The Routledge Companion to Decolonizing Art, Craft, and Visual Culture Education (Routledge Art History and Visual Studies Companions) [1 ed.] 1032040157, 9781032040158

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
List of Figures
List of Contributors
About the Cover
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Part I: Creative Shorts
1 A Is for Alphabet: Reimagining Language and Mastery as a Creative Meandering
2 Critical Reflections on Teaching as a Decolonial Practice
3 Angrez chale gaye, Angrezi chod gaye: Post-coloniality of Language
4 Mind the Sky (Or Forgetting and the Imposed Futurity of the Present): A Poem
5 Assembling Desire
6 Lutruwita/Tasmania’s Fauna: Artistic Imaginings with Native Wildlife
7 Reclaiming Dreams of Our Shared Future: Decolonizing Metanarratives around What Can/Should/Will Be through Imaginative Diegesis
8 A Palimpsest of Pulverization in Occupied Palestine: Artistic Intervention as Counter-Representation on the Mediterranean Coast
9 Time to Trespass: Annotations to 13 Appearances
10 From Art to Artifact: A Sestina on Public Art Policy in Confederate Monument Removal Case Law
11 Co-Creating Fine Arts Learning: Decolonial and Intersectional Strategies Logan
12 Hilando Historias y Territorios: Textile Cartography of Contemporary Indigenous Communities
Part II: Enacted Encounters
13 In Fontaine’s Footsteps: Students’ Visual Essays Tackle the Difficult History of Canada’s Indian Residential Schools
14 Unsettling Colonial Narratives in the Art Museum
15 Transborder Provocaciones through Lozano-Hemmer’s Border Tuner | Sintonizador Fronterizo Public Art Installation
16 Creating Máscar(a/illa)s: A Decolonizing Us-ing
17 Decolonization of Theater Education: An Examination of the Collective Creative Process through Culturally Relevant Pedagogy
18 Cultural Networking, Storytelling, and Zoom during the COVID-19 Pandemic: Conversations with African-Caribbeans on Using a Decolonized Digital Arts-Based Educational Platform
19 Art as a Bridge for Decolonizing Grief and Accessing My Neuroqueer Spirit
20 Transgressive Enactments: Research-Creation as Anti-Colonial Praxis
21 Outside the Classroom and Outside the Books: Extending the Classroom for “Antiessentialist” Curriculum
22 Explorations for Decolonizing the Curriculum Regarding Technology
23 Activating Curiosity, Heart, and Artistic Identity to Engage Ecojustice
24 Imagining Our Neighborhood of Nonhuman Residents: Sensorial Attunement as Ecological Aesthetic Inquiry
25 Root A/r/tography from Native Seeds
Part III: Ruminative Research
26 Artistic Practice as Land Acknowledgement
27 Beyond the Veneer of Modernism: Aesthetics, Post-Africanity, and the “Multiversum” Narrative
28 Exorcising the Colonialist: The Cuna Figures of the San Blas Islands and Other Forms of Mimesis and Mimicry
29 A Critique of Grand Hegemony: Disrupting Historical Valuations of Public Space through Pervasive Gaming
30 Art Education and Entangled Knowledge in the Digital Age: Learning from Tabita Rezaire’s Premium Connect
31 Raranga and Tikanga Pā Harakeke—An Indigenous Model of Socially Engaged Art and Education
32 Decolonization and the Degeneralization of Time in Art Education Historiography
33 Nepantlando: A Borderlands Approach to Curating, Art Practice, and Teaching
34 Crafting Criticality into My Wayfaring Jewish Ancestors’ Colonial Trade Connections
35 Decolonizing Blood, Body, and Brain: From the Visual Practices of Jonathan Kim
36 Decolonizing Formal Art Education in Germany
37 Toward Frontiers of Decolonization in Contemporary Nigerian Art Markets
38 Histories and Pedagogics from the Underside(s) of Modernity
Afterword
Contributing Author Biographies
Index

Citation preview

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO DECOLONIZING ART, CRAFT, AND VISUAL CULTURE EDUCATION

This companion demonstrates how art, craft, and visual culture education activate social imagination and action that is ­equity-​­and ­justice-​­driven. Specifically, this book provides ­arts-​­engaged, intersectional understandings of decolonization in the contemporary art world that cross disciplinary lines. Visual and traditional essays in this book combine current scholarship with pragmatic strategies and insights grounded in the reality of ­socio-​­cultural, political, and economic communities across the globe. Across three sections (­creative shorts, enacted encounters, and ruminative research), a diverse group of authors address themes of histories, space and land, mind and body, and the digital realm. Chapters highlight and illustrate how artists, educators, and researchers grapple with decolonial methods, theories, and ­strategies—​­in research, artmaking, and pedagogical practice. Each chapter includes discursive questions and resources for further engagement with the topics at hand. The book is targeted towards scholars and practitioners of art education, studio art, art history, ­K-​­12 art teachers, as well as artist educators and teaching artists in museums and communities. Manisha Sharma is Professor and Chair of Art Education at the University of North Texas, Denton, USA. She is an arts educator, artist, and researcher focused on how perceptions of culture and community are formed, internalized, and acted out within various communities, through the production and consumption of art and visual culture artefacts. Amanda Alexander is Professor and Chair of the Art Department at Miami University of Ohio, Oxford, USA. She is a ­community-​­engaged arts researcher who connects with sites of cultural and artistic (­re)­production including schools, museums, community arts organizations, and international cooperative groups. Dr. Alexander is centrally concerned with art education students’ ability to be more civically engaged individuals, see art as a means to make meaning, and have an interdisciplinary, global perspective.

“This book is for those that are searching for theory, curriculum, and pedagogy through the lens of self-determination. It is divided into three sections. The authors include engaging questions at the end of the chapters that assist in providing self-reflection. … Incredible!” —Christine Ballengee-Morris, The Ohio State University, USA “This remarkable book centers art and art education as a powerful force for postcolonialism and decolonization. With a tremendous range of diverse international voices taking up an exciting range of scholarship, the book is truly one of a kind. It is magnificently unique in its embrace of decolonization as a focus for rethinking the structures and content of education and as a rebellious text that questions the colonized norms of scholarship by offering an array of artful, reflexive, and performative texts. An utterly powerful book that all art educators must read!” —Rita L. Irwin, The University of British Columbia, Canada “Art as a concept is not currently built upon a foundation by which diverse humans demonstrate their self-determined creative, aesthetic and meaning-making capacity. Instead, systems of colonization continue to largely limit the engagement of our imaginations across worldviews. This book is one embarkation for building the creative consciousness necessary for diverse humans finally to breathe life into art and the world.” —Cristóbal Martinez, Arizona State University, USA

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO DECOLONIZING ART, CRAFT, AND VISUAL CULTURE EDUCATION

Edited by Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander

Designed cover image: Prashast Kachru. Blow up #12. 2020. Paan Stain Series. New Delhi, India. First published 2023 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 selection and editorial matter, Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander; individual chapters, the contributors. The right of the editors to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. ISBN: 9781032040158 (­hbk) ISBN: 9781032040998 (­pbk) ISBN: 9781003190530 (­ebk) DOI: 10.4324/­9781003190530 Typeset in Bembo by codeMantra

CONTENTS

List of Figures ix List of Contributors xiv About the Cover xviii Acknowledgements xix Introduction Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander PART I

Creative Shorts

1

13

1 A Is for Alphabet: Reimagining Language and Mastery as a Creative Meandering 14 Marianna Pegno and A ­ nh-​­Thuy Nguyen 2 Critical Reflections on Teaching as a Decolonial Practice Maria Leake

20

3 Angrez chale gaye, Angrezi chod gaye: Post-​­coloniality of Language Nupur Manoj Sachdeva

28

4 Mind the Sky (­Or Forgetting and the Imposed Futurity of the Present): A Poem Shanita Bigelow 5 Assembling Desire Leon Tan, Mriganka Madhukaillya and Cristina Bogdan v

35 39

Contents

6 Lutruwita/­Tasmania’s Fauna: Artistic Imaginings with Native Wildlife Suzanne Crowley 7 Reclaiming Dreams of Our Shared Future: Decolonizing Metanarratives around What Can/­Should/­Will Be through Imaginative Diegesis Stephanie Jones and James F. Woglom 8 A Palimpsest of Pulverization in Occupied Palestine: Artistic Intervention as ­Counter-​­Representation on the Mediterranean Coast Taylor Miller 9 Time to Trespass: Annotations to 13 Appearances Raqs Media Collective 10 From Art to Artifact: A Sestina on Public Art Policy in Confederate Monument Removal Case Law Kristi W. Arth

44

51

59 66

77

11 ­Co-​­Creating Fine Arts Learning: Decolonial and Intersectional Strategies 80 Logan MacDonald 12 Hilando Historias y Territorios: Textile Cartography of Contemporary Indigenous Communities Bianca ­Castillero-​­Vela PART II

89

Enacted Encounters

97

13 In Fontaine’s Footsteps: Students’ Visual Essays Tackle the Difficult History of Canada’s Indian Residential Schools Agnieszka Chalas and Michael Pitblado

98

14 Unsettling Colonial Narratives in the Art Museum Grace VanderVliet and Ozi Uduma 15 Transborder Provocaciones through ­Lozano-​­Hemmer’s Border Tuner | Sintonizador Fronterizo Public Art Installation Andrea Blancas Beltran and León De la Rosa Carrillo 16 Creating Máscar(­a/­i lla)­s: A Decolonizing ­Us-​­ing Rebecca C. Christ, Bretton A. Varga and Timothy Monreal

vi

108

116 129

Contents

17 Decolonization of Theater Education: An Examination of the Collective Creative Process through Culturally Relevant Pedagogy Maria Cristina Leite, Luiz Ernesto Fraga, Marcio Saretta and Tarlia Laranjeira Cardoso 18 Cultural Networking, Storytelling, and Zoom during the ­ COVID-​­19 Pandemic: Conversations with ­A frican-​­Caribbeans on Using a Decolonized Digital ­A rts-​­Based Educational Platform Judith ­Bruce-​­Golding and Sue Brown 19 Art as a Bridge for Decolonizing Grief and Accessing My Neuroqueer Spirit Corey Reutlinger 20 Transgressive Enactments: ­Research-​­Creation as ­A nti-​­Colonial Praxis Kimberley White 21 Outside the Classroom and Outside the Books: Extending the Classroom for “­A ntiessentialist” Curriculum Rebecka A. Black and Thomas E. Keefe

138

147

157 165

173

22 Explorations for Decolonizing the Curriculum Regarding Technology Michelle Tillander

180

23 Activating Curiosity, Heart, and Artistic Identity to Engage Ecojustice Jonathan Silverman

188

24 Imagining Our Neighborhood of Nonhuman Residents: Sensorial Attunement as Ecological Aesthetic Inquiry Cala Coats, Shagun Singha, Steven Zuiker and Amanda K. Riske 25 Root A/­r/­tography from Native Seeds Jun Hu, Xueyin Li, Lipeng Jin, Qianyu Wang and Yuehua Ding PART III

196 205

Ruminative Research

211

26 Artistic Practice as Land Acknowledgement Prashast Kachru

212

27 Beyond the Veneer of Modernism: Aesthetics, ­Post-​­Africanity, and the “­Multiversum” Narrative Frank AO Ugiomoh vii

224

Contents

28 Exorcising the Colonialist: The Cuna Figures of the San Blas Islands and Other Forms of Mimesis and Mimicry Alice Wexler

236

29 A Critique of Grand Hegemony: Disrupting Historical Valuations of Public Space through Pervasive Gaming Lillian Lewis and Veronica Hicks

248

30 Art Education and Entangled Knowledge in the Digital Age: Learning from Tabita Rezaire’s Premium Connect 257 Kristin Klein 31 Raranga and Tikanga Pā ­Harakeke—​­An Indigenous Model of Socially Engaged Art and Education Leon Tan and Tanya White

269

32 Decolonization and the Degeneralization of Time in Art Education Historiography 280 Juuso Tervo 33 Nepantlando: A Borderlands Approach to Curating, Art Practice, and Teaching 292 Leslie C. Sotomayor II and Christen Sperry García 34 Crafting Criticality into My Wayfaring Jewish Ancestors’ Colonial Trade Connections Esther Fitzpatrick

308

35 Decolonizing Blood, Body, and Brain: From the Visual Practices of Jonathan Kim Boram Lee and Jonathan Kim

323

36 Decolonizing Formal Art Education in Germany Ernst Wagner

334

37 Toward Frontiers of Decolonization in Contemporary Nigerian Art Markets 346 Samuel Egwu Okoro and Soiduate ­Ogoye-​­Atanga 38 Histories and Pedagogics from the Underside(­s) of Modernity Dalida María Benfield and Christopher Bratton

363

Afterword 375 Contributing Author Biographies 379 Index 393 viii

FIGURES

­ 0.1 ­ 0.2 ­ 1.1 ­ 1.2 ­ 1.3 ­ 1.4 ­ 1.5 ­ 2.1

Traces of decolonization Key concepts Untitled #3 from A is for Alphabet, 2021 Untitled #1 from A is for Alphabet, 2021 Untitled #2 from A is for Alphabet, 2021 Film Still #1 from A is for Alphabet, 2021 Film Still #2 from A is for Alphabet, 2021 Land of the Free (­A irbrush in Procreate). Used with permission of artist/­ educator Heather Higgins ­ 2.2 ­Self-​­portrait with Batik Florals (­M ixed Media). Used with permission of artist/­ educator Laura Hwang ­ 2.3 Enlightenment (­Ink & Watercolor). Used with permission of artist/­educator Michelle Muir ­ 2.4 Visible (­Digital Artwork). Used with permission of artist/­educator Laura Goodwin ­ 2.5 Manifesto. Used with permission of UNK students ­ 2.6 Collaborative Letter. Used with permission of UNK students ­ 3.1 Hindi Varn Mala ­ 3.2 Doha ki Paribhasha ­ 3.3 Kabir Das ­Doha—​­Bada Bhaya toh kya ­ 3.4 Rahim Das ­Doha—​­Jo Rahim ­ 3.5 Bihari ­Doha—​­K anak ­ 3.6 ­Naam-​­name ­ 5.1 Mriganka Madhukaillya, Proposal for Assembly, 2016 ­ 5.2 Mriganka Madhukaillya, Assembly of Desire, 2018 ­ 5.3 Mriganka Madhukaillya, Library in the Forest, 2021.  Film still ­ 5.4 Mriganka Madhukaillya, Library in the Forest, 2021.  Film still ­ 6.1 Do the Maths, 2021. Inkjet print on archival paper 800 mm × 300 mm. Artist: Author © ­ 6.2 Silly Wolly, 2009. ­Hand-​­coloured lino print, 400 mm × 500 mm. Artist: Author © ix

2 4 17 17 17 18 18 21 22 23 24 25 25 29 30 30 31 31 33 40 41 42 43 46 47

Figures

­ 6.3 Who’s Out of Whack? 2008. ­Hand-​­coloured lino print, 610 mm × 500 mm. Artist: Author © ­ 6.4 Nola’s Ark, 2007. ­Hand-​­coloured lino print, 300 mm × 900 mm, 2007.  Artist: Author © ­ 6.5 Who’s Next? 2021.  Inkjet print on archival paper, 600 mm × 400 mm. Artist: Author © ­ 8.1 Of orange peels and vineyard vines ­ 8.2 Final flattening of the Dolphinarium, near Charles Clore Park (­photographed with Holga lens) ­ 8.3 View from Charles Clore Park, looking southward ­ 8.4 View from Charles Clore Park, looking ­south-​­southeastward ­ 8.5 The ­re-​­development of Tel Aviv’s shoreline ­ 8.6 Borders, barriers, rebar; the visuality of occupied territory along the Mediterranean coast ­ 9.1 ­Co-​­ordinates of Everyday Life, or, 28.28  N/­77.15  E : : 2001/­2002, Raqs Media Collective, 2002, video installation ­ 9.2 Atithi, from Corrections to the First Draft of History, Raqs Media Collective, 2014, newsprint, chalkboard paint, and chalk ­ 9.3 Snapshot of a diagram made during a discussion in the studio, 2021 ­ 9.4 ­Re-​­Run, Raqs Media Collective, 2013, video, ­re-​­enactment of Henri Cartier Bresson’s photograph of a bank run in Shanghai in 1948 ­ 9.5 Let Us Read Again, from Corrections to the First Draft of History, Raqs Media Collective, 2014, Newsprint, chalkboard paint, and chalk ­ 9.6 The Bending Man, from Coronation Park, Raqs Media Collective, 2015 ­ 9.7 A History of Photography, Raqs Media Collective, 2014, six photographic prints, 2' × 2' each ­ 9.8 Not Yet at Ease, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, immersive installation with ­padded-​­cell maze, 7 videos, ­18-​­channel soundtracks ­ 9.9 Spinal, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, video, 10 min 24 sec., HD, performance, and animation 9.10 Not Yet at Ease, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, immersive installation with padded-cell maze, 7 videos, 18-channel soundtracks ­ 9.11 Not Yet At Ease, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, immersive installation with ­padded-​­cell maze, 7 videos, ­18-​­channel soundtracks ­ 9.12 Not Yet at Ease, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, immersive installation with ­padded-​­cell maze, 7 videos, ­18-​­channel soundtracks ­ 9.13 Snapshot of a diagram made during a discussion in the studio, 2021 ­ 11.1 Still of student activity outcome at University of Waterloo, 2020 ­ 11.2 Still of student activity outcome at University of Waterloo, 2020 11.3 Still of student activity outcome at University of Waterloo, 2019 11.4 Stills of student activity outcome at University of Waterloo, 2019–2020 ­ 11.5 Unmaking the Archive Workshop at Owen’s Gallery, 2019 ­ 11.6 Unmaking the Archive Workshop at Owen’s Gallery, 2019 ­ 11.7 Unmaking the Archive Workshop at Owen’s Gallery, 2019 ­ 12.1 Side of triqui huipil woven on a backstrap loom by María Esther Amatitla, one of the workshop participants. Photo by the author, 2016.  Used with permission of María Esther Amatitla

x

48 48 49 60 61 62 62 63 64 67 67 68 69 69 70 71 72 72 73 74 74 75 81 82 83 84 85 86 87

89

Figures

­ 12.2 Paper maps embroidered and intervened with different techniques. Collective work. Photo by the author, 2016 ­ 12.3 Collage of some works and moments from the workshop. Photo by the author, 2016 ­ 12.4 Art installation made in a public and community space of the Autonomous University of Mexico City, Campus Cuautepec. Photo by the author, 2016 12.5 Presentation of the artistic installation made in a public and community space of the Autonomous University of Mexico City, Campus Cuautepec. Photo by the author, 2017 ­ 12.6 Embroidered maps with the word woman in otomí, rarámuri, maya and yaqui. Collective work. Photo by the author, 2016 ­ 13.1 Naomi’s visual essay. © Responsibility of Agnieszka Chalas ­ 13.2 Madison’s visual essay. © Responsibility of Agnieszka Chalas ­ 13.3 Emily’s visual essay. © Responsibility of Agnieszka Chalas ­ 13.4 Charlotte’s visual essay. © Responsibility of Agnieszka Chalas ­ 14.1 Titus Kaphar, Flay ( ­James Madison), 2019, oil on canvas with nails. University of Michigan Museum of Art, Museum Purchase made possible by Joseph and Annette Allen, 2019/­2.184.  Used with permission of the artist. © Titus Kaphar Photo credit: Charlie Edwards ­ 14.2 Unsettling Histories: Legacies of Slavery and Colonialism exhibition [detail view], with works by John Hopner, Charles Philips, Tyree Guyton, Joseph Wright of Derby, Randolph Rogers, and Eastman Johnson. University of Michigan Museum of Art, Marvin H. and Mary M. Davidson Gallery of European and American Art, February 2021.  Photo credit: Grace VanderVliet ­ 15.1 Tattoo of two middle fingers designed by De la ­Rosa-​­Carrillo and shared with ­Blancas-​­Beltran “­to remain within reach” ­ 16.1 Individual Máscar(­a/­i lla)­s ­ 16.2 ­Us-​­ing Máscar(­a/­i lla)­s ­ 17.1 I don’t say I feel I’m coming home or going back to the backyard because I never felt like I left the backyard. This backyard is present in my life, and I take it with me wherever I go. All the experiences we had in the Quintino Theater School are experiences for a lifetime (“­Encontro e Conversa, Cris Pedrosa e Lucio Enrico”) ­ 17.2 It was like I was at home … I really felt cozy with the atmosphere of creation… The theater allowed me to recognize myself as a human being in full mutation; it was there that I learned to value the life experience of other people who spoke differently from me, and who had hair or eyes different from mine (­A ssumpção, Alencar, and Fraga, ­71–​­72) ­ 18.1 The Cornerstone Project Members, 2020 ­ 19.1 The Blue Sage Elephant: An ­ethno-​­mimetic drawing representing PTSD, emotional authenicity, and neuroqueer spirituality ­ 23.1 Silverman, Jonathan. “­M indfully observing and drawing from nature” October 15, 2019 ­ 24.1 Student journal drawings of the anticipated garden and fish pond and written entry: “­I think this setup looks like a star or a sun or maybe it looks like half of the Walmart sign”; “­I want to focus on the place where the fishies will be because to know the thought that there will be fishes in there” xi

