annabert and Jan meet again in 1945, she is 18 and he is 23. A delayed reunion makes for a more enticing story, as it allows for a tryst at minimum.

The passage of time before the couple reconnects is not just because of limited travel stemming from the youngsters’ lack of financial independence or from WWII, but also because Jan has a secret life. Captivated when his artist father told him about the Romanji (commonly called ‘gypsies,’ a term contested by some for its arguable racism), Jan sets out to see them with his own eyes near his native Antwerp. He bonds with boys from the Lowara tribe, and a dinner invitation extends to a sleepover. The next morning, in the chaos of a police raid—common for breaking up the congregation of nomadic peoples—Jan is still inside their covered wagon when it takes off. Dean captures the local color of the Lowara, from their feasts to their fortune telling, allowing the reader to appreciate why Jan embraces adventure with them.

Curiously, Jan’s relationship with the Romanji formed outside of his own culture feels more reciprocal than his fauxmance within his culture. His bond with the Lowara tribe deepens when a violent altercation puts Jan at risk and causes the death of one of their own. That the father of the tribe gives Jan a gypsy name and selects a bride for him proves their acceptance of the outsider; Jan declines the latter offer, realizing that he isn’t fully committed to the Romanji lifestyle. Though he leaves the tribe for a while, he crosses paths intentionally with the Lowari and the Romanji more broadly several times throughout the rest of his life. He also writes professionally about their customs to correct existing accounts of the Romanji.

When Jan first parts ways with the Romanji within a year because of harsh winter conditions, his parents, who are described as bohemian (itself coincidentally a pejorative term for the Romanji at one point in time), are startlingly calm to see him return home. They even agree to keep up his ruse by sending Annabert’s letters to Jan to various European locations and by sending his replies out of Antwerp while he travels with the Lowara during the warm months over the next seven years. There is yet another noteworthy tipping of the scale: Annabert records in her diary that Jan was molested by a school priest, which Dean speculates could have spurred Jan to seek escape by following the Romanji. This anecdote suggests that Annabert knows Jan on a deep level, even if clueless about how he spends the majority of each year.

When Marianne Citroen, the third member of the love triangle and Annabert’s childhood friend from school, is introduced, she—like Annabert—appears simple in relation to Jan, whom she does not meet until the couple is engaged. Dean’s writing style changes with the two chapters that introduce Marianne by more than just name, with shorter sentences that feel jarringly abrupt. For example, when her sister died suddenly, Marianne conveyed the news to the maid. Dean writes, “And that was that” (p. 29). At Marianne’s mother’s funeral, she is criticized for crying and Dean writes, “She stopped” (p. 35). A footnote justifies this shift, underscoring its value in evoking childlike simplicity, but it would be helpful to convey the following content within the prose so it isn’t missed: Marianne reveals in an interview that in that era, children were separated from death. “And because you are kept away…” she noted, “you don’t internally grow…I think there was a plug on top of me: nothing drained, nothing grew” (p. 271). In addition to dealing with grief twice in her childhood, Marianne is separated from her Jewish father, when he goes into hiding. A small consolation is that she is surrounded by her original bedroom furniture in two temporary homes. Marianne is reunited with her father but his fate seemed sealed when he is sent to Auschwitz. Miraculously, he survives by doing laundry and being overlooked by guards at the end of the war. As with the local color of the Romanji, Dean conveys the wartime atmosphere effectively. For example, she lists the ingredients Marianne uses to cobble together a birthday dessert for herself during a time of rationing, and she describes people blinking as they emerge after months or years of hiding when liberation is expected from the Allied troops.

Jan also has a difficult wartime experience, which bonds him to Marianne. Because of his connection with the Romanji, he is approached by the British intelligence to encourage the participation of his adopted family in the Nazi resistance. It begins on a small scale, with the Romanji providing food stamps to those in hiding. Then, their involvement expands to blowing up bridges and derailing trains. Jan is devastated by the widespread beatings and deaths of the Romanji when they are caught. Jan, meanwhile, is captured by the Gestapo in Antwerp and imprisoned for six months. His anticipation of torture is as painful to read about as his actual account of torture, which ranges from waterboarding to solitary confinement. In prison, his imagination brings solace as he pictures specific colors of things with a degree of differentiation and reverence that eventually inform his artistic exploration in textiles. Jan is sentenced to death but inexplicably, he is kept alive and permitted to write friends and family. Equally strange, he is released in what may be a case of mistaken identity. He sends a reassuring note to Annabert, Dean writes, so as to not taint her innocence through concern for him. Jan then connects with the Romanji to acquire fake identification to reach Madrid, where he is pulled into intelligence work once more. His new role is to bring people from occupied France to Spain over the mountains, guiding the final group personally with a stranger he approaches along the way. To survive the severe conditions, again, he wills hallucinations about colors. After feasting in Spain, Jan is arrested and sent to a Spanish concentration camp for five weeks. As per usual, Annabert receives a reassuring piece of mail from Spain. In 1945, when he is free at last, Jan makes his way to Annabert in England. Their first kiss is so intense that Jan has to steady Annabert. He becomes honest about his past, professing that he doesn’t want any secrets between them. During their engagement, they travel around Europe so that Jan can show Annabert the places and people important to him from the war. However, he struggles with depression that is likely PTSD, and eventually, he realizes he cannot confide the horrors of the war to his “starry-eyed bride” (p. 137) because doing so literally makes her sick.