90 91 92

93 94 104 104 105 105

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110 126 132 134

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145 154 161 190

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Figures

­ 24.2 Students reacting to seeing the water for the first time ­ 24.3 Mateo drawing the outline of the chicken coop with his foot ­ 24.4 Mateo’s speculative journal drawing from week 1.  “­I think it will look like this” ­ 25.1 Aerial photograph of The Chongqing ­Ba-​­Yu Farming Museum, photographed by Liu Gang, 2021 ­ 25.2 An exhibition hall of The Chongqing ­Ba-​­Yu Farming Museum, photographed by Liu Gang, 2017 ­ 25.3 Tree of Seeds, photographed by Maoxi Wang, 2019 ­ 25.4 Changing the World Starts from Eating Well, photographed by Liu Gang, 2019 ­ 26.1 Work portrait, ­self-​­portrait. Prashast Kachru. 2021 ­ 26.2 Machines of loving grace. Ceramics. Prashast Kachru. 2022 ­ 26.3 Reciprocal seeing. Video, sound. Prashast Kachru. 2022 ­ 26.4 I don’t trust nobody but the land. Neon, photography. Prashast Kachru. 2022 ­ 26.5 Ozymandias’ nightmare. Ceramics, photography. Prashast Kachru. 2022 ­ 26.6 The essence of all science. Ceramic technoscape. Prashast Kachru. 2022 ­ 27.1 The Python’s Eye: The Past in the Living Present ­ 27.2 Copy of The White Lady of Brandberg by Ibim Cookey, Courtesy of the Artist. For original, see: https://­w ww.bradshawfoundation.com/­a frica/­ namibia/­white_lady/­index.php ­ 27.3 Copy of Senufo, Ivory Coast Equestrian Figure (wood) from the British Museum image by Ibim Cookey, Courtesy of the Artist. For original, see: https://­w ww.britishmuseum.org/ ­collection/­object/­­E _Af1948- ­​­­02-​­4 ­ 27.4 National Day, painted by Qana Sambata, a modern Ethiopian painter ­ 28.1 Nuchu figure, Kuna People, San Blas Island, Panama. 7.5” × 1.25”, twentieth century. © Zena Kruzick, Zena Kruzick Tribal Art, San Francisco, CA, 2020.  “­A nuchu figure used in the homes of the Kuna people to ward off evil spirits. This one has a black top hat and yellow pigment on the upper body. #6637.  http://­zenakruzick.com/­­americas-­​ ­­t ribal-​­art/­­a mericas-​­figure_panama6637.htm ­ 28.2 Kuna Mola blouse fragment, Panama, Comarca de San Blas, c. 1960. Cotton. 16 1/­8 × 20 1/­16 in. Museum of International Folk Art. Gift of the Girard Foundation Collection ­ 30.1 Ifá Divination App, Screenshot from Premium Connect (­13:04), 2017, vimeo. com/­247826259. Accessed 1 Oct. 2020.  Credits: Premium Connect, 2017, Tabita Rezaire. Courtesy of the artist and Goodman Gallery, South Africa ­ 30.2 Fractal Structures in African Architecture and Design. Screenshot from Premium Connect (­0 0:13:04), 2017, vimeo.com/­247826259.  Accessed 1 Oct. 2020.  Credits: Premium Connect, 2017, Tabita Rezaire. Courtesy of the artist and Goodman Gallery, South Africa ­ 31.1 Rangimarie Pā Harakeke growing at Te Noho Kotahitanga Marae ­ 31.2 Wahakura at Ngākau Māhaki whare nui, Te Noho Kotahitanga Marae ­ 31.3 Whānau manaaki pā harakeke clearing harakeke growing beside Te Waiunuroa o Wairaka ­ 34.1 Arpillera of my Jewish trader ancestors in early colonial Auckland ­ 34.2 Papier mâché balloon for mapping the travels of my Jewish ancestors xii

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265 272 273 274 311 313

Figures

­ 34.3 Mapping out and generating family and trade connections 314 ­ 34.4 The Golden Triangle of T ­ rade—​­Portugal, Brazil, West Africa, Amsterdam 315 ­ 34.5 Port Jews of Livorno, Trieste, Lisbon, Gibraltar, Tangier, Antwerp, Amsterdam, London, and Hamburg 316 ­ 34.6 The cousinhood of trade: Sephardic and Ashkenazi business and marriage unions (­Rothschild, Montefiore, Cohen, Goldberg, Salomon, and others) 317 ­ 34.7 Meshwork ­1—​­familial connections reaching down under to Australia, New Zealand, and the Pacific Islands 318 ­ 34.8 Meshwork ­2 —​­established familial connections strengthened in Europe, the Americas, Britain, and elsewhere 319 ­ 35.1 Jonathan Kim, 42cm: The Cultural Distance, 2020, © Sam Roberts 326 ­ 36.1 Grid used in teacher training at the Academy of Fine Arts, Munich. Credit: Ernst Wagner 336 ­ 36.2 ­Two-​­dimensional system of classification. Credit: Ernst Wagner 337 ­ 36.3 Application of the system to objects of visual culture. Credit: Ernst Wagner 337 ­ 36.4 The biography of the Benin bronzes. Credit: Ernst Wagner 338 ­ 36.5 The Cape Town Model. Credit: Ernst Wagner 341 ­ 36.6 The methodological approach of this essay. Credit: Ernst Wagner 345 ­ 37.1 Auction sales records. Courtesy NAMR Report, 2017 351 ­ 37.2 Artworks by Nigerian Artists at Auctions. Courtesy NAMR Report, 2017 352 ­ 37.3 Value of Artworks sold by Nigerian Artists at Auctions. Courtesy NAMR Report, 2017 352 ­ 37.4 Art Market Share by Country. Data Courtesy Art Market Report, 2017, at ArtPrice.com354 ­ 37.5 Geographical distribution of Fine Art auction turnover. Data Courtesy Art Market report, 2017, at ArtPrice.com 355 ­ 38.1 De/­Archive East Africa, Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research Residency, Ongata Rongai, Kenya, 2020.  Photograph courtesy of Adam Sings In The Timber, 2020 364 ­ 38.2 Vislumbres Potencialmente Libertadores no Sistema da 33a Bienal de São Paulo (­Potential Liberatory Visions of the 33rd Sao Paulo Biennial System), a workshop by Dalida María Benfield, Christopher Bratton, Bernardo Fontes, Bruno Moreschi, and Gabriel Pereira, 33rd São Paulo Biennial, 2018. ­Co-​­sponsored by the Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research and the Itaú Cultural as part of Outra 33 Bienal (­A nother 33rd Biennial) a work by Bruno Moreschi commissioned by the 33rd São Paulo Biennial. Photograph courtesy of Dalida María Benfield, 2018 370

xiii

CONTRIBUTORS

Kristi W. Arth is Assistant Professor of Law at Belmont University, Nashville, Tennessee, USA. Andrea Blancas Beltran is Writer and Artist in El Paso, Texas, USA. Dalida María Benfield is ­Co-​­Founder and Research and Program Director of Center for Arts, Design and Social Research (­an International, Independent NGO), Boston, Massachusetts, USA/­Panama/­Finland. Shanita Bigelow is Doctoral Candidate at DePaul University, Chicago, Illinois, USA. Rebecka A. Black  is Associate Professor and Head of Art History at Rocky Mountain College of Art + Design, Lakewood, Colorado, USA. Cristina Bogdan is Faculty of Letters at the University of Bucharest, Bucharest, Romania. Christopher Bratton is Professor at Aalto University and ­Co-​­Founder at Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research (­an International, Independent NGO), Helsinki, Finland/­USA. Sue Brown is Poet, Writer, and Community Project Facilitator as well as TV Presenter at BBC Four, Birmingham, England. Judith ­Bruce-​­Golding is Research Fellow at the University of Southampton, West Midlands, England. Tarlia Laranjeira Cardoso is Instructor, Actress and Director at Escola Tecnica de Teatro Martins Penna, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Bianca ­Castillero-​­Vela is Art Educator and Independent Researcher in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico. Agnieszka Chalas is Lecturer at the University of Toronto and Consultant at Chalas Consulting Group, Toronto, Canada. xiv

Contributors

Rebecca C. Christ is Assistant Professor of Social Studies Education at Florida International University, Miami, Florida, USA. Cala Coats  is Assistant Professor of Art Education at Arizona State University, Tempe, Arizona, USA. Suzanne Crowley is PhD Candidate at the University of Tasmania, Tasmania, Australia. León de la Rosa Carrillo  is Pedagogue, Remixologist and Instructor at Universidad Autónoma de Ciudad Juárez, Ciudad Juárez, Mexico. Yuehua Ding is Professor at Chongqing Normal University, Chongqing, China. Samuel Egwu Okoro is Art Historian and Independent Scholar in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Esther Fitzpatrick is Senior Lecturer in The Faculty of Education and Social Work, The University of Auckland, Auckland, Australia/­Ireland. Luiz Ernesto Fraga is Performing Arts Teacher in Quintino Theater School and Municipal Education System, Rio de Janiero, Brazil. Christen Sperry García is Assistant Professor, The University of Texas Rio Grande Valley, Rio Grande Valley, Texas, USA. Veronica Hicks  is Art Teacher, A ­ rts-​­Based Researcher and Author, Tracy, California, USA. Jun Hu is Deputy Professor and Chair of A/­r/­tography Center at Hangzhou Normal University, Hangzhou, China. Lipeng Jin is Lecturer at Sichuan Fine Arts Institute, Chongqing, China. Stephanie Jones  is Josiah Meigs Distinguished Teaching Professor at the University of Georgia, Athens, Georgia, USA. Prashast Kachru is Independent Artist and Interventionist, US/­India. Thomas E. Keefe is Associate Professor of Humanities at Rocky Mountain College of Art + Design, Lakewood, Colorado, USA. Jonathan Kim is Artist, Edwardstown, Australia/­South Korea. Kristin Klein  is Researcher and Art Educator at the University of Cologne, Cologne, Germany. Maria Leake  is Retired K ­ -​­12 Art Educator and Assistant Professor at the University of Nebraska Kearney, San Antonio, Texas, USA.

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Contributors

Boram Lee  is Senior Lecturer at the University of South Australia, Adelaide, Australia/­ South Korea. Maria Cristina Leite is Coordinator of Assessment and Diversity Initiatives in the College of Education, University of Florida, Gainesville, FL, USA/­Brazil. Lillian Lewis  is Assistant Professor at Virginia Commonwealth University, Richmond, Virginia, USA. Xueyin Li is Lecturer at Southwest University, Chongqing, China. Mriganka Madhukaillya is Assistant Professor, Artist, and Filmmaker at the Institute of Technology, Guwahati, India. Logan MacDonald (­­Mixed-​­European/­M i’kmaq) is Canada Research Chair in Indigenous Art at the University of Waterloo, Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. Taylor Miller is Instructor at the University of Arizona, Tucson, Arizona, USA. Timothy Monreal is Assistant Professor of Teacher Education at California State University, Bakersfield, California, USA. ­A nh-​­Thuy Nguyen is Head of Photography at Pima Community College, Tucson, Arizona, USA/­Vietnam. Soiduate ­Ogoye-​­Atanga is Art Historian, Art Critic, and Theorist at the University of Post Harcourt, Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Marianna Pegno  is Director of Engagement and Inclusion at Tucson Museum of Art, Tucson, Arizona, USA. Michael Pitblado is History Teacher in The York School, Toronto, Canada. Raqs Media Collective  (­Monica Narula, Shuddhabrata Sengupta and Jeebesh Bagchi), Artistic Media Collective, New Delhi, India. Corey Reutlinger  is Doctoral Candidate and Instructor at Arizona State University, Tempe, Arizona, USA. Amanda K. Riske is Doctoral Student in Learning, Literacies and Technologies at Arizona State University, Tempe, Arizona, USA. Nupur Manoj Sachdeva is ­A rtist-​­Educator and Founder of Art2Academia, Tucson, Arizona, USA/­India. Marcio Saretta  is Performing Arts Teacher at Quintino Theater School and Secretaria Municipal de Educacao, Rio de Janiero, Brazil.

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Contributors

Jonathan Silverman is Professor Emeritus at Saint Michael’s College, Charlotte, Vermont, USA. Shagun Singha is Doctoral Student in Learning, Literacies and Technologies at Arizona State University, Tempe, Arizona, USA. Leslie C. Sotomayor II is Visiting Assistant Professor at Texas Tech University, Lubbock, Texas, USA. Leon Tan  is Associate Professor at the Unitec Institute of Technology, Auckland, New Zealand. Juuso Tervo is Senior University Lecturer and Head of Master’s Programme at Aalto University, Aalto and Helsinki, Finland. Michelle Tillander  is Associate Professor of Art Education at the University of Florida, Gainsville, Florida, USA. Ozi Uduma is Assistant Curator of Global Contemporary Art at the University of Michigan Museum of Art, Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. Frank AO Ugiomoh is Professor at the University of Port Harcourt, Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Grace Vandervliet  is Curator for Museum Teaching and Learning at the University of Michigan Museum of Art, Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. Bretton A. Varga is Assistant Professor of ­H istory-​­Social Science at California State University, Chico, California, USA. Ernst Wagner  is Lecturer and Researcher at the Academy of Fine Arts, Institute of Art Education at the University of Augsburg, and the U ­ NESCO-​­Chair in Arts and Culture in Education at the University of Erlangen, Munich, Germany. Qianyu Wang is Deputy Professor at Southwest University, Chongqing, China. Alice Wexler is Professor Emerita at SUNY New Paltz, Playa San Miguel, Costa Rica/­USA. Kimberley White is Associate Professor of Law and Society at York University, Toronto, Canada. Tanya White is Lecturer in the School of Creative Industries, Unitec Institute of Technology, Auckland, New Zealand. James F. Woglom is Education Program Leader and Associate Professor at Humboldt State University, Arcata, California, USA. Steven Zuiker is Associate Professor and Learning Scientist at Arizona State University, Tempe, Arizona, USA. xvii

ABOUT THE COVER

This work explores the act of consuming paan (­­betel-​­leaf folded in the mouth with nuts and other ingredients) as a metaphor of rumination, consumption, and [r]ejection, where much like chewing tobacco, little is left but an essential juice, a vivid red ­paint-​­like color, which is periodically spat out. This tradition continues despite an anxious desire to cover up the marks of this ­pre-​­colonial ritual. The artwork reflects a continuing postcolonial struggle, which transforms ­paan-​­stains into texts offering insight into the visual culture and aesthetics of contemporary urban India.

xviii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

We give thanks to the contributing authors and reviewers of this companion. Their dedication, experience, and insights on making the world a better place through the arts have taught us much and led to new ways of thinking about arts education and decolonization in terms of ideology, strategy, and disciplinarity. We thank them also for their patience and continued drive in helping this book come into being through the challenges of a global pandemic. We are also indebted to the artists, scholars, educators, and activists whose work has come before ours providing inspiration and grounding of this work. We give thanks to all those who submitted manuscripts which we could not include. The number and caliber of voices who thought this project a worthy endeavor was pivotal in our own determination to make this book a reality. Thank you to Naomi Silverman, Isabella Vitti, and Katie Armstrong for their editorial guidance and support through this process. We also thank Prashast Kachru for his contribution to the cover art of this book. We thank our families for their unwavering patience and support of our work. Finally, we acknowledge the ongoing challenges of inequity, exploitation, and silencing that make it imperative to internalize decolonization as a mindset and a l­ife-​­practice and to recognize the value of arts education in creatively and thoughtfully moving towards this goal.

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INTRODUCTION Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander

Unsettling Power Decolonization begins with confronting colonialism: a process where a central system of power dominates the surrounding land and its components. Historically, colonization refers to migration such as settlers to colonies, trading posts, or plantations and is mostly aligned with the European colonial period beginning in the fifteenth century. For centuries, colonizing policies followed mercantilism aimed at strengthening home country economies. Ironically, with the Louisiana Purchase in 1804, the newly formed United States almost immediately mimicked its former colonizers by seeking to extend its own empire. By the m ­ id-​­nineteenth century, many colonizing nations started giving up mercantilism for free trade, leading to a change in trade restrictions and tariffs. Before the Industrial Revolution, Europeans controlled at least 35% of the globe, and by 1914, gained control of 84% of the globe (­Hoffman). After World War II, colonial powers were ousted and nearly all colonies gained independence, entering the world into a colonial change or postcolonial period (­see ­Figure  0.1). Colonization is fundamentally a system of imbalanced and harmful control and holding of power, and decolonization is the process of questioning and challenging it, towards not only a more equitable and just future, but also for recompense and righting of past and present wrongs. Today, the term “­neocolonialism” is used to describe various contexts where direct colonization is rare, but other means like outdated trade partnerships, e.g., GATT and CAFTA, companies such as Royal Dutch Shell in Africa, and globalization where trade policies and corporations created by former colonial powers indirectly maintain control of former colonies. The Special Committee on Decolonization maintains the United Nations’ list of ­non-­​ ­­self-​­governing territories, identifying areas that the United Nations believes remain colonies today (­United Nations). Neoliberalism references the development of mercantile control to capitalism and other institutionalized forms of control like nationalistic propaganda and education curricula driven by political and economic hegemonies. It also refers to “­free” global markets, which typically benefits the geographical northern countries due to colonial systems that were set in place years prior. Decolonization occurred in four waves marked by wars of independence in the New World from 1700s to 1800s, ­post-​­World War I, ­post-​­World War II, and the Cold War (­Kennedy). Postcolonial and decolonial studies gained momentum in academia with the DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-1

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Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander

­Figure 0.1 Traces of decolonization.

onset of economic globalization and with the cooling of the Cold War. Both postcolonial and decolonial studies represent a challenge to epistemological predominance of Western modes of thought and forge a sense of shared identity derived from the colonial experience. Postcolonialism responds to the impacts of colonialism primarily in Africa and Asia, the Caribbean and Polynesia, where the colonizers did not settle. The post in postcolonialism does not refer to a historical timeline indicating the end of colonialism but to the study of the condition and experience caused by colonialism, right from the beginning of it. Decolonial studies refer to settler colonization as it happened in North and South America and in New Zealand and Australia (­A shcroft et al.; Sueur). Both p­ ost-​­and ­de-​­colonialism focus on the processes and consequences of control and exploitation of colonized people and their lands; offer critical explorations of the history, 2

Introduction

culture, literature, and discourse of dominant power systems; untangle the production of knowledge from primarily Eurocentric epistemologies; and recall ways of thinking and being erased or suppressed by colonialism, into current memory and practice. They include diverse forms of critical theory and are rooted in race, class, and caste distinctions; indigenous and ethnic studies; gender and sexuality studies; and area studies (­A shcroft et al.; Mignolo; Quijano). Colonialism directed the construction of entire fields of knowledge. The decolonization of such fields involves unpacking how knowledge systems have been colonized and highlighting voices from the margins that demonstrate diverse ways of knowing and communicating including naming and thus fixing concepts and processes (­Barndt; Morgensen; Smith). Decolonizing work resisting western framing of knowledge has meant learning to operate in various contexts and to construct bridges across current dominant systems and sidelined traditional indigenous ways of knowing and making. It reveals that knowledge construction and imaging of the past, present, or future cannot be linear, binary, nor positivist as contradictions in experiential memory, and therefore imagination, are inevitable. The process of decolonization is characterized by violence and disorder; resisting s­ocio-​ ­political, cultural, and economic hegemonies; and cosmopolitan leaders decentering linear and single narratives of the colonizers ( ­Jansen & Osterhammel). Decolonization is an ongoing process of understanding and undoing effects of colonialism, unlearning habits and attitudes perpetuated by it, reclaiming oppressed ontologies and indigenous value systems, and transforming internalized institutional colonization. ­Self-​­determination is at the core of decolonization, which is a verb, a methodology, and an ongoing process. Decolonization is acknowledging and teaching that the competing regional, religious, and linguistic values across the planet are due to colonizer groups who sought to shape the territorial dimensions and ethnic compositions of newly formed ­nation-​ ­states. This caused disruption in native, indigenous, and people of color’s ways of life. In other words, the hasty exits of the colonizers from regions around the world created upheaval that continues to be felt today. The n ­ ation-​­state is both the triumph and the tragedy of decolonization. The notion of it and nationalism’s supremacy as a triumphant outcome of decolonization is a narrative from a single, narrow perspective that undermines the nuanced pains of ­a nti-​­colonial struggles including the displacement of people and their cultures (­Barndt; Sueur; Smith, Tuck, & Yang). Decolonizing praxes include habits of examining, honoring, introspection, and interconnectedness to resist and counter oppressive dominance, while imagining and embracing unexpected questions and creative production both conceptually and materially. F ­ igure 0.2 outlines a few exemplar concepts articulated by post and decolonial studies and decolonizing praxes.