While engaged, Jan attends London University, after telling the admissions office that the majority of his transcripts were destroyed in the war. He studies sculpting, painting, international relations, and anthropology. During his trip with Annabert, he settles on becoming an artist. However, his other studies remain significant, for he has been exposed to the pervasiveness of polygamy through anthropology. After what he has endured in the war, Jan is determined to do only what he wanted. Although Dean shares this detail in relation to him skipping class in favor of art making, that rebellious confidence seems to inform his personal life. Jan “wanted to build a new world…one that would be an affirmation of the joy of life, the beauty of the soul and man’s need for beauty” (p. 124).

Without judgment, Dean describes how the polygamous relationship of Jan, Annabert, and Marianne develops and evolves. She regards the women’s respective childhoods as predisposing them to unconventionality, referencing Marianne’s grief and Annabert’s parents’ broken marriage. She speculates that the war further affects their values. Marianne, who is broken by the war and disappointing romantic encounters, feels Jan is the first person to truly hear her when she models for him at Annabert’s request. Annabert’s grandmother warns her that Marianne is going to steal him away from her. Amazingly, Annabert agrees to share him before anything transpires. When Jan first seduces Marianne, he reveals that Annabert had sent him to comfort Marianne. Annabert and Marianne feel he is a genius artist to whom standard rules didn’t apply. Annabert isn’t above jealousy. Marianne feels conflicted and attempts to run away. Marianne’s expired visa gives the trio an opportunity to reflect on their situation when she is forced to leave England. Dean observes that it was through their letters that Marianne is cast as a second wife. Amid family scrutiny, they reunite in the Netherlands, determined to make their polygamous relationship work. Eventually, Marianne becomes Jan’s legal wife when carrying his child; Annabert divorces Jan but includes a note on the envelope with the divorce papers that she loves him very much and she is only doing it so Marianne could marry him. Dean describes sleeping arrangements, public displays of affection, cover stories, run-ins with the authorities, childcare arrangements (both women bare him children), and ambivalence about two additional live-in Japanese lovers. Buy-in for this blogger was difficult, so Dean is wise to end the biography as she does: after Annabert’s death, she shares Annabert’s recollection of a dream in which she discourages Jan from inviting the first of the live-in Japanese lovers to return, stating, “Can we not stay like we are? We [Jan, Marianne, and Annabert] have it so good together” (p. 256).

Acceptance of their marital union is critical, because as Marianne observes, with weaving—a medium that demands precision—“You cannot have your mind wandering away” (p. 179). Jan designs tapestries with modern figures and patterns reminiscent of Henri Matisse’s work, in brilliant colors that recall Georges Rouault. Annabert and Marianne do the majority of the weaving and offer their opinions, taking on a more active role than the typical technician. Dean points out that the polygamous set-up lends itself to the production of tapestries, as weaving was laborious (taking eight hours for both women to weave a square foot) and the women were willing to work without compensation. The self-taught, resourceful trio scrimps and pinches and take on odd jobs as well as side projects when there isn’t sufficient support for Jan’s work. Ultimately, he has a successful career, starting with a solo show in London when he is a student, and securing a solo show in New York in 1953 three years after Jan moves there and two years after his wives follow him. As Jan hobnobs with the likes of Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol, Annabert and Marianne remain isolated, not even realizing that the Stonewall riots had occurred nearby until a few years after the fact. Jan dies at age 55 from health complications related to neglect during his incarceration and his travels with the Romanji. After three decades as a trio, Annabert and Marianne remain together for another three decades, with 100 designs in the queue and a shared commitment to bolster Jan’s (read: their) legacy.

Source of image reproduced in 2019 via fair use: http://www.nupress.northwestern.edu/content/hidden-tapestry

Yayoi Kusama and Infinite Possibilities

“...the poignant and the penultimate...”

Before my near-fatal accident in the spring (shown here), the second last thing I did was attend Yayoi Kusama: Infinity Mirrors at the Art Gallery of Ontario with my sister (the last thing I did was have pizza with my husband and artist friends). And so it was that Kusama’s work became a visual marker for the last day my life felt normal.

Because humor is my default response to tragedy, in the hospital, I mused that I looked primed for a Kusama performance, with round electrodes dotting my torso. Of course, humor only takes one so far in recovery. My sister and I both wrote therapeutically about my brush with death and referenced the exhibition symbolically, though in different ways. What struck me as poignant was the sensation upon exiting each mirrored room, of infinity being curtailed against will. Simply put, I felt disappointed (distressed, even) to have to leave so soon.



When I returned to work, the installation of Kusama’s touring show began the following day. I must be the only person who flinched habitually when walking past the artist’s large pink polka dot-covered balls, as they are completely charming. In fact the title (Dots Obsession--Love Transformed into Dots, 2007) indicates that they stem from a positive emotion. The reason I bristled is that I kept recalling a photograph from the AGO by the same installation (shown above) where I'm wearing clothing fated to be cut off of me by emergency room staff only a few hours later. Realizing that the show was a trigger, I declined shifts in the very Kusama Lounge that I helped plan, instead becoming oriented in reference so I could provide backup upstairs in the library while my staff engaged lounge visitors.


Over the course of the show, unexpectedly, traumatic associations began to be weaken as new memories formed. For weeks on end, my proudest moment every weekday was remaining steady while using the curb at the north entrance of the museum as a balance beam, cheered on by Kusama’s whimsical polka dots covering the tree trunks nearby. My mother and sister (pictured here) brought my nephew to see the show with me, and my husband joined me later, sparking no negative responses. So fine were these experiences that my husband and I returned to the Mattress Factory in Pittsburgh to see my favorite Kusama installation. Back in Cleveland, I offered to write an institutional blog post about the Kusama Lounge; helped coordinate a book display outside of one of the screenings of Kusama - Infinity, the documentary about the artist; and watched said film not once but twice. Now that the show is in its final week, I am starting to put the poignant and the penultimate behind me and facing a future of infinite possibilities. To borrow translated wording from a poem by Kusama--who (as the film shows) experienced childhood trauma, sexism, the stealing of her art ideas and a related suicide attempt, plus public shaming for her use of nudity in art happenings--“I collected my thoughts and got up again.”

To acknowledge that the meaning of the show has evolved for me personally is timely because this week, the Cleveland Museum of Art hosts the inaugural Keithley Symposium with Case Western Reserve University’s Department of Art History and Art and the Baker-Nord Center for the Humanities. In this symposium--for which I am conducting a workshop about the serendipitous discovery of social context in artists’ clipping files--the theme is the life of art objects and how their meaning shifts as time passes.

Infinity director and Ohio native Heather Lenz attended screenings of her film on September 22 and 23 at the CMA. At the screening on the 23rd, a theme of resilience ran through Lenz’s Q&A that resonated with me. She described Kusama as “really ahead of her time,” yet lacking recognition for a long time, which was a situation compounded by sexism. Lenz shared, “The thing that propelled me...[was that in] undergraduate...art history...I probably learned an average of 1,000 male artists for [every] five female artists.” She set about “[r]ighting this wrong in history.” Lenz observes that Kusama’s story has a happy ending, for she has achieved immense success; while there are many ways to define success, but one example is the fact that she’s the top selling female artist alive today. Lenz said with satisfaction, “Her time has arrived!”

Lenz reflected on the fact that it took 17 years to create the film, because of massive challenges like securing funding and convincing people that a “foreign female” subject was worthwhile. She said that ultimately, the process was, “[h]arder than I [she] thought.” She noted that in the film industry, one makes sacrifices that may or may not be practical with no guarantee that things will work out. In the end, though, her “passion project” premiered at the Sundance Film Festival, and based on the applause at the CMA, it’s winning over audiences.

Reading as Recovery: Black Out

“Martha Ann Honeywell...was born without hands, yet she worked for 50 years sewing and producing silhouettes with an arm stump, her feet (with only three toes on one foot), and her mouth. Talk about a role model for me as I convalesce.”

A full season has passed since my last blog post, but my excuse is much better than lying on the beach: I have been busy narrowly avoiding paralysis and death as a passenger in a harrowing roll-over automobile crash, to say nothing of learning to walk again.

Early in my hospital stay, I was shown a photograph of my face. Two bloodshot eyes stared blankly back at me. No, not bloodshot—blood-filled; the whites had been eclipsed by a brilliant shade of cranberry. Surrounding my eyes were two purple shiners, aptly called Battle signs. The cranberry-purple combination caused children and adults alike to recoil. Eventually, the bruises migrated down my face, drooping into concentric oblongs suggestive of skin melting. It was an illusion exacerbated, at least in my mind, by skin hanging off of my bones as my weight plummeted to double digits. My unintentional gauntness caused the adult diapers I was given—designed for someone twice my size—to feel further undignified. In the intensive care unit, I made the physiotherapist chuckle by saying I wanted to make t-shirts that said, 'dignity is overrated.' It was a perspective I developed while prioritizing (read: trying to survive).