Decolonizing the Arts More than 100,000 years ago, as humans evolved and migrated across the planet, they created art and left it behind in various f­orms—​­from cave paintings to pottery artefacts. One can learn about and view this history today in museums and galleries; in textbooks, on the Internet, and in college classrooms; and in private collections. Through time, these artworks were not always obtained by ethical or legal means. Artworks have been looted by conquistadors, settlers, colonialists, victors of war, and more. Nowadays, one can read about legal cases of repatriation of these artworks and cultural heritage that were looted or stolen from burial sites, ruins, and locations of cultural significance. It is an important acknowledgement and reconciliation of the unjust ways that many natives, indigenous, and people of color 3

Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander

­Figure 0.2 Key concepts.

4

Introduction

were treated in the past. These artworks have made those who stole them wealthier due to appreciation in value over time, especially large institutions of culture, religion, and private corporations (­Gihring). With the repatriation of artwork, one must also acknowledge that in decolonizing the arts the repatriation of land is important. Smith, Tuck and Yang (­2019) remind us that decolonization is not actually about diversifying representation in museums or tearing down ­monuments—​­although that is a part of ­it—​­but ultimately it is about a complete reconfiguration of dominant relations to land and life. The first step in decolonizing the arts in museums, as research, and in schools and communities is to discuss native, indigenous, and people of color’s struggles for recognition of sovereignty, and their contributions as intellectuals and activists to theories and frameworks of decolonization. Further, we must recognize our contexts of teaching, doing research, making, and/­or observing artworks. All of the locations of this work are happening on stolen land in the context of settler colonialism on the North American continent. In other countries, the dynamics can be different. Wherever one is in the world, the recognition that we are living and building on ongoing legacies of exploitation and erasure is important as a starting point to thinking about and doing decolonizing and ­anti-​­colonial work. Throughout history, those who were colonized also often had their traditions, culture, and artwork destroyed and subverted as a means of assimilation by the colonizer or were forced to renounce everything that connected them to their people and community. Colonizers and victors of war were/­are excellent at pushing their own heroic or gallant n ­ arratives—​ ­narratives that were/­are both written and visual art texts. Today, we can discuss and better understand those narratives as partisan representations of history, and the true narratives and stories are not as many colonizers and victors portrayed them. These historical narratives play a role today in whose artwork is seen and whose is not, how artworks are aestheticized, and who has privilege, power, and value in the art world and who does not. Visual culture artefacts patterned on the dominant narrative have made valorous and thus normalized the dismissive plundering of ­non-​­western land and cultural artefacts. The Indiana Jones film franchise is one example of this with its blithe and thoroughly misleading portrayal of an academic anthropologist who travels into sacred spaces of exoticized cultures, steals significant artefacts while causing violent local destruction, and triumphantly brings them back to American museums and academic institutions. The villains in this narrative are usually the local caretakers who resist the “­hero’s” attempts to get ahold of and away with the desired object and knowledge. This trope of blasé colonialism is repeated across media, as in children’s films from the 2000 film The Road to El Dorado to 2021’s Jungle Cruise, and video games like the Lara Croft Tomb Raider series. Many video games endorse invasive military action and the building of empires. See, for example, GOWT (­Games on the War on Terror) such as the Conflict, Medal of Honor and Age of Empire series, and Empire, which is part of the Total War series. It bears discussion in art, craft, media, and visual culture education from perspectives of consumption as well as ethical ideation and production for various markets on how troubled or untroubled such strategic thinking games are. The art, craft, and media market is inextricably intertwined with colonialism and capitalism as it developed within these overarching systems during the last 500 years. Those who have wealth, power, and privilege can make visible and assign monetary and cultural value to the artworks that they deem appropriate. Hegemony controls what is deemed “­h igh” art and “­low” art and what is labeled as art at all. Historically, most high art was selected by, for, and from white men. We can see this in what is described as the “­old masters,” who are all white, Renaissance artists, whereas native, indigenous, and people of color’s art and/­or craft 5

Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander

has been relegated as low art by these same people and the whims of the art market. Further, distinctions between “­art” and “­craft,” “­religious” or “­secular” imagery, etc., are themselves mostly imposed by western definitions and categorizations, often ignoring the value systems those images emerged from. How do we decolonize or change these distinctions and exclusions and bring equity and respectfulness in the art world? Both historically and currently, one can see artwork being used as propaganda to change, skew, and/­or spread (­m is)(­d is)­information. Artwork can be a powerful visual communication tool used for both positive and negative means. Examples of problematic appropriations include the misappropriation of Native American imagery in US sports teams like the Washington Redskins and the Fighting Illini (­who both changed their names after much controversy). Likewise, propaganda has been used throughout history to disenfranchise and twist narratives about native, indigenous, and people of color across the world. Moreover, art as propaganda has psychologically attracted people to join military forces or go to war across the planet. Some of the negative propaganda messages and stereotypes have led to harmful laws and incarceration of native, indigenous, and people of color, which is another feature of colonization. Appropriation of native, indigenous, and people of color’s artwork and causes has been on the rise in recent years, especially under the guise of multiculturalism and cultural appreciation. There are potential harms with cultural appropriation including nonrecognition, misrecognition, and exploitation (­Lalonde), for example, not giving credit to the artist or harmful stereotypical imagery. Decolonizing the arts actively works towards changing this paradigm. Necessarily, decolonizing art means giving credit to those artists who are being appropriated; it means acknowledging at every conference or in every class we teach on whose land we are located and to discuss what that means, in accordance with indigenous guidelines; it is representing native, indigenous, and people of color’s art appropriately and using their voice and writings to teach and research accurately; it means looking at the market and asking why certain artworks are deemed “­h igh” art while others are not; it means acknowledging fabricators of artwork for their part in creating artworks conceived by high art/“­fi ne artists”; it means returning stolen or looted artwork to its rightful owners and working towards respectful and equitable labor practices; and it means learning to be open to engaging with counterculture and counternarratives to metanarratives of history. The areas of investigation and the impacts of this thing called “­decolonization” are still emerging and evolving. This book provides examples of the ways in which students, researchers, and professionals approach decolonizing pedagogy, research, and artwork in contemporary society. It is not meant to be neither summative nor comprehensive. Rather, we hope readers will use it as a companion to unpack how our understanding of “­decolonizing work” is developing as an ongoing dialogic process yielding applicable solutions in their own work.

Resistance and Synergy This book is a compendium of ­arts-​­engaged ideations and responses to postcolonial and decolonial issues posited as decolonizing acts. Contributing authors speak, across eighteen countries on six continents, to visualizations (­creative shorts), creative and pedagogical experiences (­enacted encounters), and research processes (­r uminative research) of decolonizing with and through art and the art world itself. These three types of essays speak to four themes through which to consider decolonization across diverse g­ eo-​­political sites of practice. These are: Histories, which unpack historical constructions of knowledge; Mind and Body, which 6

Introduction

address colonization of human identity; Land and Space, which speak to occupation of territories; and Digital realms, which critique colonizing potential in virtual worlds and in the use of technology. The abbreviated length of the digital section illustrates a greater need for investigation in this area. Literature on decolonizing the digital in this book tends to focus more on design and media technology education and studio production. Demarcations between art and design education seem to be deeply etched despite the increasing overlaps between them in contemporary art production. These striations indicate the hierarchical divisions between art, craft, and design that emerge from Eurocentric conceptualizations of them as occupying different spheres in society. We hope that the structure of this book encourages engagement with breaking down these hierarchies and provides insight into adopting a more holistic view of decolonizing the arts in content, methods, and approaches. Authors in this volume include artists, historians, museum professionals, teachers, students, and researchers who illustrate the multifaceted nature of the art world. They address issues in policy and law, curriculum and pedagogy, ethics and values of arts education in ­K-​­12 and higher education practice, experiences in museum and community engagement, questioning of artist processes, and the challenges and joys of transnational collaborations. Their writing in the English language reflects the tonality and linguistic particularities of different regions as influenced by historical colonial legacies, as well as neoliberal academic mores. With respect to the topic of this book and its international scope of readership, we have tried to honor the variations in spelling, as well as stylistic nuance of the authors, rather than standardize it to North American styles where we, the editors, are located. While this may be disconcerting to readers used to standardized formats, we encourage you to see this as an act of mutuality of effort and respect in reading contexts and ways of communicating that may be unfamiliar at first. After all, readers from ­non-​­western contexts and ­non-​­English contexts have long worked to adjust their own language systems to conform to western publishing standards and mores. We think it is about time we decentered that practice to make room for World Englishes in said act of mutuality. One of our goals in editing this companion is to capture a spectrum of approaches and understandings of what decolonization is and can do, as well as what an arts education is and can do. Hence, we include authors who represent initial forays into and provide more conservative interpretations and applications of decolonization, as well as those who are seasoned in this discourse and offer more radical ideas and solutions. Authors’ applications of decolonization concepts and strategies range from the deeply personal constructions of identity to ­post-​­anthropocenic concerns for the planet. Our desire to be inclusive of voices on the spectrum of decolonizing discourse in the arts led us to very regretfully exclude some respected senior and ­well-​­established scholars who were gracious enough to offer to share their work in this volume. Our rationale for this decision was straightforward in that firstly, it would ­ S-​­based authors in the book, and secondly, it would have further privileged the number of U have tilted the disciplinary distribution of authors heavily towards a ­US-​­based articulation of Art Education as a program of study. We hope that our editorial choices, though personally difficult, reflect a respectful decolonization agenda of unsettling normative expectations and encourage more ­cross-​­talk amongst and beyond arts disciplines. Another significant point to address, which may appear as inadequate space in this book, is the BlackLivesMatter movement and ­A frican-​­American voices. The paucity of submissions that focused on this, in response to our call for chapters, especially from black authors, was disheartening and worrying to us as editors. However, with introspection and delicate discussion with some scholars doing that work, we recognized that the urgency of that conversation, in the period in which we compiled this volume, needed more focused 7

Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander

attention and expertise than we editors in our specific embodiments and this companion volume with its spectrum approach could provide. The volume of that conversation, with its nation and r­ egion-​­specific contexts, is well represented in other perhaps more appropriate places. Also, ­re-​­orienting the focus of our gaze from North American issues to a global lens hopefully makes something else happen: an examination of where to find and offer solidarity from the vantage point of our own specific concerns of equity and justice. This is especially important, in the face of hegemonic strategies of divide and rule,1 which pit oppressed and suppressed groups against each other in a fight for (­t hus far) limited ground from which to speak and be heard. It is clear to us that ­inter-​­group solidarity is the path to create. The process of editing this book illuminated our understanding of discourses and practices the world over, on what decolonization with and of the arts looks like. The following section describes the organization of the book and its chapters.

Representative Ideas and Organization of Chapters The essays present insights into the themes of Histories, Mind and Body, Land and Space, and Digital realms across the three formats, namely, Creative Shorts, Enacted Encounters, and Ruminative Research. The “­Creative Shorts” section begins with a dialogue between artist ­A nh-​­Thuy Nguyen and museum educator Marianna Pegno, on the performance of mimicry, enunciation, intentionality, and friendship in learning and unlearning language in order to communicate across cultural divides. Maria Leake carries forward this dialogue on collaboration, the mastery of language, intentionality, and connected distances with reference to institutional privilege and Hispanic contexts in the Southern USA, while Nupur Sachdeva focuses on memory and linguistic legacy to raise questions of authenticity and preservation of indigenous knowledge in digital social spaces through what she calls “­indigitization.” Shanita Bigelow extends Sachdeva’s poetic investigations of remembrance into imaginings of futurity in terms of reconciliation and ­re-​­emergence of ­self-​­determination. As with Bigelow, transnational and transdisciplinary collaborators Leon Tan, Mriganka Madhukaillya, and ­ ind-​­body with the external ecosystems we Cristina Bogdan connect the ecosystem of m inhabit in patterns of labor. Suzanne Crowley moves the conversation from the g­ eo-​­political and cultural specificities of North America and South Asia to Tasmania, Australia, albeit still focusing on the reflexive potential of studying embodied experiencing of one’s surroundings, activating indigenous ways of being, in aid of personal and cultural conservationism and ecological responsibility. James Woglom and Stephanie Jones’ graphic novel forewarns of an apocalyptic future unless we make fundamental systemic changes towards critical creative newness. Their parable is an assemblage including online learning, social distance, and transgressive visioning. In tune with this harsher facing of past and current reality, with a view to a more hopeful future, Taylor Miller examines the built and demolished urban geography resulting from 1 The Divide and Rule policy was a strategy used by the British to colonize India. The policy was to create divisions among the different religious groups, castes, ethnicities, and regions. The strategy involved giving preferential treatment to certain groups or regions over others in terms of developmental or social opportunities. This would create jealousy and resentment among the groups, leading to unrest and conf lict, allowing for the Britons’ greater manipulation and control.

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Introduction

ongoing ­Israel-​­Palestine conflicts in a visual mapping of occupation and abandonment. Raqs Media Collective documents poetics and digital ethnography examining the trauma connected to military occupation and action in the process of colonialism. Circling back to North America, Kristi Arth examines imagery of military occupation, through a poetic engagement with civil rights, legal policy, and confederate monuments. The section concludes with Logan MacDonald and Bianca Castillero’s models of intentional and ethical collectives invested in community building through dialogic making and using indigenous object archives and methods in Canada and Mexico, respectively. Enunciation, framing, reclaiming, exchange, interconnectedness, and understanding are key themes in this section in the examination of ­socio-​­economic, environmental, and ­identity-​­based ­geo-​­political impacts of colonialism in natural and built environments. While the Creative Shorts section offers visualizations of decolonization in arts education, in the second section of the book, “­Enacted Encounters” are reflections on artistic, pedagogical, and curricular experiments in the pursuit of unpacking decolonization in various contexts. We begin in Canada with Agnieszka Chala and Michael Pitblado’s curricular engagement with an autobiographical account of Indian residential schools, and thus, with difficult histories. Grace Vandervliet and Ozi Uduma also experiment with a­nti-​­colonial practices and difficult histories, but in contexts of museum curatorial practice including docent training and exhibition design involving African artefacts and stories. Andrea Beltran and Leon de la Rosa discuss transborder interventions in contemporary art and technology to disrupt silence around exploitative institutions and to provoke acts of resistance. Rebecca Christ, Bretton Varga, and Timothy Monreal also address ­US-​­Mexico transborder intersections of settler privilege and Chicanx experience through the crafting of masks in a time of constant surveillance. Maria Leite et al. discuss syncretism and performed Culturally Relevant Pedagogy using Folklore in theatre education in Brazil, while Judith ­Bruce-​­Golding and Sue Brown explore ways to decolonize digital spaces of interaction towards healing for A ­ fro-​­Carribean diaspora in the UK by presenting ­arts-​­based ­counter-​ ­narratives to harmful stereotypes. Corey Routlinger introspects on the (­lack of ) space for neurodiverse and neuroqueer folx in higher education in North America and examines the potential of indigenous methods for activating healing through personal grief in the exclusive environs of the Ivory Tower. Kimberley White enacts performative writing invoking Braidotti and her ideas on the toxicity of habits to disrupt the way in which we approach ­research-​­creation on schooling within academia. Rebecka Black and Thomas Keefe also seek to disrupt the historic implementations of colonial thinking in academia, in imagining and enacting socially engaged art history curriculum and pedagogy. Part of their exploration is virtual learning, which Tillander takes up through moving readers into the digital realm, questioning both the role of technology and hybrid instruction, and the inherent vulnerabilities in this mode of learning. She is advocating for a critical emotional praxis in a form of digital activism towards epistemic equity by recognizing intellectual labor in ­code-​­switching to digital realms. Jonathan Silverman’s chapter, as well as Jun Hu, Xueyin Li, Lipeng Jin, Qianyu Wang, and Yuehua Ding’s chapter, brings us back to considerations of ­eco-​­justice and ecological aesthetics in analyzing physical habitats, labor, capitalistic consumption, and cultural memory. While they focus on land and space, Cala Coats et al. center the mind and body, favoring ­sensory-​­based inquiry and an embodied, ­human-​­focused pedagogy that is holistic and critical taking STEAM learning into indigenous approaches for a sustainable, unexploitative model of learning. 9

Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander

The final section of the book, “­Ruminative Research,” is more traditional in its format of scholarly essays. Intermedia artist Prashast Kachru 2 examines the interplay between technology, capitalism, and colonialism and through a hybrid philosophizing explores a different form of land acknowledgement through the process of art making; elsewhere in this section, Kristin Klein analyzes Rezaire’s artwork as an example of the spirituality of entangled knowledge in the physical and digital worlds, of the mysticism in studying the organic and inorganic synergistically. Continuing with the focus on indigenous approaches to ­sense-​­making of the world(­s) and on African knowledge systems, Frank Ugiomoh examines p­ ost-​­Africanity and Afropolitanism through the lens of the reductionisms of modernity and negative aesthetics asking us to ­re-​­evaluate the material essence of art and ritual objects subsumed by colonization. Alice Wexler writes along similar tracks in context of Panamanian objects engaging with the relationship between cultural anthropology and arts education through postcoloniality and imperialism in contemporary contexts of tourism. Lillian Lewis and Veronica Hicks also investigate imperialistic as well as r­ ace-​­and ­class-​­based connotations of grand cultural tours, subverting them into a g­ ame-​­based interpretation of contemporary urban architecture. Locating their example in D.C., their proposition critiques whiteness and founding principles of ­nation-​­hood in weaving history together with arts education. Moving from urban to rural, and from North America to Oceania, Tanya White and Leon Tan demonstrate the process of decolonizing scholarship through a case study of Māori weaving as socially engaged art to show how participatory and public practices can be found in the global south often emerging out of longer histories of customary practice. Writing from Finland, Juuso Tervo examines what a decolonized language of history (­of art education research) might look like in order to imagine poetics and philosophies of history aside from the logic of mastery and coloniality using the work of Glissant and Anzaldúa. Christen Garcia and Leslie Sotomayor apply Anzaldúa’s Borderlands t­ heory—​­of a psychic and spiritual crossing transcending physical b­ orders—​­to decolonize curriculum and creative processes by offering a teaching/­crafting/­curatorial approach that uses nepantla to challenge Eurocentric white canons within visual arts education. Esther Fitzpatrick employs a­ rts-​­based ­auto-​­ethnography and Critical Family History methods to delve into migrant and settler culture across Ireland and New Zealand in the course of imperialism. Meanwhile, Boram Lee and Jonathan Kim conduct a ­narrative-​­based phenomenological investigation of transculturation across Australia and South Korea. Using a postcolonial lens, they dissect the process of decolonization at the personal, social, and cultural levels by developing a conceptual framework to challenge the notion of social generalization deeply embedded in media and education systems. Significantly, they “­d iscuss the role of artists and how their practical acts of decolonization can activate a social imagination and action that is ­equity-​­driven and creates intersectional understandings of decolonization in the contemporary world.” Next, Ernst Wagner lays out systemic processes involved in moving towards decolonizing art education in Germany. ­Egwu-​­Okoro and ­Ogoye-​­Atanga analyze shifts in the art world and art market to examine their effects on Nigeria’s place in the art market and art world of global south as decolonization in motion with still some ways to go. Finally, Dalida Benfield and Christopher Bratton inspire us to reconsider ­trans-​­locally emergent, noninstitutional spaces of education that challenge colonistic, capitalist, and modern paradigms of schooling 2 We would like to acknowledge that Prashast Kachru’s essay is an invited essay and as a late entrant into the book has not been peer reviewed like the other chapters.

10

Introduction

through a praxis of transdisciplinarity and “­pluriversal c­ o-​­creation.” They illustrate practically executed examples in the case study of The Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research. The essays in this book offer ways to nuance complicated navigations of decolonization discourse, and through critical finding and posing of problems, constructions of theory, and examinations of practice, they provide a creative and hopeful perspective of a more just future through art, craft, and visual culture education. At the end of each chapter, authors include prompts and resources through which to engage with their chapters. These are ideas extending the offerings in the chapters, which readers might walk away with into their next avenue of investigation and practice.

In Conclusion This book presents essays that demonstrate how art, craft, and visual culture education activate social imagination and action that is equity and justice driven. Specifically, it provides ­arts-​­engaged, intersectional understandings of decolonization in the contemporary world by combining current scholarship with pragmatic strategies and insights grounded in the reality of ­socio-​­cultural, political, and economic communities across the globe. The essays evoke discussion of what forms of decolonizing engagement could be recognized as art education. Readers interested in theory will find value in examples of how social and cultural theory are grounded in disciplinary and geographical specificities involving art, craft, and visual culture education. Readers interested in learning how to put abstract ideals of decolonization into practice will appreciate the actionable strategies contributing authors provide at the end of each chapter. Readers interested in the potential and value of creative thinking through artistic practice will learn of contemporary art discourses across national boundaries and institutional systems. A key aspect of this book is that through the examples presented in the form of the chapters, it presents practical, enactable strategies and actions that demonstrate what decolonization looks like in practice within art, craft, and visual culture education. The ­pre-​­pandemic world was already witnessing shifts from global thinking back to more insular, nationalistic visions. The ­COVID-​­19 pandemic not only united the world in a shared concern, it also highlighted and underscored the exacerbation of existing ­socio-­​­­economic-­​ ­­political-­​­­cultural-​­technical inequalities of race, class, caste, gender, and the skewed economics of s­ ocio-​­political and cultural institutions that maintain them. It therefore becomes more important than ever to revisit what decolonization looks like in current and future contexts.

Works Cited Ashcroft, Bill, et al., editors. The ­Post-​­Colonial Studies Reader. Routledge, 2006. Barndt, Deborah. Viva!: Community Arts and Popular Education in the Americas. Between the Lines, 2011. Gihring, Tim. “­Confronting the Legacy of Looting: From Colonialism to Nazis, Mia Is Reckoning with the Ancient Problem of Plunder.” Artsmia.org, 19 May 2020, https://­new.artsmia.org/­stories/ ­­c onfronting- ­​­­t he-­​­­l egacy- ­​­­o f-­​­­l ooting-­​­­f rom- ­​­­c olonialism- ­​­­t o-­​­­n azis-­​­­m ia-­​­­i s-­​­­r eckoning-­​­­w ith- ­​­­t he-­​ ­­a ncient-­​­­problem-­​­­of-​­plunder. Jansen, Jan C., and Osterhammel Jürgen. Decolonization: A Short History. Princeton University Press, 2019. Kennedy, Dane Keith. Decolonization: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford University Press, 2016. Lalonde, Dianne. “­Does Cultural Appropriation Cause Harm?” Politics, Groups, and Identities, vol. 9, no. 2, 2021, ­pp. ­329–​­346, https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­21565503.2019.1674160. Mignolo, Walter. The Darker Side of Western Modernity: Global Futures, Decolonial Options. Duke University Press, 2011.

11

Manisha Sharma and Amanda Alexander Morgensen, Scott Lauria. Spaces between Us: Queer Settler Colonialism and Indigenous Decolonization. University of Minnesota Press, 2011. Quijano, Aníbal. “­Coloniality and Modernity/­R ationality.” Cultural Studies, vol. 21, no. ­2 –​­3, 3 Apr. 2007, ­pp. ­168–​­178. Globalization and the D ­ e-​­Colonial Option, https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­09502380601164353. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai, et al., editors. Indigenous and Decolonizing Studies in Education: Mapping the Long View. Routledge, an Imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, 2019. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai. Decolonizing Methodologies Research and Indigenous Peoples. Third ed., Zed Books, 2021. Sueur, James Le. The Decolonization Reader. Routledge, 2003. “­ The United Nations and Decolonization.” United Nations, United Nations, https://­ w ww. un.org/­dppa/­decolonization/­en. Tuck, Eve, and K Wayne Yang. “­Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, vol. 1, no. 1, 17 Sept. 2012, ­pp. ­1–​­40.

12

PART I

Creative Shorts

The essays in the Creative Shorts section reflect artistic research. They are demonstrations of how the authors employ the processes of art, craft, and visual culture making in research and how the dissemination of research takes the form of artistic production. The authors in this section examine concepts and practices of decolonization and arts education through and with performance and digital art, graphica, mixed media artefacts, manifestos, poetry and research-informed poems, collaborative assemblages, film and video, printmaking, photography, and textile arts.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-2

13

1 A IS FOR ALPHABET Reimagining Language and Mastery as a Creative Meandering Marianna Pegno and A ­ nh-​­Thuy Nguyen

Language learning is a series of repetitions and enunciations, culminating in a performance of learning and ­unlearning—​­a potentially disorienting task. Words exist as what Gayatri Spivak describes as “…­ever-​­different repetitions…” (­x xx), forever in flux. When pondering the many meanings of a word, we think about how they visually manifest and relate to learning English. We become interested in how lips articulate speech and how each word requires a shift in the placement of your tongue. In doing so, we ask: How is the act of speech echoed in artistic practice or pedagogical approaches? How could the performance of speech become an act of creativity and challenge language mastery? And, how can recitation unravel a dominant, colonial language? To answer these questions, we propose three decolonizing acts that inform our creative, theoretical, and pedagogical practices: (­1) collaboration, (­2) undoing linguistic dominance, and (­3) creating new and unanticipated outcomes.

A to Z: Language, Mastery, and a Decolonizing Performance Before diving deeper into A is for Alphabet as a decolonial ­performance—​­a productive and creative undoing of linguistic ­dominance—​­let us clarify our relationships to the English language. For ­A nh-​­Thuy, learning English was a ritual: A series of repetitions, both verbal and written, that helped expand her vocabulary. Mastery of the English language meant she could absorb the West and share ideas. Speaking English wasn’t about immediate survival, but it opened doors to other worlds and is essential in her role as an artist and educator. For Marianna, language was often disorienting and never fully made sense until it was visualized. Seeing words on paper or a screen enabled her to grasp and retain information and eventually share ­ideas—​­a skill set essential in her role as a museum professional where she oscillates between educator and curator. This is a collaborative undertaking, both in artistic product and theoretical investigations. Inspired by a long friendship, a shared love of art, an interest in language, and frequent moments where phrases were lost in translation due to different native tongues, we sought ways to formalize our exchanges. ­A nh-​­Thuy began to imagine how we could visually perform these conversations on language, pronunciation, and communication, while Marianna looked for a theory to complement our explorations. In this approach, where neither the video nor this chapter would be possible without the other, we see ourselves as equal creators 14

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-3

Reimagining Language and Mastery as a Creative Meandering

of A is for Alphabet. This refusal of the sole author or creator represents our first decolonizing act whereby we “…destabilize the vanity of the lone expert…” (­Moreira and Diversi 299) to think, create, and write collectively. Like Moreira and Diversi’s reflection that, “­Writing together is a duet that can enrich and expand and deepen the reverberations of the text” (­299), we see A is for Alphabet as a creative duet that may at times turn into a duel between ­colonized—​­English ­learner—​­and ­colonizer—​­native English speaker and instructor. Conceptualized as a ­t wo-​­channel video shot with four cameras, the composition is tightly cropped to amplify the struggles of mastering a new language. This forces the viewer to focus on the movements of the tongue and mouth, while confronting the awkwardness of repetition and the ultimate breakdown of language. The initial plan was for Marianna, a native English speaker, to read aloud words and phrases from A to Z, which A ­ nh-​­Thuy, a native Vietnamese speaker, would then repeat to practice E ­ nglish—​­echoing how she learned English living in Vietnam. During the continued act of repetition and performative articulations, words became meaningless, nonsensical babble, rather than building blocks for coherent speech. Both the learner and the native speaker became confused, and the meaning of the scripted words was muddled or lost, along with the language’s colonial power. This active undoing of linguistic dominance of the English ­language—​­the tongue of the ­colonizer—​­is our second example of a decolonial practice. This performance focuses on structured pedagogical exchanges that evolved into playful dissonance, where mastery of a dominant, colonial language is subverted through a breakdown in recitation, yielding confusion and laughter. Thus, we identify the third decolonizing act: Creating new and unanticipated outcomes or products.

A Is for…Alphabet Notice the difference between a mouth at rest and one in the act of enunciating. At left and center, we can see how two distinct gestures form a t­ wo-​­syllable word: A ­ AA-​­PPLE. These images seem to emanate sound and show a figure in action, illustrating how words and language are “…shifting and unstable…and…forever at work” (­Spivak xxx). In contrast, the right image captures a pause and stillness that washes over the final frame. How might this push and pull of action and silence reverberate in pedagogy and artistic practice? Creating the video and stills as well as transcribing the dialogue excerpts allowed us to reflect on our individual and collective relationships to language and learning, while presenting a conceptual exploration of identities, pedagogy, and creativity. Here, enunciation and ­pronunciation—​­and by extension learning, articulation, and ­understanding—​­are presented as multiform, echoing Spivak’s sentiments that there exists “…an indefinite number of variations…” (­x xxi) within words and their meaning. Furthering our understanding of language in relation to A is for Alphabet, we borrow from Mikhail Bahktin’s understanding of dialogue and discourse, where there are at least “…two voices, two meanings and two expressions.” In relation to this definition, we see our acts of articulation, repetition, and meandering as “…dialogically interrelated…” (­324). Thus, we illustrate moments of creative exchange that chip away at our assumptions and expectations to collaboratively produce a performance on teaching and knowledge production.

B Is for….Burrito The two diptychs above show each author in moments of pause and articulation. How does the act of speech differ in each still frame? Notice how each gesture and expression is unique. 15

Marianna Pegno and ­Anh-­Thuy Nguyen

Initially, we conceptualized this project to visualize language learning by performing Jacques Ranciere’s description of how one learns “…by observing and retaining, repeating and verifying, by relating what they were trying to know to what they already knew, by doing and reflecting about what they had already done” (­10). What occurred over the project’s production was far more nuanced than repetitious. At first, the need to master the English language subordinates the Vietnamese self as it is seen as a required skill to survive and succeed within a ­colonial—­​­­Euro-­​­­A merican—​­society. By interrogating this need, the artist undermines the regimented, ritualistic act of learning language, turning it into a meaningless repetition of words devoid of context. Instead of words strung together as a sentence, they are bubbles of sound, floating in the air without intention. As ­A nh-​­Thuy recites and changes emphasis on different syllables, the “­instructor” becomes increasingly uncertain about what is “­right,” often jumbling phrases or trailing off into nervous giggles. What follows is a brief excerpt of the performative exchange: Q is for… MP:  Q is for Quiz ATN:  Q is for ­Qw-​­u iz MP:  Q is for Quilt ATN: ­Ccccc-​­cue is for Qqquilt MP:  Q is for Question ATN: Quill is for Question MP: …[begins to laugh]… MP:  Q is for Quill ATN:  Quill is for Quilt MP:  … [laughs]… B is for… MP: Berg….[trails off and starts to laugh]...uhhh…Bravado ATN: ­Brovo-​­do MP: Bra…Bravado ATN: Brododo

Throughout these excerpts, the performance of articulation, learning, and pedagogy breaks down and transforms. The result is a more truthful representation of the processes of language and ­communication—​­and their performative and linguistic complexities. While the instructor and learner initially appear composed (­see ­Figures 1.­1–​­1.3), what follows is a series of images engulfed in laughter and fits of giggles (­see ­Figures 1.4 and 1.5), along with attempts to control these emotions and reclaim composure to get back to the task at hand. By challenging or undermining repetition and attempted mastery, we encounter a more playful moment ripe for experimenting with the acts of teaching, learning, and dialoguing. As educators, we take this approach into our ­d ay-­​­­to-​­day professional practice as facilitators of an emerging ­creativity—​­whether in the studio or ­museum—​­where we offer students a toolbox of resources, rather than a prescriptive routine to follow.

C Is for…Cantaloupe Julietta Singh, in Unthinking Mastery, proposes that instead of seeking mastery, one should seek an ­a lternative—​­perhaps something more freeing: 16

Reimagining Language and Mastery as a Creative Meandering

­Figure 1.1 

Untitled #3 from A is for Alphabet, 2021.

­Figure 1.2 

Untitled #1 from A is for Alphabet, 2021.

­Figure 1.3  U  ntitled #2 from A is for Alphabet, 2021.

Using English as a nonnative speaker, then, should not be an act aimed at language mastery. Rather, the use of the colonial language in postcolonial literature should aim to produce new forms of English that reflect the colonial and postcolonial experience and the cultural traditions from which they emerge. (­85) Through A is for Alphabet—​­ video, stills, and ­ t ranscripts—​­ we illustrate this alternative whereby there is an undoing and reimagining of language mastery as a creative interrogation that destabilizes the colonial norm. To view an excerpt of A is for Alphabet (­2021), use the following link to access the video: https://­v imeo.com/­640814499.

Prompts and Resources •

What is the relationship between l­ anguage—​­the act of learning language and s­ peaking—​ ­and creativity? 17

Marianna Pegno and ­Anh-­Thuy Nguyen

­Figure 1.4  F  ilm Still #1 from A is for Alphabet, 2021.

­Figure 1.5 

•

Film Still #2 from A is for Alphabet, 2021.

To grapple with the above question on a theoretical level explore articles in Critical Multilingualism Studies, an interdisciplinary journal. One volume from 2018 looks explicitly at language, creativity, and pedagogy: Pegno, Marianna and Snell, Amanda Marie Shufflebarger (­ Eds). “­ Languaging as Refuge: Practice Meets Theory.” Critical Multilingualism Studies, vol. 5 No. 1, 2018. https://­ cms.arizona.edu/­ index.php/ ­multilingual/­issue/­v iew/­12

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Reimagining Language and Mastery as a Creative Meandering

•

•

To learn more about how ESL affects learning see: DeLollis, Barbara. “­How English as a Second Language Affects Learning.” USNews, 6 Dec. 2021. https://­w ww.usnews. com/­education/­k12/­a rticles/­­how-­​­­english-­​­­a s-­​­­a- ­​­­second-­​­­language-­​­­a ffects-​­learning Language and art have been entwined for some time, explore this topic further at MoMALearning to take a peek at the intersections of conceptual art and language: https://­www.moma.org/­learn/­moma_learning/­themes/­­conceptual-​­art/­­language-­​­­and-​­art/

Works Cited Bakhtin, Mikhail M. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. University of Texas Press, 1981. Moreira, Claudio, and Marcelo Diversi. “­The Coin Will Continue to Fly.” Cultural Studies, Critical Methodologies, vol. 14, no. 4, 2014, ­pp. ­298–​­302. Rancière, Jacques. The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation. Stanford University Press, 1991. Singh, Juliette. Unthinking Mastery: Dehumanism and Decolonial Entanglements. Duke University Press, 2017. Spivak, Gayatri C. Translator’s Preface. Of Grammatology, by Derrida, John Hopkins University Press, 2016, pp. ­x xvii–​­cxi.

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2 CRITICAL REFLECTIONS ON TEACHING AS A DECOLONIAL PRACTICE Maria Leake

Paulo Freire encouraged educators to examine how our actions in the classroom can either assert our power and privilege over students or work to actively engage them in the teaching and learning process. He describes a shared process where the “­teacher is no longer merely the ­one-­​­­who-​­teaches, but one who is himself taught in dialogue with the students, who in turn while being taught also teach” (­Freire 80). Freire’s work inspires the intellectual foundation for critical pedagogy in the United States by intentionally challenging “­oppression rooted in a colonizing model of schooling and class inequalities” (­Darder 7) and encourages educators to use authentic critical reflections of our educational practices in a socially complex world, to continually “­unveil the oppressor/­oppressed contradiction” (­Darder xi). Decolonial scholars are concerned that much of secondary education today prioritizes Western Eurocentric points of view, or “­official knowledge”, thus reiterating a colonizing model of education. Decolonizing practices involve educators creating opportunities to rework and remake concepts by looking “­behind and under them” (­­Gaztambide-​­Fernández 202). Miguel Zavala suggests educators engage students as participants and collaborators by implementing three decolonial strategies: counter/­storytelling, healing, and reclaiming. The counter/­storytelling strategy encourages dialogue and reflection, and participants name the social contexts and their connections with an issue. Students becoming c­o-​­contributors to teaching destabilizes any external efforts to control learning opportunities. The strategy of healing empowers participants to situate their stories and experiences in relation to places, events, and histories. The strategy of reclaiming rejects attempts to stereotype individuals based on connection to a place or practices of cultural identities, and instead looks at the multiple contexts informing participants’ thoughts and actions. Together, these strategies encourage teaching as a decolonial practice by making the process of learning a c­ o-​­constructive action.

Putting Theory into Practice: Inspiration from Borderland Collective As an online art educator representing the master’s program at The University of Nebraska at Kearney (­U NK), I encourage graduate students, who are also ­K-​­12 classroom teachers, to consider how educational theories might inform their practices in meaningful ways. Consequently, we draw inspiration from the work of educational exemplars to consider how to 20

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-4

Critical Reflections on Teaching as a Decolonial Practice

make incorporating complex educational theories relevant to each teacher’s unique teaching and learning environment. For example, I share with them the work of Borderland Collective, a l­ong-​­term participatory art and education project based in Texas, to show how ideas from critical pedagogy and decolonial discourse can intersect. However, it is important to note that this artist collective does not ­self-​­identify as critical pedagogues or decolonial practitioners. Borderland Collective’s participatory projects are often driven by a central question. For example, one collaborative project called “­One to Another” focused on the complex issue of migration and was driven by the question, “­W hat is a border?” The exhibition that resulted from this project contributed to the community’s understanding of migration issues, through workshops, exhibitions, educational field trips, and the generation of art as artifacts of learning (­Leake). I see their approach as one which makes teaching and learning visible and respectful of participant’s involvement. This allows the ideas of critical pedagogy and decolonial approaches to education to become transformative. To align theory with practice, UNK graduate students began thinking through their roles and priorities in the classroom by asking themselves, “­How can I be a better teacher?” As both participants and collaborators in this project, they created artifacts of learning, including mixed media art as research artifacts, a ­co-​­authored manifesto, and a collaborative letter, to make their thought process visible (­Leake).