Once I was well enough to reach the restroom, I looked in the mirror but didn’t recognize myself. Then again, I couldn’t see anything clearly, since airbags had snapped my glasses in half. Curiously, I hadn’t noticed I was without glasses when I regained consciousness in the car, but I was in shock and fixated on the heinousness of dirt in my mouth. When I finally selected a replacement pair, I still didn’t look right. Even now, when someone compliments my frames, irrationally, I feel wounded. Adding to my probable dysmorphia is the fact that I couldn’t twist my torso after surgery to style my naturally wavy hair, so I got a perm. The curls look uncharacteristically tight and no amount of conditioning makes me feel like my former self. I keep having my hair cut shorter and shorter to get rid of it, and in turn, I dissociate from my appearance. At one hair appointment, I finally felt--with relief--an affinity with my appearance when I was seated in a different area and my reflection was spread across multiple tiny mirrors and fractured, like me.

I decided to buy a few accessories and items of clothing to perk myself up. But then I kept spending. I bought an Alexander Wang top with a partially open back revealing almost the whole spine, forgetting the six inch incision a surgeon made to stabilize my severe lumbar brake. (One broken bone per person is to be expected from crashing with the same force as driving off a 12-story building). By the time I remembered my scar, the garment was no longer returnable. I purchased, and kept, a BCBGMAXAZRIA dress in two sizes because who knew what size I was, really? These garments were second-hand, but still... On week-ends, I awoke at 6 am, eager to discover what online deals I might score. I withdrew from friends and allowed myself to see a collection of amiable hand-written notes from online sellers as evidence of a social network. Because I had survived against all odds, I imagined that it must have been for a reason, and the related pressure to do something meaningful (or more meaningful?) with my life was crushing. So, by shopping, I embraced the most superficial aspect of myself--although I do consider fashion/style an art form. How could I not, as a former textiles student? The truly embarrassing thing is that I embarked on this slippery slope after reading the tell-all post by stylist Stacy London about almost going broke further to having the exact same surgery. I read it and actually thought, "Shopping sounds like a good idea." That I nearly succumbed to the endorphins and dopamine associated with shopping while changing up nearly half of my wardrobe is ironic because I was ultra-responsible about withdrawing from opiates to avoid a well-known addiction risk.

When I spotted Black Out: Silhouettes Then and Now (Princeton University Press, 2018) in our new books display, my eyes welled up. Not only had I gotten black eyes when I blacked out, but pitch-blackness prompted a flashback the first night I was home from the (always bright) hospital. Awakening in the night unable to see anything, I thought I was trapped in the car again; when I realized I was safe, I was a split second away from emitting a series of five screams that had queued up in my throat. Moreover, when I encountered this book, it was as if I sensed the inclusion of relatable passages like “...vanished into the vacuum of her silhouette” (p. 57)--relatable because in addition to the details I have shared thus far, I had lost track of the number of times my personhood was flattened and reduced to black and white as I was shunted painfully onto a wooden board for an x-ray or MRI. Thank goodness this catalogue began to shift me from a vortex of interchanging self-images into the more intellectual and frugal past-time of reading.

I brought the catalogue home, but I felt unable to even peek at the introduction for two weeks, as getting back to enjoyable activities like blogging would signify moving forward. All along, though, I have told myself that I cannot get stuck for long. Another two weeks passed before I read the essays within, finishing them in an afternoon because they were so compelling. The next day (today), before I read the final section of didactic texts for works in the associated exhibition, I was reminded that it’s the one-year anniversary of the white nationalist rally that turned deadly in Charlottesville. (Activist Heather Heyer died after being hit by a car, and shortly thereafter, Lieutenant H. Jay Cullen and Trooper-Pilot Berke M.M. Bates died while monitoring the scene from a helicopter). Because race is a recurring theme in Black Out, today feels like the perfect time to come out of the shadows and resume my role as one of many bloggers seeking social justice. So, more on this fantastic catalogue...

Image: August Edouart (French, 1789-1861), The Magic Lantern, 1826-61, cut paper and wash, image: 9 1/2 x 13 3/8 in. (24.2 x 33.9 cm), sheet: 10 1/4 x 13 1/2 in. (26 x 34.3 cm). Bequest of Mary Martin, 1938. 38.145.392. Source: https://images.metmuseum.org/CRDImages/dp/original/DP141861.jpg; in public domain.