Mixed Media Art as Research Artifacts In the four mixed media research artifacts, which include drawings, paintings, and t­ext-​ ­based works (­see Figures 2.­1–​­2.4), participants reveal how they see their K ­ -​­12 classrooms as

­Figure 2.1  L  and of the Free (­A irbrush in Procreate). Used with permission of artist/­educator Heather Higgins.

21

Maria Leake

complex sites of learning with students of various backgrounds and experiences. Each teacher participant shares in pictures and words how current events and concerns continually inform their practices. These artifacts reflect the decolonial strategies of counter/­storytelling, healing, and reclaiming by highlighting the participant’s connections with their student populations, localities, and other contexts as being counter to Western Eurocentric educational priorities. In Land of the Free (­­Figure 2.1), California high school teacher Heather Higgins uses the power of iconic symbols of freedom and justice to express her concerns of equity, power, and privilege in society as problematic. Higgin says: This image came to me when I was thinking about the immigration issues, the border wall, DACA concerns, etc. as well as the injustices our justice system supports through jailing an abundance of people of color. I feel that the ideas Lady Liberty and Lady Justice stand for are forgotten by the people with power and control and the walls to keep people out are the same as trying to keep people in. Laura Hwang reflects on her own identity and those of her students as constantly in flux in ­Self-​­portrait with Batik Florals (­­Figure  2.2). As an Asian American high school educator in Georgia, Hwang reflects on the complexities of culture as an opportunity to learn more about herself and invites her students to also engage in this process of revealing their own complex cultures as a decolonial act:

­Figure 2.2  ­Self-​­portrait with Batik Florals (­M ixed Media). Used with permission of artist/­educator Laura Hwang.

22

Critical Reflections on Teaching as a Decolonial Practice

I have come to realize the social, economic, and political undertones that come to influence culture and one’s identity. These ideas and topics are synonymous with understanding critical multiculturalism and creating an authentic experience in the classroom that allows students to safely explore and make meaning from the difficult topics and social injustices that they may face day to day. Moreover, I have also come to reflect upon my own culture and personal identity as a daughter of Laotian and Indonesian immigrants. Through open discussions in the classroom and examinations of artists like Kehinde Wiley, Roberto Lugo, and the members of Borderland Collective, I hope to instill a sense of pride and understanding for each student’s personal culture and identity. Enlightenment (­­Figure  2.3) was created by Michelle Muir, an elementary art teacher in Utah. In this image, Muir reflects how she envisions creating equitable learning experiences as an intentional action. Muir uses words and symbols to illustrate that through the process of listening to and learning from her students, possibilities for learning together become more likely to unfold: My takeaway is that teaching and learning through a critical lens can enlighten and offer new interpretations, new connections, and new realizations. These discoveries empower creativity to shed light on art and the personal journey that each is undergoing on planet Earth. It is more about understanding, connecting, and bridging, than separating. If one is willing to take the steps to listen and learn, they can be forever changed.

­Figure 2.3 

Enlightenment (­Ink & Watercolor). Used with permission of artist/­educator Michelle Muir.

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Maria Leake

­Figure 2.4 

Visible (­Digital Artwork). Used with permission of artist/­educator Laura Goodwin.

Laura Goodwin’s triptych called Visible (­­Figure 2.4) highlights the fine line informing how educator’s biases and worldviews often inform who we decide to see and not see, and why that matters. Goodwin, who lives and works in Virginia, articulates how our vantage point has the potential to marginalize or dehumanize our students into feeling invisible. However, by acknowledging our humanity, educators can work to create more inclusive opportunities for communication: My goal with this piece is to visually represent how a narrative can change when you look at it through multiple lenses. There are three groups of interlocking ­faces—​­each group is exactly the same. But when placed against the different backdrops and flipping and turning the group, different faces become more or less visible. None of the three images is the “­original” or the “­correct”. They are not derivatives of each other; they are different representations of the same reality viewed from different perspectives. We all share one reality, but our perceptions of that reality are different based on our unique experiences. What connects us all together is the desire to be seen, heard, and accepted. Learning to reflect, listen, and view the world through multiple lenses is the first step in allowing the faces, previously hidden, to be seen. Individually, these four participants considered how their roles as educators in different settings are interconnected. They see their roles as pedagogues as powerful and having ­real-​­world implications on the students they work with. Their reflections consider the complexities of power and privilege that are at play in the world, and how they use that awareness to make their own pedagogical practices more equitable. Their creative responses revealed how they see creating the conditions for teaching and learning opportunities to be equitable and inclusive and promote meaningful dialogue that reflects diverse perspectives.

Manifesto In this collaboratively generated manifesto (­­Figure 2.5), participants compiled their thoughts and ideas about how they conceptualize improving their pedagogical practices as educators as a joint statement. The thoughts of the anonymous contributors are separated by colors, but united in the structural layout.

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Critical Reflections on Teaching as a Decolonial Practice

­Figure 2.5  M  anifesto. Used with permission of UNK students.

Collaborative Letter The collaborative letter (­­Figure 2.6) highlights how participants envision using their powerful role as an educator, to structure teaching and learning opportunities that encourage diverse perspectives to be shared as a ­co-​­authored document.

­Figure 2.6 

Collaborative Letter. Used with permission of UNK students.

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Maria Leake

Reflections on Teaching as a Decolonial Practice Educators occupy a powerful position of institutional privilege; decolonial thinking challenges us to acknowledge this and modify, remake, and rework our approaches to teaching and learning with reflexive humility. Rather than accept oppressive models of education that prioritize select points of view over others, educators can and should critically reflect on our daily decisions in the classroom. Just as the creative responses (­­Figures 2.­1–​­2.6) illustrate, there are a complexity of factors to consider when thinking through our roles as teachers. It is ultimately our choice as educators whether we do or do not want to learn with and from our students in the classroom. Time and experiences shape our understanding. As I have now transitioned into retirement after 30 plus years as an art educator, undoubtedly, I have probably made many poor choices, unconsciously including silencing select voices, inadvertently making false assumptions about students and their capabilities, and using my power as a teacher to limit dialogue that I was uncomfortable with. However to be honest, Freire’s thoughts on critical pedagogy and decolonial discourse were not included in my teacher preparation courses. I am grateful that the UNK graduate students that I worked with and learned from see the value of critically reflecting on their actions in the classroom as an intentional decolonizing practice.

Prompts and Resources • • • •

What concepts in decolonizing discourse help me become a more effective teacher? How can I make the teaching and learning environment more participatory, inclusive, and equitable? How can I promote meaningful and respectful dialogue in the classroom? Why do you think Paulo Freire encouraged educators to continually engage in critical reflections of their practices? Do you think his ideas still have relevance today? Why or why not?

Borderland Collective. “­About.” https://­borderlandcollective.org/. Accessed 2 May 2022. •

Read about the three overarching ideas that inform their practices: learn together, dialogue over debate, and create new knowledge.

Freire, Paulo. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Herder & Herder, 1970. •

Reading about critical pedagogy and why it matters from Paulo Freire himself is an invaluable educational resource.

Leake, Maria D. “­One to Another: Sharing Migration Stories.” Art Education, July 2019, ­pp. ­8 –​­14. Leake, Maria D. “­The Social Practice of Borderland Pedagogies.” Art Education, July 2019, ­pp. ­50–​­58. •

Read about past participatory art and education projects led by members of Borderland Collective and view actual examples of public school students’ responses to their involvement in the collaborative projects.

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Critical Reflections on Teaching as a Decolonial Practice

Works Cited Borderland Collective. “­About.” https://­borderlandcollective.org/. Accessed 21 Sep. 2021. Darder, Antonia. The Student Guide to Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Bloomsbury Academic, 2018. Facer, Keri. “­Storytelling in Troubled Times: What Is the Role for Educators in the 21st Century?” Literacy, Vol. 53, No. 1, Jan. 2019, ­pp. ­3 –​­13. Freire, Paulo. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Herder & Herder, 1970. Gaztambide-​­ ­ Fernández, Ruben. “­ Decolonial Options and Artistic/­ Aesthetic Entanglements: An Interview with Walter Mignolo.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society, Vol. 3, No. 1, 2014, ­pp. ­196–​­212. Leake, Maria D. “­One to Another: Sharing Migration Stories.” Art Education, Vol. 72, No. 4, July 2019, ­pp. ­8 –​­14. https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­0 0043125.2019.1602498 Leake, Maria D. “­The Social Practice of Borderland Pedagogies.” Art Education, Vol. 72, No. 4, July 2019, ­pp. ­50–​­58. https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­0 0043125.2019.1602499 Zavala, Miguel. “­Decolonial Methodologies in Education.” Encyclopedia of Educational Philosophy and Theory, Michael Peters, Springer Science+Business Media, 1st edition, 2017, ­pp. ­1–​­6.

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3 ANGREZ CHALE GAYE, ANGREZI CHOD GAYE Post-​­coloniality of Language Nupur Manoj Sachdeva The phrase in the title “­Angrez chale gaye, Angrezi chod gaye” is a saying in South Asia, which translates to “­Englishmen left, left English behind,” highlighting how colonial culture still lingers in ­modern-​­d ay societies. World Englishes are a function or formal variation of English, generated due to international acculturation, leading to a localized form of English across global subcontinents, for example, in South Asia, where English is not the native language (­K achru and Smith, 1985). As World Englishes take over native languages and processes of making art are translated into English, much of the cultural legacy and authenticity of folk art/­craft is lost. It is true that this process aids in the conservation of disappearing languages, but at what cost? Once all of a native language’s content is translated in English, that content will not mean and/­or reflect the original language, and we lose authenticity and nuance of its creation and traditional arts, especially those involving local scripts as visual objects imbued with meaning. As we work toward the decolonization of digital spaces and consider the ongoing digitization of indigenous languages and their linguistic translations into different scripts, some questions to reflect on arise, such as: Who controls these digital spaces? Who monitors the authenticity of the translations, keeps track of the cultural associations attached to different words, and preserves the related visual culture?

The Case of Doha in Digital Social Space ­A rts-​­based research (­A BR) stems from a researcher’s artistic practice or creative worldview and is a multisystemic approach to theory building where the question in context can be neither measured with precision nor generalized as universally applicable (­Rolling, 2013). This audiovisual ABR employs a traditional Indian form of artistic expression, Doha, as an example used by the author to investigate how a language loses its typographical and phonetical beauty when it is translated and written in English to be archived/­shared on a digital platform. Doha is an Indian literary poetry tradition that originates in the most local, social, and cultural environment. Doha is defined as “­a ­couplet—​­the meaning of which is complete in itself ” (­Schomer & McLeod, 1987). In this creative short essay section, I use Dohas as a 28

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-5

Post-coloniality of Language

medium to examine the loss of Hindi’s typographic, verbal, and cultural indigeneity in the face of digital colonization. Each Doha typically has a larger moral message, which is often a reflection of the poet’s personal experience or observation of the people/­situations around her or him. It is not just two sentences rhymed and phrased together but also a very structured formatting formula in the making of a Doha. While framing a Doha, each phrase can have only a limited count (­13) of Hindi syllables, and hence, any pair of rhyming words can be included to express the poet’s content like in other s­ yllable-​­based poetic forms such as a Sonnet or Haiku. This interdisciplinary convergence of poetry, literature, and mathematics, along with the typographic beauty and lyrical quality of Doha, cannot be represented in an authentic way once we write Hindi words in English. Native language in many countries is also referred to as one’s “­mother tongue.” Keeping that in mind, ­Figures 3.­1–​­3.5 were created as a part of the collaborative outcomes between me and my mother. My mother wrote Hindi on paper, and then, its digital version was shared with me. I then wrote the Hinglish translation of it over the existing image using a digital eraser. ­Figure 3.1 shows the visual beauty of Hindi characters. It also illustrates that due to the larger number of vowels and consonants in Hindi, there are more phonetic combinations than that in English, and much is lost in translation. ­Figure 3.2 is the definition of Doha as written and explained in Hindi. F ­ igures 3.­3 –​­3.5 are individual Dohas with their respective meaning. Since images cannot justify the complexity of a language as well as my argument, these creative explorations are audiovisual in nature. To provide a more meaningful engagement, I share below a link in the resources that leads to the videos of the above images.

­Figure 3.1 

H indi Varn Mala.

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Nupur Manoj Sachdeva

­Figure 3.2  D  oha ki Paribhasha.

­Figure 3.3  K  abir Das ­Doha—​­Bada Bhaya toh kya.

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Post-coloniality of Language

­Figure 3.4  R  ahim Das ­Doha—​­Jo Rahim.

­Figure 3.5  Bihari ­Doha—​­K anak.

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E ­ nglish–­​­­Hinglish–​­Winglish The diverse heritage of the numerous indigenous cultures in India has been slowly erased due to the formalization of English in postcolonial India. This has also led to ­code-​­switching, i.e., “­m ixing languages or patterns of speech in a conversation” (­Devarajan 2020) and hybrid languages like the development of Hinglish. Hinglish is a language hybrid of English and Hindi that involves ­code-​­switching and/­or translanguaging where words are free/­in a ­non-​ ­interruptive way. On multiple occasions, I have observed while conversing in Hinglish, in an attempt to communicate through native language syntax, individuals create a nonexistent rhyming English word in place of or in addition to the appropriate word and “­w ing it” (­i.e., improvise) as a part of the conversation. I call these words part of ­Winglish—​­a term I created to define this investigation of colloquial use of rhyming with a meaningless word. For example, statements ­like—​­“­W here is ­party-​­sharty?,” in which “­sharty” is just a meaningless word added to rhyme with party to compensate for lack of proper English knowledge and add a personal touch to the conversation. In modern Indian society, even if one has the highest qualification, they are looked upon as illiterate if not fluent in English. David Faust and Richa Nagar elaborate in detail the ­socio-​­political influence of E ­ nglish-­​­­medium-​­education in postcolonial India. The reshaping of social classes defined by one’s fluency in English has resulted in an identity divide. This identity divide is created by ­self-​­assessing in culturally assimilated social platforms, be it ­in-​ ­person or digital.

Investigating Identity through the Lens of Multilingualism and Translingualism The concept of multilingualism and translingualism is considered in the context of written and digital media texts for this identity investigating ABR inquiry. Translanguaging is when an individual or group of people use their multilingual or bilingual abilities to create one single linguistic repertoire and engage by strategically selecting features from it to communicate effectively. English has been considered a main language in the majority of research; therefore, it can be difficult for bilingual or multilingual writers like myself to express and interpret texts and contexts in the best possible way for the reader’s understanding. The exploration of the author’s name in the visual illustration titled “­­naam-​­name” (­see ­Figure  3.6) is to highlight the issues of language loss and a global preference to English, which creates s­ elf-​­identity issues and enhances one’s struggle to find belonging to their own cultural legacy. The internal identity and belonging conflict of “­A m I Nupur (­Author’s English name)?” or “­A m I नूप रु (­Author’s Hindi name)?” is visually explored by writing the name multiple times in Hindi, English, and Hinglish to create a dynamic graphic illustration. Hindi is my native language, so I have used the same as a reference in my ABR explorations. However, there are hundreds of other languages in India, as well as other indigenous languages in the world, that need to be highlighted in the context of digital visual culture to conserve their existence before they are whitewashed by World Englishes. Also, this is a reflective and probing exploration about my identity conflict issues around passively becoming a part of an unclaimed hegemony, i.e., a dominant societal group that has influential powers and is authoritative in nature. I hope to expand this creative exploration as a collaborative series to raise awareness around this identity and belonging issue explored through one’s linguistic heritage. This in turn may help in building decolonizing strategies for the digital social space and in preserving 32

Post-coloniality of Language

­Figure 3.6  ­Naam-​­name.

the cultural legacy of a language. Additionally, use of multimedia ABR exploration techniques for p­ ost-​­disciplinary academic research will support its accessibility and reach.

Prompts and Resources I conclude by opening this for fellow artists, educators, scholars, and all readers by sharing below collaborative opportunities: •

•

•

If you are an artist reading this, I encourage you to interpret and adapt this E ­ nglish–​ ­H inglish concept to your native language combined with English and share the creations on Instagram with me. If you are an educator, I want you to share this reading/­summary (­considering the grade level) in your classrooms for discussion, following it up with students creating their interpretation of the “­­naam-​­name” artwork using the language/­languages they can speak/­w rite. I welcome the educator/­student to share the work on Instagram with me. Irrespective of your profession/­background, it would be great if you would like to share your perspective about this topic, so please feel free to connect via email.

See link www.instagram.com/­art2academia/­of my instagram handle art2academia to engage with audiovisuals of the ­arts-​­based inquires from ­Figures 3.1 to 3.6. You are welcome to post your explorations with the hashtag #art2academia. Please connect with the community of ­arts-​­based researchers and educators on art2academia.com or write to me at [email protected]. 33

Nupur Manoj Sachdeva

Works Cited Code Switch FAQ, NPR (­npr.org), 7 Apr. 2013, choice.npr.org/­index.html?origin=https://­w ww.npr. org/­sections/­codeswitch/­2013/­04/­07/­176352338/­f aq. Devarajan, Kumari. “­How ‘­Namaste’ Flew Away From Us.” NPR, 17 Jan. 2020, choice.npr.org/­i ndex. html?origin=https://­w ww.npr.org/­sections/­codeswitch/­2 020/­01/­17/­4 06246770/­­how-­​­­n amaste-­​ ­­flew-­​­­away-­​­­f rom-​­us. ­ nglish-​­Medium Faust, David, and Richa Nagar. “­Politics of Development in Postcolonial India: E Education and Social Fracturing.” Economic and Political Weekly, vol. 36, no. 30, 2001, ­pp. ­2878–​ ­2883. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/­stable/­4 410920. Kachru, Braj B., and Smith, Larry E. Editorial. World Englishes, vol. 4, 1985, ­pp. ­209–​­12. Rolling, James Haywood. ­Arts-​­Based Research Primer. New York, NY: Peter Lang Publishing, 2013, ­p. 32. Schomer, Katherine, and Mcleod, W.H. editors. The Sants: Studies in a Devotional Tradition in India. Motilal Banarsidass, 1987.

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4 MIND THE SKY (­OR FORGETTING AND THE IMPOSED FUTURITY OF THE PRESENT) A Poem Shanita Bigelow Toward the end of Decolonizing Educational Research: From Ownership to Answerability, Leigh Patel writes: “…learning is not a transaction. It is transformational. It is a fundamentally fugitive act, one that tears down and leaves behind to reach beyond” (­94). To me, this is not just a call for decolonial practices; rather, it is a call to ­re-​­enlist ourselves, wholly (­body and mind), in the act of imagining life, the world without the logics (­structures, policies, institutions, etc.) of colonization. This is not abolishment or total negation of the past; rather, it is a recognition and examination of those logics toward a different future. The poem that follows is an imagining. In the metaphorical landscape depicted, there is an “­I,” a person attempting to create a future in which they are aware of those logics and free of them. The horizon, “­that imagined line,” is in many ways a space of emergent possibility. It is where we see what is both distant and near, real and imagined, and never quite within reach. It is a metaphor for seeing/­sight, “­the way what we see is both real and construct.” It is a means of thinking about how what we see, what is within sight can change based on our perspective and that of others. It can be redesigned, a reminder and a reaching beyond pasts, histories at once too close and far away. These histories and imaginings are both real, in that we embody them, and constructs, in that they are the workings of minds/­thought/­theory in action. Questions that drive this poem are “­How do we acknowledge the past, those unsettling histories/­logics, while also carving a different present and imagining a drastically different future?” and “­How will ‘­I’ plant my feet, continue imagining a different future in the present, in/­as this being in this body?” In many ways, decolonization rests in us, in our willingness to unlearn those logics and the ways of being that continue them. The “­I” of the poem reckons with this. They embody that metaphorical ­horizon—​­living as both past and future, as witness and myth, living along that “­impossible forgiveness” toward reconciliation and ­self-​­preservation: New stories of remembrance. Let us learn our names again and again. Let us eat and rest. Let the (­un)­learning distemper. Let it besiege falsehoods. Be seen. Speak the art you seek. Well it into the earth of you. Make more of it than you can bear. DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-6

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Shanita Bigelow I. “­Colonization aspires to determine history.”1 Set the record straight. Read between. Taste mercurial grains, those unfathomable mixtures. My hands fix themselves to make. And they do and do and will do. They make the shape. They shape the made of this world. Let them rest. Let them rise. Let them lead the body toward a memory of ­place—​­distant, horizon heavy, the time where land meets sky, where sky meets itself, a peak, where sky meets water, where it begins again.