Before the advent of photography in 1839, silhouettes were a widely and wildly popular memento in the United States. In the late 18th Century, varied subjects, such as European settlers, Native Americans, and enslaved or formerly enslaved people, began to have their contours traced onto paper and cut out. The small portraits existed at the liminal divide between art and craft because they could be produced for only a few pennies and in a range of settings, from taverns to art galleries, by both artisans and artists. Techniques also varied: some silhouettes were produced by candlelight, and others had greater precision thanks to a machine called the physiognotrace.

As a democratic art form, silhouettes could even be generated by the subject. However, to have one’s silhouette made by another hand introduced a performative element, functioning as a means to construct self-identity, which was important in an era of asserting political independence, as argued by Asma Naeem, Associate Curator of Prints, Drawings, and Media Arts at the Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery, who organized the Black Out exhibition. My phrasing of ‘another hand’ isn’t entirely accurate, incidentally. One of the better known silhouettists, Martha Ann Honeywell, was born without hands, yet she worked for 50 years sewing and producing silhouettes with an arm stump, her feet (with only three toes on one foot), and her mouth. Talk about a role model for me as I convalesce.

As Naeem points out, at a time when slavery was contested, oddly, an aesthetic flourished that rendered everyone black. That’s not to say there weren’t racialized differences in representation. For example, superfluous details were added by the best known silhouettist, Auguste Edouart, to depictions of white people, like props of sophistication (tea cups, sheet music, etc.). In contrast, depictions of enslaved people, which were made for reasons like aiding recovery if they escaped, featured minimal physical attributes. Also, the identities of enslaved people were often obliterated in silhouettes, as demonstrated by the scrawling of “Mr. Shaw’s Blackman” above a portrait. Abolitionists tended to promote their cause by referencing silhouettes of enslaved people with details added using chalk or colored pencil, representing some recovery of identity. There were also occasional celebratory silhouettes of African Americans, such as Rev. Abssalom directly, the first African American Episcopal priest. Another example of limited celebration is the art historical oversight of contributions by silhouettist Moses Williams, a former enslaved person. Although he produced tens of thousands of silhouettes with the physiognotrace, attributions to him have been lacking.

The history of silhouettes in scholarly essays by Naeem, Penley Knipe, Alexander Nemerov, Gwendolyn DuBois Shaw, and Anne Verplanck provide context for the four contemporary artists featured in the Black Out exhibition: Kristi Malakoff, Camille Utterback, Kumi Yamashita, and Kara Walker.

The catalogue’s design, by Ray Brooks (Fold Four, Inc.) is noteworthy. Black matte paper, similar to what would be used for silhouettes, is included in the front and back matter (before the half/Bastard title and after the colophon). The catalogue title is cleverly written in a font without negative space (there is no triangular space for a capital ‘A,’ for example), as is the title of each essay. Although silhouettes would translate well into black and white, they are included in full color. The images are of a generous size, often bleeding to the edges or occupying a portion of the accompanying page. There are some gems, like a lesbian double portrait in which two life partners face one another, and Edouart’s complex work, The Magic Lantern (1826-61), containing 10 silhouetted figures, which is featured on the inside front and back cover and opposing pages.

Thank-you for reading. It’s good to be back.

Top image: Gearing up for an 8-hour ambulance ride. Outside for the first time in over a week, I am trying to take in the sights through my sister's old pair of glasses, and delighting in the fresh air.

Our Anthropocene: Eco Crises at the Center for Book Arts

“...collect data ‘to demonstrate that you can.’” ~ Heidi Neilson

Nor’easter be damned, the roundtable discussion on March 2 at the Center for Book Arts in New York with artists Nuno Henrique, Heidi Neilson, Tara O’Brien, and Ian van Coller went on as planned. My windswept hair and soaked jeans proclaimed the power of the natural world—a fitting complement to the current exhibition and theme of the evening, Our Anthropocene: Eco Crises.

In the Latin-derived word, ‘anthropocene,’ the root meaning ‘human’ has elbowed its way to the front of ‘cene,’ which conveys geological time. Indeed, the current geological age known as the anthropocene is defined by humans, for better or for worse. The show’s curator, Gary van Wyk, commented, “There comes a point where it’s our presence that affects things,” citing as an example plastic on beaches that has become embedded in rock formations and created an unnatural hybrid. My mind flashed back to stones from an Italian beach that I pocketed in my twenties. I continue to be transfixed by the shards of rooftops from the cliffside wedged within, their rough edges smoothed over time to appear completely normal. When van Wyck shared his example, my souvenirs that travelled full-circle by being displayed back in my house struck me not as free but as representing a hidden cost.