And I am a ground, grounded in ­beginnings—​­ the beginnings of motive and release. My feet feel this earth. Move. Move this history. How will we remember us? And the body? All bodies bound to this ground, to one another, our visions of the ­could-​­be world in the d­ ew-​­d awn hours of existence. Let the body be a song. Let it sing. Let it sing the light. Let it break bounds. Let it move, be in remembrance, in concert with s­ky—​­formations between c­ loud-​­coverage and lingering debris, between breaking light and heated shadow, a response to widening departures. II. The imagined artist, imagined subject, their distance, another point of view.2 The way the eye holds itself, a subject under the most scrutiny. What is to be seen, to be sought in the mouth of curiosity? Who wished the last, called the last, the final ­dawn—​­a curtain on night’s lost wonders? And she said, let it be a body.3 Let the body be itself. Let the mind wander and create of itself the most inestimable demise. And where does the body find the mind? The mind, the body? On the horizon of being, in the midst of moving again toward somewhere beyond that distant, that hazy, that imagined line. Another boundary to lose oneself along. Over. I settle my mouth to say a thing about the beauty, the expanse, the way what we see is both real and construct, both horizon and stone, a bound. To what do we bind the history of us? To whom do we call toward another beginning? 1 This quote comes from Allan deSouza (­17). It serves as a kind of introduction to the purpose of colonization and, thus, a purpose of decolonization. Rooting the poem in these words centers it in the call to (­re)­examine the histories we learn, share, and live. 2 I take this imagery of seeing and being seen at once from Foucault’s The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human Sciences. Foucault writes of a painter and his subject that what is seen and what is depicted come from one (­d is)­similar perspective. How we view ourselves, each other, history is like this balancing act, and what becomes of us in the process of painting or being painted? What sight, what understanding have we lost? What have we gained? 3 Tami Spry writes about her experience of full embodiment, even the creative/­research/­teaching process. There is an imperative to remain rooted in self as we learn from and with others, to listen to our bodies and our ­m inds—​­both exist within and enhance our knowledge.

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Mind the Sky (Or Forgetting and the Imposed Futurity of the Present) III. Despite the wickedness, despite roads traveled, marked in languishing feet, I wail in the open air. My words leap into the shelter of palms, all the alms worth carrying. They said there was no way out, no way beyond the ­past—​­the present as it becomes a past to reckon with for centuries. I remember the day the elms said in me to open a realm possible for reprise, possible for passages to one another. I am the me ­ re-​­ membered in bare arms, restless, this skin empowers me. My mind another portrait of possibility. I imagine the way. I am a way. I also seek the light as it breaks.

IV. This morning of (­re)­emergence.4 This voice shutters itself into distant expanse. How sighted these wounds/­words. How merciful the tinge of calm in their reverberations. I am a memory of slips, a memory of haphazard ­ pronunciations—­​­­discovery—​­my voice in this fecund, this impossible air. I look up to see a spectrum, a history of being in space, a time for convergence and conscious listening. Sometimes, I listen with my hands, see with language, am reminded that all of it is a gift. The canvas of today streaked with the colors of okra and barley. And I am again, a being in this body. Memory tells me the present is medium of choice. What will we create today? Pliable, this day resounds in a thickening blue, opal sheen of dew on crescent leaf, and the sky opens once more. A portal to envision the ­not-­​­­yet-​­foreseen. I am a being in this body. Again, there is pain and shadow. The shadow of the pain, a memory of flesh becoming persistence, disembarking in new climes.

I gather this air around me. Scrunch up its hem, let it flow past ankles, let it become breeze. I await the coming storm of me. The way I nimbus and burst, darker, heavier, more me than anything. I carry it. I am it, that distant future, that haphazard, ­half-​­remembered story of being in a body on this earth. I am that myth, disjointed and staggering toward wholeness. I tell the story to the sky. I let it rain, possibility built in mesmerizing calm. All the air about me shimmers. Its waves, the light, a resurgence of pulse and weight and bright,

4 In continuing to think about how we embody history, knowledge, and experience, I also looked to Cynthia B. Dillard’s conception of (­re)­­membering—​­that it is at once the act of looking back (­­re-​­) and being/­seeing the present. They are not necessarily separate actions. The work of decolonization asks that we do this, that we remember and member at once, that the past remerges in our being as we are continuously becoming.

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bright humanness. Yes, I say to the wind, I say to the falling branch and listless stream. Yes, I am. V. It rests. It is above. It is the open field, our only view of beyond. Raise your hands and see it again. Fragmented memories of life ­before—​­to distill the ­once-​­said and the maybe into possibilities inherent in contested skies. See again the measure of our disbelief. My name is sky. My palms rest in the morning haze, feel the crisp ignition of touch and ­sight—​­how open the expanse of memory. How distant the esteem of history. How impossible the imagined forgiveness. My name is all the mercy in the foreground of this ­ sky—​­a universe of collapse and emergent resurgence, a coming together of voice and vacuum. Where it lands.

Prompts and Resources • • • •

•

•

How do we individually and collectively dismantle colonial instincts? What is the role of art in destabilizing the logics of colonization? What people and/­or places in your life provide opportunities for (­un)­learning and community building? The quest toward decolonization, of self and the space(­s) we inhabit, requires reciprocity. I look to Sara Lawrence Lightfoot, particularly her 2012 lecture, “­Respect: On Witness and Justice” (­in American Journal of Orthopsychiatry, 82(­3), ­447–​­454). Artists whose work seeks to undermine the colonizing gaze/­language and call for introspection and (­­self-​­)­respect include Dawoud Bey, Carrie Mae Weems, Lezley Saar, and Alison Saar. Kameelah Janan Rasheed explores language: https://­a rt21.org/­a rtist/­­kameelah-­​­­janan​­rasheed/.

Works Cited deSouza, Allan. How Art Can Be Thought: A Handbook for Change, Duke University Press, 2018. Dillard, Cynthia B. Learning to (­Re)­member the Things we’ve Learned to Forget: Endarkened Feminisms, Spirituality, & the Sacred Nature of Research & Teaching, Peter Lang, 2012. Foucault, Michel. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, Vintage Books, 1970/­1994. Patel, Leigh. Decolonizing Educational Research: From Ownership to Answerability, Routledge, 2016. Spry, Tami. “­Canvasing the Body: A Radical Relationality of Art, Body and Vibrant Materiality.” Qualitative Inquiry at a Crossroads: Political, Performative, and Methodological Reflections, edited by Norman K. Denzin and Michael D. Giardina, Routledge, 2019, ­48–​­51.

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5 ASSEMBLING DESIRE Leon Tan, Mriganka Madhukaillya and Cristina Bogdan

The present day is defined by the intersection of three global changes: the rise of n ­ on-​ ­Western powers, the crisis of environmental sustainability, and the loss of authoritative sources. How can we speak to all the peripheries of the world, which were mostly sidelined by history? How can we organize and share knowledge on our own terms? What can friendship and philosophy contribute to the reinvention of life and learning? “­A ssembly of Desire” was an attempt to bring together those who wished to ask these questions with us.

Desire The idea of the field of desire is once again important, considering the failure of the universal automation of human culture, brought about by an American model of totalitarianism and by the “­progressive” transformation of the human kinship system through consumption and decay. Korean philosopher ­Byung-​­Chul Han, while dealing with the threat to love and desire in today’s world of fetishized individualism and technologically mediated social interaction, rediscovers the ancient code of n ­ on-​­Western societies’ kinship in the possibility of accepting s­elf-​­negation for the sake of discovering the Other. ­Self-​­negation, including repudiating the preoccupation with personality and identity characteristic of the wave of nationalisms in our contemporary moment, involves the negation of an individualist and extractive ontology. Instead of attempting to universalize the connotation of the term from an ­A nglo-​­Saxon version of the world (­a n ontology, which François Jullien reminds us, was built upon “­u niversals” at the expense of “­existence”), we might attempt to create an assemblage of neurodiverse possibilities, in order to recover the world orders which are at stake through this acceptance of s­elf-​ ­negation. Desire in a n ­ on-​­Western sense doesn’t connote pleasure and lack. As an example, in some forms of Buddhism, desire concerns the cultivation of life “­such that our interaction with s­ense-​­objects is not invariably tainted by an impossible and damaging chase after ­m ind-​­constructed ideals of permanence and substantiality” (­Webster 1). It is an ongoing and creative practice of composing relations of vitality and presence. Unlike pleasure, which is connected to gratification, desire in this sense is all about becoming, against which stands the ongoing failure of the agency of the anthropocentric Western DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-7

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Leon Tan et al.

­Figure 5.1 

M riganka Madhukaillya, Proposal for Assembly, 2016.

subject of privilege and entitlement. It is critical to address the resilient force of the evolution of desire, so that any engineering which occurs within the social field keeps the connection to the value of desire intact, not least the machining and coding of minds and bodies that pass under the name of education. “­A ssembly of Desire” was such an attempt to make sense of the failure of several alternative worldmaking gestures, as they had been continuously performed by many artists and community organizers over the past decades, including ourselves, as well as the failure of art and design programmes that feed the system of world representation and “­psychopolitics.”1 In order to contradict the universal strategies of culture and the social engineering aspect of creative labor and education, assembly was conceived as an open system relying on the network of philos (­an endless faith or engine that is needed in order to build several concepts in times of crisis), with no fixed agenda but with the idea to choreograph and assemble several trajectories of desire. The meeting was planned as a social choreography on Majuli Island, situated on the river Brahmaputra in Northeast India. It was choreographed between the idea of the flow of the river, and the fire of the ritual associated with Magh Bihu, the Assamese harvest festival taking place in the month of January. Everyone performed themselves within the temporary community situation, between sleeping, eating, cycling, loving, etc., in order to explore the possibility of philos (­the Greek root of both “­love” and “­philosophy”) in the days to come, 1 According to ­Byung-​­Chul Han, psychopolitics is the form of power corresponding to ­post-​­industrial capitalism in which digital technology aids exploitation through manipulation of the psyche.

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Assembling Desire

not as an abstract universal, but rather an assemblage of (­site) specific relational encounters and material entanglements.

The Possibility of Assembling We are all too often caught up in the positivist assumption that there is the free will to assemble or reassemble society, considering there are fixed but interchangeable operators in the social system we are part of and which we act upon. As we have learned in the months of being trapped inside because of the pandemic, people hold multiple times in mind; many of these times are mediated by digital screens, amplifying the need to be offline. It was perhaps easier to bring together 30 people in 2018. But trusting that they would all reach the river island Majuli, which is at least ten hours away from any airport, solely based on a call of friendship, remains remarkable in itself. James C. Scott in Against the Grain writes of populations colonized by a single grain, forced to live their entire life span according to the demands of that grain. We are the heirs of those people, living the linear time of the machine; much of our contemporary waking lives as children and adults is punctuated by the bell of clock time. We have organized plant and animal life, including ourselves, in industrial monocultures, under the spell of often unconscious ontological assumptions.2 The same can be said of our “­m ainstream” educational systems. This predilection for monocultures belongs to a divisive worldview; the urban

­Figure 5.2 

M riganka Madhukaillya, Assembly of Desire, 2018.

2 Such assumptions derive from strains of modernity and include notions such as “­subjects,” “­property,” “­r ights,” and “­c itizenship.”

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Leon Tan et al.

condition is predicated on the “­conquest” of the natural world by humanity. Yet, in a place like Majuli, the forest and the river are circular entities that (­re)­establish the parameters of human and nonhuman life: people (­unavoidably) live closer to the life cycles of different species. Life in such proximity to natural rhythms and cycles contrasts sharply with the organized time of industry and education. The river and forest are, for those open to it, invitations into a different ontology and, consequently, into a different world or set of different worlds.

Building a Library in the Forest The attention economy draws our focus away from continuity, coherence, and the logic of patience, and thus away from the possibility of lifelong learning. Since 2018, assembling has been difficult and even unnecessary. The Majuli moment could have remained just that a moment, an event, and an interruption rather than a beginning. Instead, it was able to trigger a reassessment of priorities. Not all the participants were to reassemble. Some of us did, imagining a space that would allow for more enduring reconfigurations of knowledge, in other words, for education. A space in the forest, like a forest. A space that could grow around us. We call it Library in the Forest. It functions as a pedagogy lab that can equip young people with the tools to inhabit the world in a holistic (­rather than atomistic) manner. The lack of political imagination in the world today is a consequence of the parallel loss of connection with tradition and the unconscious adoption of colonial worldviews. We question how we can (­still) relate to the w ­ orld—​­how to overcome the ubiquitous “­criticality” which has led us into collective and planetary malaise? There is no scope for creating an “­a lternative” that is not at the same time a profound ontological reformulation; this is what is at stake in decolonizing education. We do not want to produce deviants. We expect the next billion users to live in or around forests unless they are destroyed completely. Our proposal for Library in the Forest is a provocation towards world building, through combining radical technologies with natural entities, in the logic of coexistence.

­Figure 5.3  M  riganka Madhukaillya, Library in the Forest, 2021.  Film still.

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Assembling Desire

­Figure 5.4  M  riganka Madhukaillya, Library in the Forest, 2021.  Film still.

The library is not a metaphor in regard to our questions about the forest. We want to share our subjective experience of the past few years of being part of this meshwork of organisms. Whether through the realization of the potency of ­self-​­negation or by the complex foreplay of natural elements, life on this planet is fulfilled. The experience of this world, and the possibility of learning from this planetary duration, could be restored through immersing in this library. The library in the dark forest.

Prompts and Resources •

For more information on the project, please visit https://forestcybernetics.com

Works Cited Han, ­Byung-​­Chul. Psychopolitics: Neoliberalism and new technologies of power. Verso, 2017. Han, ­Byung-​­Chul. The Agony of Eros. MIT Press, 2017. Jullien, François. There is no such thing as cultural identity. Polity Press, 2021. Scott, James C. Against the grain: A deep history of the earliest states. Yale University Press, 2017. Webster, David. The philosophy of desire in the Buddhist Pali Canon. Routledge, 2005.

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6 LUTRUWITA/­TASMANIA’S FAUNA Artistic Imaginings with Native Wildlife Suzanne Crowley Dedication I live in lutruwita /­Tasmania, home of the palawa 2 people. I acknowledge and celebrate their elders, past, present and emerging and this land that was never ceded. The artworks presented here are an expression of my distress concerning the impact of colonization on the place in which I live. They are data, and this essay is a reflection on what drove the works’ creation. They are set in postcolonial lutruwita/­Tasmania, an Island state within Australia, where the national identity has its roots in British colonization (­­Moreton-​ R ­ obinson). Art practice involves exploration and a certain acceptance of not knowing what the finished work will reveal (­McNiff ). I have come to realise that the artworks touch on subjects too big to be adequately dealt with in this space. I offer them here as examples of how I draw on my embodied experience (­Springgay and Truman) to troubleshoot complex and problematic issues. Visual art practice has the capacity to challenge the linear, unified permanent story that words often suggest (­A nae). Being Irish, gay, and a woman, I embody a number of colonisations. I am also a migrant in Australia and thus part of an ongoing ­colonization of the land of the original people. My responsibility to this new home/­land is to learn to stand into my complicity as settlers (­McKeon). lutruwita remains unceded aboriginal land. 1

lutruwita/­Tasmania (­Australia) Not far from where I live are three palawa 3 massacre sites. These are not addressed by the education curriculum, nor are they my story to tell. Like one’s own invisible history, this past informs the way we act today. Australia, and more particularly, this Island, is encountering a reckoning for its unacknowledged history, with recent publications documenting the lived reality of the palawa at the time of and after invasion (­P ybus; Reynolds and Clements). The 1 Tasmania’s original people and the name given to the nation of lutruwita. 2 https://­t acinc.com.au/­­t asmanian-­​­­aboriginal-­​­­place-​­n ames/#:~:text=Another%20word%20%E2%80%93%20 lutruwita%20%E2%80%93%20is%20recorded,mean%20more%20than%20one%20place. 3 https://­c21ch.newcastle.edu.au/­colonialmassacres/­m ap.php

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DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-8

lutruwita/Tasmania’s Fauna

colonial history of Tasmania is that of the most f­ ar-​­flung outpost of the British Empire. After Sydney, New South Wales it is the oldest place of invasion in Australia. Set up as a penal colony, it became home to Irish convicts, both domestic and political. However, this is not the only history this land has to offer, and if we, the colonisers, are moved to listen, we might learn the keys to living with this land (­Gammage). Moving to rural Tasmania from ­inner-​­city Sydney, I removed myself from the rough and tumble of urban political struggles. This is a small community which is conservative and  changes reluctantly. In the ongoing struggles for full recognition of indigenous culture and colonization, it has been a site of contestation between conservationists and land users including the mineral industries and m ­ ulti-​­national companies whose focus is the Island’s rich timber, mining, dairy, and farming resources. Along with people, invasive flora and fauna including deer, kookaburra, and sugar glider have been introduced. The rise of the car for transport on this largely rural island has informally made it the roadkill capital of the world ( ­Jones), with Australia being one of the top five countries for extinction rates (­Woinarski et al.).

Irishness Ireland was one of England’s first colonies. The colonisation of Ireland began in the time of Elizabeth I and ended in 1921, leaving a divided country. During this extended occupation, Britain controlled through coercion, assimilation, spiritual subjugation, and the “­planting” of settlers of another faith. This facilitated a successful policy of divide and rule (­Rahman et al.) evident in the p­ resent-​­day divide between northern and southern Ireland. Ireland has long provided a supply of labour to the empire, and the Irish were the largest ethnic minority in Britain for 200 years (­H ickman). Hickman argued that the official “­race relations” discourse in England did not include the Irish because they were white, with racism being constructed on a ­black-​­white dichotomy. What I draw from Hickman’s argument and my observations as an occasional visitor to Ireland is that positions regarding racism and its oppressions are dynamic. They shift in time and locations and between ethnicities. With Ireland’s economic resurgence since the early part of this century, it has become a country of immigration and a place where migrants are the other (­Brandon and O’Connell). This was not the Ireland of my childhood. Having left Ireland, we grew up English. In England during “­The Troubles,” we carried with us our Irishness, our love of landscape, our cultural inferiority, our barbarous, brutish, dirty, and uncivil culture (­H ickman).

Artworks In these artworks, I seek to avoid cultural appropriation of First Nation’s stories. Some of the (­u n)­attended subject matter roiling within seeks expression on things like climate change, extinction rates, massacres unspoken, grief, loss, removal, timber harvesting on an epic scale, and more recently toxic salmon fish farms (­F lanagan). Our ­consumption-​­driven needs for salmon, paper, dairy, and mining products that all contribute to the use of poisons like 1080 (ten eighty) for killing wildlife, termed vermin, in timber plantations and farmlands (­M allick et al.). The habitat destruction and the endangerment of native flora and fauna are all aspects of our continued colonizing. On the micro, it is the introduction to the Island of mainland species like the sugar glider which has been shown to predate on 45

Suzanne Crowley

­Figure 6.1  D  o the Maths, 2021.  Inkjet print on archival paper 800 mm × 300 mm. Artist: Author ©.

the eggs and nestlings of the swift parrot (­Stojanovic), adding to the parrots’ precarity. And then there is the roadkill.