Van Wyk cautioned the audience, “We’ve created an era that threatens our existence on planet Earth.” He identified a host of environmental issues that warrant our attention, from disappearing species to the contamination of the food supply. He observed that the poignancy of the works in the exhibition encourages the contemplation of environmental concerns. Executive director and Center for Book Arts curator Alexander Campos echoed this sentiment, stating that the works in the show have captivating power and tackle important issues, not to mention being “aesthetically wonderful.” Van Wyk added that given some politicians’ dismissive attitude about science, artists’ roles are especially important. Artists can interface with scientists to connect audiences to otherwise inaccessible concepts. Whether employing strategies like beauty or propaganda, van Wyk asserts that artists “can...have quite a substantial impact.”

When Philadelphia-based Tara O’Brien was asked if she felt hopeful about the environment, she replied that she tries to live responsibly, minimize her ecological footprint, and not think about it too much. In terms of the latter comment, she is actually incredibly thoughtful, having created powerful conceptual bookworks, which she shared with the audience. The exhibition features Documentation (2 Volumes) (2005), a book-like structure consisting of rectangular Plexiglas enclosures, intended for the planting of grass seeds. She mused that it would be terrible if the only way to experience grass were through a book. She elaborated that people should experience grass in various ways, like whistling with a blade between one’s thumbs. In Natural Elements, also from 2005, she exhibited an ice sculpture in the shape of a book. Once it melted, viewers could only take in the work as a pool of water. In making the work, she pondered how glaciers—for which the work is a metaphor—would be explained after they disappear entirely. As a book conservator, she witnesses decay and the power of intervention on a regular basis. She is particularly taken by old atlases, expressing fascination with the way people use to think and how they managed overall. “Today, we have science and still can’t figure out [so much],” she lamented. She wants viewers to reflect on “how much we need to work and take care of it [the natural world].” This impulse relates to her former vocation as an educator. Her experience teaching informed the creation of a book made from soap that was inscribed the words, “Knowledge is Power, Knowledge is Dangerous.” Chillingly (I say as a librarian), she offered viewers the opportunity to wash the words away.

Ian van Coller has been “obsessed with books” since college, so it is not surprising that he became a book artist. The biggest book he has made, Kilimanjaro: The Last Glacier (Doring Press, 2017) which is 50 inches wide, is on display in the exhibition and is pictured here. With this folio size, he wanted to mimic the effect of visiting a glacier since many people will never witness one firsthand. Providing a version of that experience encourages people to care about the vulnerability of glaciers. The degree of melting “is truly astonishing,” van Coller says, “right before our eyes.” At Kilimanjaro, he predicts glaciers will be present for only another 30 years. When they are gone, “it will be such a loss.” He describes glaciers as “the ultimate archive” because they reveal change over time, much like trees and coral. Van Coller began his photography career working in portraiture and he brings that earlier focus to bear in Kilimanjaro: The Last Glacier. Interspersed with gorgeous photographs of glaciers are portraits of the native Tanzanian porters who carried travel gear—including a toilet—for himself and his scientist-collaborator, Douglas Hardy, up Mt. Kilimanjaro. Although based in Bozeman, Montana, van Coller was raised in South Africa, and his upbringing affected his experience of the racial dynamic. He felt uncomfortable because of the “very colonial” sensation of having people of color serving van Coller and Hardy, and he included their portraits to honor their work. Van Coller commented that art and science used to be strongly connected but now, science has become “very narrow.” He wants to help scientists—whom he sees as natural artists—become artists again. If the two groups seem distinct, consider that he sees them both as problem solvers.

New York-based Heidi Neilson stated that she wants to “connect planets and people.” Although it sounds like a lofty goal, she described exactly how she has delivered. For example, in 2007, she co-founded SP Weather Station with Natalie Campbell. From the rooftop of Flux Factory in Long Island City, this interdisciplinary project enabled visitors to collect weather data to supplement the institutional gathering of data. They offer related programming, like a fundraiser for an air quality monitor, with cheekily named items like Ozone Holes: Donuts for the Future. The project is an example of “citizen science,” which Neilson described as the prerogative of lay people to participate in research that becomes part of the scientific record. She wants to collect data “to demonstrate that you can.” Referring to Neilson’s work, van Wyck observed that there can be a performative component of activism. The work exhibited at the Center for Book Arts, Beachball Antennas (2016), is an example: Neilson “hit the beach” to interact with passersby, but not with typical beachballs. She “performed beach ball surgery” by adding antennae to receive weather data through HAM radio signals. Using weather-to-image software, she displayed the results on a laptop for visitors in what she described as pop-up installations. Her work demonstrates van Wyk’s stretching of the concept of artist books for the exhibition, which he mentioned in the introduction to the roundtable. Overall, though, her oeuvre relates to the print tradition. For instance, she commented that our storage of data has changed, as it used to be contained in books and is now primarily digital. This is a concept she has explored in works like Outernet Library Branch Wave Farm (2016), which included a single print book (about libraries), with the rest of the featured content being exclusively digital and decidedly outside of the Internet. The artist's website explains that https://outernet.is is "an expanding library collection of data broadcast from a network of satellites in space...[that] allows its users to participate in the selection of what it contains. An outernet library receiving station collects transmissions and stores files locally...[to be] accessed by witeless devices within range of the station." This intriguing work is relevant to the current threat to net neutrality.

Nuno Henrique, also a New York-based mixed media artist, has three works in Our Anthropocene. His work is rooted in his birthplace and previous home, Madeira Island in Portugal. He is fascinated by its history, such as the fact that the ancient forests managed to survive the ice age, but almost became extinct under colonial Spanish control in the 15th Century. Today, only a sliver exists. Henrique’s work is a retrospective archive of sorts, as he has made botanical drawings of numerous species from the forest, such as flowers and fruits, in addition to depicting subjects from the animal kingdom like snails. He emphasized that it “is important to create this memory” as a record of what is lost. He is especially interested in the island’s dragon trees (Dracaena draco), which became extinct after its sap was relied on for dye and medicine. Because his work is about obsolescence, he said, the tone is more elegiac than scientific, even though it is based on research. To reference the past, he has studied manuscripts and maps from atlases from the period of colonial control, and he uses older techniques like calligraphy. The harshness of the history of the forest contrasts the intricacy of his work, whether in calligraphy or in subtle contours delicately carved out of paper that underscores why he considers his artist books to be sculptural. Although he said, “our time will come” because scientists have warned it’s already too late, paradoxically, he remains hopeful that “there are solutions in science.” Since he calls the forest a “space for meditation,” it seems the answers may be contained there as well.

Our Anthropocene runs until March 31. Other exhibiting artists besides Henrique, Neilson, O’Brien, and Van Coller are the Alma Collective (Christoph Both-Asmus/ Owanto/ Robbin Ami Silverberg/ Andreas Wengel/ Hervé Youmbi), Thorsten Baensch/ Karin Dürr/ Carolin Röckelein/ Zoe Zin Moe, Sammy Baloji, Julie Dodd, Stephen Erasmus, Daniel Knorr, Guy Laramée, Gideon Mendel, Barbara Milman, Sara Parkel, Susan Reynolds, Shu-Ju Wang, Käthe Wenzel, Thomas Parker Williams, Michelle Wilson, and Philip Zimmermann. The exhibition catalog is available through pre-order.

Photo: top - l. to r.: Ian van Coller, Nuno Henrique, Gary van Wyk, Heidi Neilson, and Tara O’Brien.

Dana Schutz and Nell Painter in Conversation at the Cleveland Museum of Art

“Don’t leap to simple answers. Stick with it!” ~ Nell Painter

On January 20—the day following the crowded opening of Dana Schutz’s Eating Atom Bombs exhibition at the Transformation Station in Ohio City—the Cleveland Museum of Art hosted a discussion between the artist and Nell Painter. Schutz has ties to Cleveland as an alumna of the Cleveland Institute of Art. She is perhaps best known as the creator of the controversial work, Open Casket (2016), which is a posthumous portrait of 14-year-old, African American Emmett Till, whose 1955 murder inspired Rosa Parks’ civil rights activism shortly thereafter. A resident of Chicago, Till was abducted and lynched by white supremacists while visiting family in Mississippi because of his perceived flirtation with a white woman. Till’s mother wanted the world to see his battered body; JET magazine published images from the funeral home and temple and authorized reproduction in several publications that--like JET were geared to black readers. Schutz, who is white, based the portrait on JET’s documentation.

When Schutz was lambasted for the painting, she was defended by Painter, who is an artist, the author of The History of White People (W. W. Norton & Co., 2010), and the former director of Princeton University’s African American Studies program. Public protest began at the opening of the Whitney Biennial curated by Christopher Lew and Mia Locks when African American artist, Parker Bright, stood in front of Open Casket to prevent others from viewing it while wearing a t-shirt that said, “Black Death Spectacle.” Self-described mixed black artist Hannah Black then wrote an open letter signed by multiple artists, calling for the painting’s removal and destruction so that it would not enter the art market. (Schutz has clarified that this work from her personal collection is not for sale). Tension escalated on both sides, especially online, with Schutz’s email account being hacked and a falsified apology published online, and the hashtag #FreeDanaSchutz emerging.