Subject Matter The subject matter of F ­ igure 6.1 is the landscape near where I live. It is a given that this landscape, like the Irish landscape I know, is full of lost stories. The text in the border of the print reads: This is Tasmania. If I were in the country of my parents, I would know the name and stories of this place now called Mother Cummings. She looks over many things, including massacre sites and raspberry farms. Next time you buy raspberries, remember the pickers. $2 per kilogram picked and packed. If you are really good you might take home $80 in a day. The minimum wage in Australia is $19.84 per hour. Do the maths. 46

lutruwita/Tasmania’s Fauna

Massacres of the pallittore,4 the original people in “­Dairy Plains”: 15 June 1826; 6. 13 June 1827; 9. December 1827; 19 (­Cheshunt) and 6 (­Dairy Plains). * https://­c21ch.newcastle.edu.au/­colonialmassacres/­m ap.php ­Figures 6.­2 –​­6.5  reference 1080 (ten eighty) poison, climate change; the end of the car and sea level rise, wildlife habitat destruction, silly politicians, an invasive species; the sugar glider and endangered species; swift parrot and Tasmanian devil, Tasmania’s colonial history, gun control, and roadkill. There is a small church at Wybeleena, Flinders Island, the site where in the 1830s surviving Aboriginal people were exiled. On a visit in 1842, Stokes found “­no children present and the survivors of a once strong and dynamic trouwunnan people in terminal decline” (­Stokes). On my visit to this place, it was resonant with an indescribable grief. A paling fence surrounds the churchyard. Between two palings, I saw a dead wallaby. It had been shot whilst trying to escape the shooter. It is the central image of the print in F ­ igure 6.3. When a certain politician made a silly claim that nature is out of whack, I say no “­I don’t think so.” Hobart is a city sitting on the water’s edge with kunanyi (­Mount Wellington) as the backdrop. Whilst living in Hobart, I often walked the foothills of this mountain. In 2007 when I made this print, the clamour to attend to climate change was becoming overwhelming. I tried to imagine a world without cars where the sea level rose (­­Figure 6.4).

­Figure 6.2 

Silly Wolly, 2009. ­Hand-​­coloured lino print, 400 mm × 500 mm. Artist: Author ©.

4 Pallitorre is the name given to the local tribe of this region of lutruwita, and palawa is the collective name for the tribes of the whole Island.

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­Figure 6.3 

W ho’s Out of Whack? 2008. ­Hand-​­coloured lino print, 610  mm  ×  500  mm. Artist: Author ©.

­Figure 6.4 

Nola’s Ark, 2007. ­Hand-​­coloured lino print, 300 mm × 900 mm, 2007.  Artist: Author ©.

Interconnecting Responsibilities The process of decolonising involves the creation of a ­counter-​­hegemony (­Cairns and Richards). Mine involves inhabiting the arts to document the beauty and the pain of callous disregard. I draw on my oppressions to work in solidarity with those of others. Making art can challenge the narrative we inhabit, and through the wildlife and the landscape, I express and find my empathy to make visible my discontent with this current status quo. 48

lutruwita/Tasmania’s Fauna

­Figure 6.5  W  ho’s Next? 2021.  Inkjet print on archival paper, 600 mm × 400 mm. Artist: Author ©.

Prompts and Resources • • • • • • •

What are some of the topics the artist is raising in the artworks? How do the artwork topics relate to what is being discussed in the text? Why do you think the artist might have selected wildlife as subject matter for their artworks? If you have a concern, what subject matter might you consider as a way of expressing your concern? Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre: https://­t acinc.com.au Huon Valley Environment Centre: [email protected] Save takayna_tarkine: https://­w ww.bobbrown.org.au/­t akayna_tarkine

Works Cited Anae, Nicole. “‘­L anguage Speaking the Subject Speaking the Arts’: New Possibilities for Interdisciplinarity in Arts/­English E ­ ducation – ​­Explorations in ­Three-​­Dimensional Storytelling.” English Teaching: Practice and Critique, vol. 13, no. 2, 2014, ­pp. ­113–​­140. Brandon, Avril Margaret and Michael O’Connell. “­Same Crime: Different Punishment? Investigating Sentencing Disparities between Irish and N ­ on-​­Irish Nationals in the Irish Criminal Justice System.” British Journal of Criminology, vol. 58, no. 5, 2018, ­pp. ­1127–​­1146, Westlaw UK. Cairns, David and Shaun Richards. Writing Ireland: Colonialism, Nationalism and Culture. Manchester University Press, 1988. Flanagan, Richard. Toxic: The Rotting Underbelly of the Tasmanian Salmon Industry. Penguin Random House, 2021. Gammage, Bill. The Biggest Estate on Earth; How Aborigines Made Australia. Allen & Unwin, 2011.

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Suzanne Crowley Hickman, Mary J. “­Reconstructing Deconstructing ‘­R ace’: British Political Discourses about the Irish in Britain.” Ethnic & Racial Studies, vol. 21, no. 2, 1998, p­ . 288, Criminal Justice Abstracts with Full Text, doi:10.1080/­014198798330025. Jones, Anne. “­Tasmania Is the Roadkill Capital of the World.” Off Track, edited by Anne Jones, Radio, Australian Broadcasting Corporation, Sat 4 Nov 2017 2017, p­ .  28m 22s. https://­w ww.abc.net. au/­radionational/­programs/­offtrack/­­roadkill-­​­­i n-​­t asmania/­909910. Mallick, Stephen et al. “­A ssessment of ­Non-​­Target Risks from Sodium Fluoroacetate (­1080), ­Para-​ A ­ minopropiophenone (­Papp) and Sodium Cyanide (­Nacn) for ­Fox-​­Incursion Response in Tasmania.” Wildlife Research, vol. 43, no. 2, 2016, ­pp. ­140–​­152, Scopus®, doi:10.1071/­W R15040. McKeon, Margaret. “­Patterns Repeat: Transformation through Creativity in Research about Land and Colonialism.” Art/­Research International, vol. 4, no. 1, 2019, Directory of Open Access Journals, doi:10.18432/­a ri29387. McNiff, Shaun. “­Philosophical Foundations of Artistic Inquiry; Creating Paradigms, Methods and Presentations Based in Art.” Handbook of ­Arts-​­Based Research, edited by Patricia Leavy, Guildford Publications, 2018, ­pp. ­22–​­36. Pybus, Cassandra. Truganini; Journey through the Apocalypse. Allen & Unwin, 2020. Reynolds, Henry and Nicholas Clements. Tongerlongeter; First Nations Leader & Tasmanian War Hero. New South Publishing, 2021. Springgay, Stephanie. and Sarah E. Truman. “­A Transmaterial Approach to Walking Methodologies: Embodiment, Affect, and a Sonic Art Performance.” Body and Society, vol. 23, no. 4, 2017, p­ p. ­27–​ ­58, edselc, doi:10.1177/­1357034X17732626. Stojanovic, Dejan. “­Hanging On: Saving the Swiftie.” Wildlife Australia, vol. 52, no. 3, 2015, ­pp. ­16–​ ­18, Informit Humanities & Social Sciences Collection. Stokes, J.L. Discoveries of Australia. vol. 2, T and W Boone, 1846. Woinarski, John, C. Z. et al. “­Ongoing Unravelling of a Continental Fauna: Decline and Extinction of Australian Mammals since European Settlement.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, vol. 112, no. 15, 2015, ­p. 4531, JSTOR Journals.

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7 RECLAIMING DREAMS OF OUR SHARED FUTURE Decolonizing Metanarratives around What Can/­Should/­Will Be through Imaginative Diegesis Stephanie Jones and James F. Woglom Prompts and Resources •

• •

• • • • •

What structures did you see loosen or open up during the pandemic, and what became possible as a result? How might different human subjects become possible in those contexts? In what ways do you see institutions trying to snap back into the ­pre-​­pandemic grid, and how can those instincts be resisted? What kind of human subject is encouraged in your local context, and how is that similar to or different from the kind of human subjects encouraged by Donna Haraway and Dina ­Gilio-​­W hitaker? Abolitionist Teaching Network: https://­abolitionistteachingnetwork.org/ Athens Pride: https://­w ww.athenspride.org/­resources Broderick Flanigan, Artist: https://­athensmade.com/­­broderick-​­flanagan Chess and Community: https://­w ww.chessandcommunity.org/ Linqua Franqa, Artist: https://­w ww.npr.org/­2022/­04/­25/­1092878995/­­rapper-­​­­activist-­​ ­­l inqua-­​­­f ranqa-­​­­is-­​­­on-­​­­a-­​­­m ission-­​­­to-­​­­change-­​­­both-­​­­music-­​­­and-​­politics

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-9

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Stephanie Jones and James F. Woglom

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Reclaiming Dreams of Our Shared Future

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Stephanie Jones and James F. Woglom

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Reclaiming Dreams of Our Shared Future

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Stephanie Jones and James F. Woglom

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Reclaiming Dreams of Our Shared Future

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Stephanie Jones and James F. Woglom

Works Cited Butler, Octavia. Parable of the Sower. Four Walls, Eight Windows, 1993. Butler, Octavia. Parable of the Talents. Seven Stories Press, 1998. ­ ierre-​­Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. University Deleuze, Gilles and P of Minnesota Press, 1987. ­Gilio-​­W hitaker, Dina. As Long as Grass Grows: The Indigenous Fight for Environmental Justice from Colonization to Standing Rock. Beacon Press, 2019. ­ ilm – Storytelling ​­ Haraway, Donna. Interview with Critical Zones: Discussion of the F for Earthly Survival, 2020. https://­w ww.youtube.com/­watch?v=­j-​­2r_vI2alg&t=247s Jones, Stephanie, James F. Woglom and Elizabeth Rankin. “­ Facing Change and Changing Schools: Education for Today and Tomorrow.” Seattle’s Child, 2020. https://­w ww.seattleschild. com/­­opinion-­​­­its-­​­­a- ­​­­double-­​­­pandemic-­​­­lets-­​­­t ake-­​­­school-­​­­outside-­​­­a nd-​­beyond/.

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8 A PALIMPSEST OF PULVERIZATION IN OCCUPIED PALESTINE Artistic Intervention as ­Counter-​­Representation on the Mediterranean Coast Taylor Miller ­ l-​­Manshiyya, a Palestinian neighborhood along the coast in Jaffa that since ­al-​­Nakba1 has A been systemically cleansed and redeveloped, is a symbolic and material assertion of Zionist settler colonial cultural hegemony. In my photographic examination of the cracks and fissures in the built environment of Tel Aviv (­­Figure 8.1)—​­a neighboring city whose aggressive growth and reinscription of space consumed ­a l-­​­­Manshiyya—​­l ies a ­counter-​­representation of historical memory, to consider how to reclaim urban space for those marginalized by processes of erasure, negation, and the unrelenting charge of gentrification. The images are digital photographs from my ethnographic fieldwork (­­2014–​­2018). The land that was once ­a l-​­Manshiyya is at the ­present-​­day border between Jaffa and Tel Aviv. The Zionist colonization of Palestine and its logic of separation and subjugation must be foregrounded to understand the urban morphology of the area. Since the early twentieth century, Zionist settlers were encouraged at a host of scales to settle and appropriate the landscape, hastening erasure of Palestinian culture and the colonization of the land and its people. Jaffa, a port city with millennia of history, was integral in the construction of Palestine; yet, the modern Zionist city of Tel Aviv was formed by overthrowing and occupying the preexisting Palestinian landscape. Before the Nakba, ­a l-​­Manshiyya was a fishing village on the Mediterranean coast, erected as an extension of ancient Jaffa. Founded by a small group of Egyptian agricultural laborers who had immigrated to Palestine in the 1830s, its population swelled in the 1870s as migrants flocked from around the world to Jaffa’s international port. Even during the brutality and correlated chaos of the Arab Revolt, a­ l-​­Manshiyya’s economy thrived, and throughout the 1940s, the village expanded to around 15,000 inhabitants. The details of ­a l-​­Manshiyya’s ­once-​­thriving religious, commercial, and cultural attractions evidence a dynamic neighborhood prior to Zionist occupation. The period ­1947–​­1948 was calamitous for ­a l-​­Manshiyya. The adoption of the UN Partition Plan for Palestine on November 29, 1947 (­Resolution 181) by the General Assembly mandated 1 From Arabic, “­the catastrophe” of 1948, when at least 750,000 Palestinian Arabs were expelled from, dispersed, or executed within Palestine.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-10

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Taylor Miller

­Figure 8.1 

Of orange peels and vineyard vines.

the division of Palestine into two ­states—​­Arab and Jewish. The following day violence erupted in the region, including the border zone between Jaffa and Tel Aviv, right on ­a l-​­Manshiyya’s doorstep. Many buildings were targeted and imploded by Zionist Haganah forces who sought to wholly cut ­a l-​­Manshiyya off from the rest of Jaffa, and the attacks escalated in April 1948. On April 25, 1948, less than three weeks before the formal end of the British Mandate on Palestine, paramilitary Irgun forces invaded the center of ­a l-​­Manshiyya, blasting holes from the interior of one structure into the next. Jaffa leadership surrendered to Zionist forces on May 13, 1948, and the city, including decimated ­a l-​­Manshiyya, was put under Israeli military rule. ­A l-​­Manshiyya’s mostly vacant and/­or destroyed buildings were then taken up as housing stock for newly arrived Jewish immigrants from Russia and throughout Eastern Europe. The municipality’s insistence on eradicating poorer classes from the booming city’s illustrious seashore pressed on. ­A l-​­Manshiyya was spared from comprehensive demolition because costs were too high for the municipality’s budget, but courtyards and residential structures were incrementally flattened. Huge volumes of debris were created as the ­clearance—​­a second wave of ethnic/­ class cleansing took ­hold—​­essentially leaving behind a dead zone of tightly compressed rubble. Government officials, planners, and investors often framed a total demolition as essential, declaring ­a l-​­Manshiyya a security risk to central Tel Aviv residents. From the 1950s, the neighborhood was pulverized and transformed into a palimpsest of broken stone, mortar, and wood. Architects, planners, and investors vied for the land’s ­redevelopment—​­visions and pitches couched in language of “­urban renewal” and yet most proposals were unremarkable and unsuccessful; the area sank “­renovation”2—​­ 2 See Rotbard (­2 015).

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A Palimpsest of Pulverization in Occupied Palestine

­Figure 8.2  F  inal flattening of the Dolphinarium, near Charles Clore Park (­photographed with Holga lens).

into stasis. The municipality’s neglect accelerated its abandonment and reinforced a deeper entrenchment of the psychological and physical barriers between Tel Aviv and Jaffa. The formerly vibrant neighborhood bore the weight of systematic neglect, and by the m ­ id-​­1970s, the beach’s sands further disfigured any remaining structures, and portions of the neighborhood were used as landfills, while others were altogether extirpated. This premeditated, ritualistic violence spans decades ­pre-​­and ­post-​­Nakba; it is the continuation of war by other means,3 an incremental destruction that precipitated today’s reconstruction (­­Figure 8.2). Alongside the rise of neoliberal reforms and capitalism’s unflinching grasp, the northern shoreline of Tel Aviv experienced a construction burst in the late 1960s and 1970s. ­A l-​ M ­ anshiyya’s scree proved visually and physically disruptive to the spatial continuum between Jaffa and Tel Aviv and created ­de-​­facto division between the two city centers, which the municipality and private stakeholders sought to resolve. Redevelopment efforts finally gained traction in the 1970s, amidst this gristly pulverization of a­ l-​­Manshiyya. Charles Clore Park was constructed in 1974 directly on top of the neighborhood’s ruins. The park, with its verdant and gently sloping hills, broad promenade, and direct access to the sea, is built upon territorial fossils, a consequence of the sociospatial erasure of Palestinian space, formed on the ­settler-​­colonial creation of terra nullius (­­Figures 8.3 and 8.4). These are materials, practices, and everyday lived spaces entrenching the settler ­state—​­the myriad modalities through which hegemony and the aesthetics of occupation are banalized and reproduced in plain sight. The vast destruction and subsequent material and cultural 3 See Foucault (­2 003).

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­Figure 8.3  V  iew from Charles Clore Park, looking southward.

­Figure 8.4  V  iew from Charles Clore Park, looking ­south-​­southeastward.

eliminations on this site are likely completely unfelt by visitors. This, perhaps, is a true accomplishment of the ­settler-​­colonial project and its organization of space: As a project of replacement, operating to erase existing people and geographies and establish newly invented settler ones, settler colonialism essentially aspires to cease ‘­being settler colonial’. But settler colonialism never ceases. It is … a kind of permanent occupation that is always in a state of becoming.4 To be ­hyper-​­critical of those in ­power—​­those who have bulldozed and reinscribed the region in their ­image—​­evidences how the land on which Tel Aviv was built was emptied rather than empty. The gentrification of this space is “­no less than a total urban conflict whereby state, city, and private agents implement a strategic Judaization project, manipulate symbolic and economic capital … and concertedly scheme to displace the underprivileged Palestinian population.”5 While the archetypal symbols of conflict zones (­t anks, barbed wire, frequent gunfire, etc.) can’t be found in this park, it is no less a site of ­occupation—​­a concurrent active negation of Palestinian history and reinscription of both land and culture in the image of Israeli settlers (­­Figure 8.5). Any rubble remaining in ­a l-​­Manshiyya was physically flattened. Persisting cornerstones and old concrete were buried beneath tar and new labyrinthine sidewalks, picnic shelters, and patches of highly manicured, n ­ on-​­native plant species, which decimated the ecological sanctity and distinctiveness of this Palestinian land and constituted the aggression of negation, erasure, and reinscription of the site. The conceptualization of the shoreline as a linear continuum between northern Jaffa and southern Tel Aviv, where dulcet waves wash over 4 Milner (­2 020, ­p. 268). 5 Monterescu (­2 015, ­p. 136).

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A Palimpsest of Pulverization in Occupied Palestine

­Figure 8.5 

The ­re-​­development of Tel Aviv’s shoreline.

smooth sand and a scattering of stones, is now materialized as an extravagantly open vista of the sea to one side and a forceful construction of the city skyline to the ­other—​­in effect, a palimpsest. The former inhabitants of ­a l-​­Manshiyya were dispossessed, displaced, maimed, or killed, and many were forced into exile during the Nakba, while the material structures and spaces of the neighborhood were obliterated. It is a textbook case of how the logic of settler colonialism is inherently eliminatory: Settler colonialism destroys to replace. As Theodor Herzl, founding father of Zionism, observed in his allegorical manifesto/­novel, “­If I wish to substitute a new building for an old one, I must demolish before I construct.”6 In subsequent decades, these economic, cultural, and physical erasures were themselves e­ rased—​ ­leaving no trace, no mention of original inhabitants nor their disposal. Stated more gently, the neighborhood experienced “­transformation” or “­redevelopment,” resulting in a double elimination of Indigenous Palestinian and other Arab communities in the area. Here, echoes of Malcolm X: “­The Israeli Zionists are convinced they have successfully camouflaged their new kind of colonialism.” 7 While the brutal and now routinized violence beyond the ­so-​­called Green Line registers the territory as highly publicized, propagandized, and ­over-​­theorized “­conflict zones,” it is necessary to also turn critique toward the sea and other geographical spaces (­­Figure 8.6). For so often, “[when] discussion is situated on Palestine or Palestinians, history often begins in 1967, ‘­Occupation’ is (­at best) the ontological category for thinking through Palestinian

6 Wolfe (­2 006, ­p. 388). 7 Malcolm X (­1964).

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­Figure 8.6  B  orders, barriers, rebar; the visuality of occupied territory along the Mediterranean coast.

relations with Israel, and geography begins and ends with the ‘­Green Line.’”8 Instead, we must also critique those parts of the country that are not frequently associated with aspects of the deeply sedimented “­­Palestine–​­Israel Conflict,” nor the overt workings of fascist, apartheid systems of domination (­rather, Zionism as an apartheid apparatus)9 surveillance, and physical/­psychological warfare in the West Bank, Gaza, and East Jerusalem. It is imperative to turn to/­include the globalized, cosmopolitan, and ­hyper-​­stylized shore and urban built environment that masquerades as “­open,” “­accepting,” and “­liberal.” Ergo, Tel Aviv is occupied territory. This naming and reclaiming aims at an analytical shift: [To] undermine … a problematic distinction between the perceived ‘­active’ settler colonialism of the occupied territories and the ‘­h istoric’ settler colonialism inside the internationally recognized state of Israel. It further stresses the impossibility of settler colonialism to ever cease being actively settler colonial….10 These vignettes are a sliver of the thousands of original digital photographs from coastal Palestine that aim to scratch away at the veneer of this Mediterranean city. The images disrupt the settler colonial impulses of occupation, destruction, and dispossession; highlighting the hegemonic systems inscribed onto/­into the redeveloped landscape while simultaneously seeking to spotlight the waste and f­olly—​­opportunities to envision impermanence of these 8 Hawari et al. (­2 019, ­p. 160). 9 Manna (­2 020). 10 Milner (­2 020, ­p. 281).