The CMA event was Schutz’s first public appearance since the aftermath. CMA Director of Education and Academic Affairs, Cyra Levenson introduced the “historic conversation,” highlighting the museum’s commitment to providing a “safe and brave space” to engage with art and artists. Reto Thüring, co-curator of Eating Atom Bombs with Beau Rutland, emphasized the museum’s responsibility to present a forum to create dialogue, even if revisiting this “impassioned debate” is painful.

My motivation in summarizing this conversation is to provide a written record for research purposes, to contribute to our understanding of socialcultural evolution.

Painter and Schutz discussed another work in the biennial briefly, THE TIMES THAY AINT A CHANGING, FAST ENOUGH! (2017) by black artist, Henry Taylor, which depicts Philando Castile after being shot fatally by a Minnesota police officer at a traffic stop while reaching for his identification. Just as Painter pointed out that Taylor’s work is art and commentary, Schutz’s work falls into both categories. It follows that the controversy was two-fold: the fact that Schutz made the painting in the first place, and the manner in which she depicted Till’s visage.

Painter and Schutz debated the familiarity of the photographic image to the general public. Schutz commented that it has a large presence but Painter countered that the source photo “is not a huge document in the world,” though ironically, Schutz has given it a larger presence. Painter opined that in 1955, “what happened to black people wasn’t considered the news.”

Some criticism of Open Casket has been tied to assumptions about the truthfulness of photography. Painter, who has incorporated photos in her mixed media work about race and gender, questioned this association. She stated that photographs capture a moment or part of a moment, or a particular vantage point, but they aren’t the whole truth. Therefore, she is troubled by the charge that Schutz’s representation of Till is “somehow not true” because of its departure from the source through gestural abstraction. Schutz shared that she doesn’t look to paintings for historic truth. She mentioned Jacques Louis David as an example of artists deviating from reality. Although she didn’t have an opportunity to expand, David made numerous adjustments for his patron, Napoleon Bonaparte, like who was present for which historic events. This thread of the conversation led Schutz to assert that perhaps history painting is really about the present, which informs our understanding of the resonance of Open Casket.

Schutz shared that she almost didn’t make or exhibit the work in question. The artist, who often makes political paintings, explained that she painted Open Casket in the summer of 2016, when “you couldn’t believe the rhetoric” of federal politics. She elaborated that it was as if someone had turned over a rock, revealing disturbing power dynamics. “As a white person in America, you feel implicated,” she says, and this rawness made her feel connected to Till as a subject. Like CMA Assistant Director of Academic Outreach, Key Jo Lee, commented to me afterwards, “…whiteness as a category can never be invisible again” for as Painter noted, “In the US, everything happens in a racialized context.” Schutz did ask herself, “Who am I as an artist,” referring to her whiteness, but she felt that audiences “had to see that [image]” in the interest of justice and accountability. Whether the initial publication of the photographs functioned as acceptance of its future recirculation was considered in the conversation. Schutz felt spurred on by the fact that Till’s mother said that she wanted “‘all the world’ to witness the atrocity” (emphasis Schutz’s). (2) She also felt that the tragedy of “what was done to an innocent child in America” warranted that it “be...art.” However, Schutz felt that Till was an impossible subject. Because of the photographic documentation, in making what she considered a “double image,” she wondered, “Where do I begin?” Schutz is drawn to the seemingly impossible, though. She described the process of abstract painting as finding a subject through a haze. Because the reaction to Open Casket was extreme, Schutz mused, “Maybe no one should have made work in 2016.” Her impression was that in the US, the painting was shocking to white audiences and relatable to black audiences, but Painter cautioned against generalizing. Similarly, Painter advised the audience when interpreting Schutz’s work, “Don’t leap to simple answers. Stick with it!”

Painter stated, “We need more...knowledge” about African-descended artists, urging audience members to look at the catalog for the Tate Modern’s Soul of a Nation: Art in the Age of Black Power (available, incidentally, at the CMA’s Ingalls Library), reinforcing Schutz’s observation about the power of survey shows.

In an institution whose mission statement embraces all people, making space—literally—for critical conversations like this one that drew over 500 people will hopefully contribute to shifting the impression Painter had growing up of art museums: she recalls encountering one parasol painting after the next and seeing only “rich white people.”

Painter’s memoir, Old in Art School: A Memoir of Starting Over, is forthcoming from Counterpoint Press. Schutz’s exhibition at the Transformer Station continues until April 15, 2018.

(1) “Nation Horrified by Murder of Kidnaped [sic] Chicago Youth,” Jet, September 15, 1955, 6-9.

(2) Ibid.: Mutilated face of victim was left un-retouched by mortician at mother's request. She said she wanted 'all the world' to witness the atrocity." 9. Photo: Schutz (l.) and Painter (r.). Courtesy of Key Jo Lee.