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A Palimpsest of Pulverization in Occupied Palestine

systemic violences and more just futures. I strive to document the cracks and fissures of occupying ­powers—​­to help evidence the c­ entury-​­long campaign of destruction that purges the shoreline of its modern Palestinian ­h istory—​­and I actively seek ways to engage in the ­co-​­struggle for Palestinian liberation.

Prompts and Resources •

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• • • • •

Consider the place where you are reading this text, at a range of scales. Within the United States? On unceded Indigenous land? In a neighborhood confronted with waves of displacement and gentrification? What sorts of cultural, material, ecological, etc., erasures have occurred/­are ongoing? How can these histories be recovered, and how can the voices of those most intimately affected by these violences be centered? What are some ways that your affiliations and familiar institutions legitimize and normalize the status quo of the Israeli occupation of Palestine? How can you and your networks proactively support Palestinian activists/­scholars/­a rtists and their allies who are speaking out and acting against occupation? Mohammed ­el-​­Kurd (@m7mdkurd)—​­Writer from occupied Jerusalem, Palestine. Correspondent for The Nation. Author of RIFQA (­poems, Haymarket) A ­ l-​­Shabaka, The Palestinian Policy Network (@AlShabaka) https://­­a l-​­shabaka.org ActiveStills Photo Collective (@activestills) www.activestills.org Jadaliyya, an independent e­ -​­zine produced by the Arab Studies Institute (@jadaliyya) www.jadaliyya.com Mariam Barghouti (@MariamBarghouti)—​­Writer and researcher based in Palestine

Works Cited Foucault, Michel. Society must be defended: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1 ­ 975–​­76. Picador, 2003. Hawari, Y., Plonski S., & Weizman, E. “­Seeing Israel through Palestine: Knowledge production as ­a nti-​­colonial praxis.” Settler Colonial Studies, vol. 9, no. 1, 2019, ­pp. ­155–​­175. Malcolm X. “­Zionist logic.” ­Malcom-​­X.org, http://­w ww.­m alcolm-​­x.org/­docs/­gen_zion.htm. Accessed 10 April 2021. Manna, Jumana. “­W here nature ends and settlements begin.” ­E -​­flux, Nov. 2020, https://­w ww.­e -​­flux. com/­journal/­113/­360006/­­where-­​­­nature-­​­­ends-­​­­a nd-­​­­settlements-​­begin/. Accessed 9 April 2021. Milner, Elya Lucy. “­Devaluation, erasure and replacement: Urban frontiers and the reproduction of settler colonial urbanism in Tel Aviv.” Environment and Planning D: Society & Space, vol. 38, no. 2, 2020, ­pp. ­267–​­286. Monterescu, Daniel. Jaffa shared and shattered: Contrived coexistence in Israel/­Palestine. Indiana University Press, 2015. Roṭbard, Sharon. White city, black city: Architecture and war in Tel Aviv and Jaffa. Pluto Press, 2015. Wolfe, Patrick. “­Settler colonialism and the elimination of the native.” Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 8, no. 4, 2006, ­pp. ­387–​­409.

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9 TIME TO TRESPASS Annotations to 13 Appearances Raqs Media Collective

1. Recently, we posted on I­ nstagram – ­​­­re-​­posting our contribution to Documenta 11 Platform 6 (­2021) – ​­an image of a video screen from a work made in 2002, for Documenta 11 Platform 5. The annotation to the post said: We grew up in Delhi, a city of immigrants, a bustling hub, dynamic, disrupted, dramatic, changing over the decades through, both, incremental shifts and sudden accelerations. This screen delineates the antagonism that shaped the way land, law, and life confronted each other in the city. It draws out the specific rhythm by which the short century got constructed, simulated and ironed amidst turmoil and defiance.

2. A note on how we think about time and also about how we don’t: Forays into rethinking how we sense time and collisions. Not as a succession of moments, or as a line that joins continuities and ruptures, or a gradient that keeps climbing or a knot that is so entangled that it exhausts, but as an awareness of gatherings of disjointed paths, projections and plateaus. Not passing time. Trespassing time.

3. The dominant sense of time, and the narrative that follows from it, writ large upon the world is hierarchical. It posits a cascade of ‘­transitions’; on the top step of the ladder is what gets called a ‘­h igher organizational and technological form of life’. Other forms are said to be waiting and working hard while they wait. Some are simply refusing to catch up. We thought along with figures of the frugal migrant and the o ­ pen-​­source hacker in our essay ‘­X notes on practice’ in 2004. We argued that the migrant brought the time of other 66

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-11

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­Figure 9.1 ­Co-​­ordinates of Everyday Life, or, 28.28  N/­77.15  E : : 2001/­2002, Raqs Media Collective, 2002, video installation.

­Figure 9.2 Atithi, from Corrections to the First Draft of History, Raqs Media Collective, 2014, ­newsprint, chalkboard paint, and chalk.

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Raqs Media Collective

­Figure 9.3 Snapshot of a diagram made during a discussion in the studio, 2021.

cultures to bear on metropolitan spaces, giving the cosmopolitan back to the cosmos. The squatter upset the neat grids of the planner. The hacker rewrote the logic of scarcity into that of shared abundance. These inaugurated a new incoherence, engendering reactionary responses by the settled and a hunt for the certainties of culturally insular majoritarian populism, which has only grown and raged across the entire world, sparing neither east, nor west, neither north, nor south.

4. Since 2008, it is visible globally that banks are unstable entities that can melt anytime, assets can go bust, and debt keeps escalating. There is a photograph by Henri ­Cartier-​­Bresson titled Run on a Bank. It is taken in Shanghai in 1948 when the People’s Liberation Army is moving into Shanghai. Everything is in flux. Shanghai is a commercial center, and people are very afraid of what’s going to happen to money and capital, so there’s a run on a bank. A person looks straight into the camera. A ­re-​­construction of the run made in 2013 was named ­Re-​­run. There is a character in La Jetée by Chris Marker who looks straight at the camera. A kind of moment where the projection frame cracks and a glance is exchanged. This happens again and again in life and cinema. A projection cracks and reveals a premonition.

5. Every child who has had a passing acquaintance with the legacy of Hans Christian Andersen knows the story of the ‘­Emperor’s New Clothes.’ Only the child in the story can see the fact that the wielder of power is naked. Not even the emperor is aware of his own nakedness. 68

Time to Trespass: Annotations to 13 Appearances

­Figure 9.4 ­Re-​­Run, Raqs Media Collective, 2013, video, re-​­enactment of Henri Cartier Bresson’s photograph of a bank run in Shanghai in 1948.

­Figure 9.5 Let Us Read Again, from Corrections to the First Draft of History, Raqs Media Collective, 2014, newsprint, chalkboard paint, and chalk.

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Raqs Media Collective

Coronation Park takes its name from a ­quasi-​­derelict space that holds a few relics of empire in the outskirts of Delhi. It is the last resting place of a few relics of commemorative imperial statuary that once adorned the broad avenues of the new British Indian capital of New Delhi. After the ‘­transfer of power’ in 1947, these statues were consigned to a field in the outskirts of the city, which had once been the site of the ‘­Delhi Durbar’ of 1911, where the British Monarchy had ceremonially witnessed the fealty of its Indian princely vassals. The question of who enters, who exits, and who gets to stand in the agora (­the square) is central to politics. Ceremonial spaces and situations like the ‘­Delhi Durbar’ of 1911 are usually designed with a view to creating an effective representation of the durability as well as the pomp and circumstance of power.

6. S­ ite-​­specific installation of 9 plinths and 8 sculptures at Giardini, Venice Biennale 2015 Permanent installation at Whitworth Gallery, Manchester, UK History, however, marks the fact that forms of sovereign power can never be eternal. Eventually, all forms in their turn are rendered vacant by the passage of time. Its own ancestral ghosts always haunt the sovereign. No history offers itself up as a resolution and as a closure. As a writer once advised, history never says goodbye.

7. It is barely three years after the centenary of the end of the First World War. And it is as if we keep going back to that time. The letters that the soldiers from the Indian subcontinent had been writing from the battlefields of the First World War were so vivid that they seemed to contain a short history of photography.

­Figure 9.6 The Bending Man, from Coronation Park, Raqs Media Collective, 2015.

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Time to Trespass: Annotations to 13 Appearances

­Figure 9.7 A History of Photography, Raqs Media Collective, 2014, six photographic prints, 2´ × 2´ each.

8. Reading the letters, there are clues to the psychological experiences of soldiers during the First World War. Medical reports, letters, ethnographic recordings of prisoners of war, and photographs give a sense of the mental life of the soldier, and others who are called followers, on the battlefield. Followers are care workers of the battlefield. They mend, cook, repair, clean, feed, carry, and entertain. They are as numerous as the soldiers. Someone after all has to clean the mess. Someone has to cook the food, tend to the horses, grease the wheels of tanks, and fetch water. Someone has to dig trenches, dig wells, and clear mines. Someone has to carry the dead.

9. At the time, doctors were trying to understand what was happening to the bodies and minds of these soldiers. Letters written by soldiers early on in the war, in 1915, suggested that something was going wrong with their minds. One of the military censors wrote that the letters display a tendency towards an excess of poetry, which he saw as ‘­an ominous sign of mental disquietude’. While there was an awareness of psychological trauma, the authorities didn’t want to give it a ­name ‑ ​­they denied the diagnosis of shell shock that was widespread amongst both Indian soldiers and British servicemen. Shell shock assumes that the person who is shocked 71

Raqs Media Collective

­Figure 9.8  N  ot Yet at Ease, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, immersive installation with ­padded-​­cell maze, 7 videos, ­18-​­channel soundtracks.

­Figure 9.9  Spinal, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, video, 10 min 24 sec., HD, performance, and animation.

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Figure 9.10  Not Yet at Ease, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, immersive installation with padded-cell maze, 7 videos, 18-channel soundtracks.

has a mental life, an inner life, and the army doctors were only willing to give that diagnosis to ­officers – ​­men like themselves. The common conscripted ­soldier – ​­the vast mass of the fighting ­men – ​­was not seen fit to have an inner life.

10. There are few remainders of incredible imaginative gestures of poise and lucidity that the soldiers and followers found in the middle of the war. We found photographs of followers ­cross-​­dressing as goddesses or as widows and dancing in the middle of a siege. It represented a rare moment of sanity in the middle of an insane war.

11. It was said that Indian soldiers had ‘­trench spine,’ a shock to the spinal cord, which caused ­nervousness – ​­a similar diagnosis to the ­n ineteenth-​­century ‘­railway spine’ used to describe traumatized railroad accident survivors. The Kitchener Indian Hospital in Brighton had a special annex for a psychiatric ward for soldiers who suffered from what we now identify as PTSD. There they remained, waiting, inside padded cells, after their time in the trenches, ­labelled the NYDN, or the Not Yet Diagnosed Nervous.

12. A page turns, the world changes, and the road curves. How many pages between one world and another. The earth whirls around a person left on the road as you move ahead. 73

Raqs Media Collective

­Figure 9.11 

Not Yet At Ease, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, immersive installation with ­padded-​­cell maze, 7 videos, ­18-​­channel soundtracks.

­Figure 9.12  N  ot Yet at Ease, Raqs Media Collective, 2018, immersive installation with p­ added-​­cell maze, 7 videos, ­18-​­channel soundtracks.

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Time to Trespass: Annotations to 13 Appearances

­Figure 9.13  S napshot of a diagram made during a discussion in the studio, 2021.

Opium godowns. Sugarcane fields. Indigo plantations. Coal mines. Rubber factories. Asphalt roads. A map of the world only marked by the things that move up and down. My heart is not at ease. How are things with you? There seems no way to exorcize ghosts, jinns, bhuts, howbattes, and hobgoblins. And, so, in the spirit of the disjointedness of the contemporary, we move swiftly ahead.

13. Despite this, there can be no denying that other kinds of time have come to stay. Here, by other kinds of time, we mean a spectrum of temporal habits and ­habitations – ​­be they the times of labour, of different forms of care, of different cosmologies, and of different senses of immediacy and u ­ rgency – ​­none of which can be resolved according to the calculus of extraction.

Prompts and Resources • • • • •

How do crises of everyday life become normalized? How do images change the tenor of how we experience a time? When an event becomes recalled and recovered, does it still define the time it gets pulled from? On Demolitions in India Two articles on the politics and (­un)­constitutionality of demolitions in India: from the Internal Emergency of 1975 to the summer of 2022 on the Indian Constitutional Law and Philosophy Blog by Gautam Bhatia. Also, responding to Illegal Home Demolitions: The Doctrine of An Unconstitutional State of Affairs by Gautam Bhatia 75

Raqs Media Collective

•

•

• • •

•

To access ‘­X Notes on Practice: Stubborn Structures and Insistent Seepage in a Networked World’ by Raqs Media Collective, see http://­xenopraxis.net/­readings/­Raqs_ Xnotesonpractice.pdf For more on Coronation Park in Delhi by Raqs Media Collective, see All that Falls, which is a tale of monuments by Giulia Crisci and Monica Narula roots§routes: research on visual cultures On the letters written home by Indian soldiers from the battlefields of the First World War. Article from the International Encyclopedia of the First World War Sepoy Letters (­India) | International Encyclopedia of the First World War (­W W1) by David Omissi https://­encyclopedia.­1914-­​­­1918- ​­online.net/­a rticle/­sepoy_letters_india On Raqs and ‘­Decolonization’ – For ​­ an essay on Raqs Media Collective’s practice and the question of the ‘­decolonial’, see ‘­With Respect to Residue’: Raqs Media Collective, Decolonial Museum as UFO by Natasha Eaton, Third Text ‘­Hungry for Time’ by Raqs Media Collective, Ingeborg Erhart & Johann Hartle. Spektor Books. Raqs Media Collective undertakes ‘epistemic disobedience’ in the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts to decolonize time. https://­w ww.artbook.com/­9783959055567. html

Author’s Note The term ‘­trespass’ has a long history in our practice. One of the first moves of any form of power is to cordon off a space, territory, or activity and reserve it for those declared as entitled. In ­Co-​­Ordinates of Everyday Life, or, 28.28 N/­77.15 E : : 2001/­2002, looking at the way in which demolitions of informal settlements by municipal authorities intersected with ­a nti-​­graffiti campaigns revealed that the interior wall of a house became an exposed external surface when that house was demolished. And so, inscriptions on that ­wall – ​­of a child’s ­d rawing – ​­suddenly turned into a trespass of law. In fact, it became a double trespass. A trespassing dwelling on public land, when demolished, turned into a wall drawing on a public wall, thus becoming a trespassing sign. At the Sarai Programme at the Centre for the Study of Developing Societies in Delhi, we hosted an international conference titled ‘­Contested Commons, Trespassing Publics’, in Delhi, in 2005. The conference looked at sustained c­ laim-​­making (­through o ­ pen-​­source practices and piracy) against the operations of exclusionary power at the intersection of surveillance, acts of the state, and enclosures produced by intellectual property regimes.

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10 FROM ART TO ARTIFACT A Sestina on Public Art Policy in Confederate Monument Removal Case Law1 Kristi W. Arth A privileged minority is striving to invent a history which can retrospectively justify the role of the ruling classes, and such a justification can no longer make sense in modern terms. John Berger, et al., Ways of Seeing 10 (­1972)

The statue on open display claim[s] my heros [sic] are those who say I’m not human. Douglas v. Daviess Co. Fiscal Court, No. 4:­17CV-­​­­108-​­JHM, 2018 WL 1863656, at *1 (­W.D. Ky. Apr. 16, 2018)

I. Before Lee Circle, he grew him from bronze. Like Teich, Doyle molded gilt matter that perched on granite, casting long shadows, shrugging off his slurry and the word art. ­Battle-​­ready at the four compass points, the empty column now claims a triumph.2 1 A sestina is a complex, French poetic form made up of six stanzas of six, patterned lines with a ­t hree-​­line envoy. See Poetry Foundation, Glossary of Poetic Terms, Sestina, https://­w ww.poetryfoundation.org/­learn/­ glossary-​­terms/­sestina. This r­esearch-​­informed poem is based on the author’s legal scholarship, and the six stanzas of the poem ref lect the six emergent categories of public art policy content found in a content analysis of judicial opinions in Confederate monument removal lawsuits using a grounded theory approach: (­I) artistic content/­context, (­II) patronage, (­III) physical integrity of the monuments, (­I V) free speech concerns, (­V ) ownership of public art, and (­V I) public utility. See (­Author) Kristi W. Arth, “­T he Art of the Matter: A Linguistic Analysis of Public Art Policy In Confederate Monument Removal Case Law,” 56 Gonz. L.R. 1, 1–​­63 (­2 020). Because this work is based on a work of legal scholarship, the citation formatting conforms to The Bluebook: A Uniform System of Citation (Columbia L. Rev. Ass’n et al. eds., 21st ed. 2020), which is typical of legal writing and scholarship. The end notes are in the form of citation sentences, which indicate the source material(­s) supporting the associated textual material in the poem and often include parentheticals that provide further explanatory information. Multiple sources in a citation sentence are separated by semicolons to form a “­string cite” for each stanza. Therefore, a separate bibliography would be duplicative and is not included. 2 See Gardner v. Mutz, 360 F. Supp. 3d 1269, 1273 (­M.D. Fla. 2019) (­noting Frank Teich was commissioned to sculpt the Confederate monument at issue in that case); Smithsonian American Art Museum, Art Inventories Catalog, https://­siris-​­a rtinventories.si.edu/­ipac20/­ipac.jsp?session=1G78777H0112P.1672&profile=ariall&ur

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-12

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Kristi W. Arth II. Fire wild after Civil Rights’ ­t riumph—​­ a false heritage wrought in blood and bronze bloated public spaces and civic points. Pointing gazes, they willed what would matter. But now new patrons deconstruct the art, and statues slip down away in shadows. 3 III. Others, ­g raffiti-​­t agged under shadows. Others, shrouded when law could not triumph. Others, stand stiff next to new works of art. Others, tucked in museums, expose their bronze. And who then gets a say in the matter with publics pressed into vanishing points?4 IV. The recombinant stories craft new points. Statues become sermons, sermons shadows, showing us in Babel why they matter. But mute stone never betrays whose triumph, whose story, takes gold and whose then the bronze. It speaks in tongues, inside cities’ cheeks, this art.5

i=link=3100006~!745~!3100001~!3100002&aspect=Browse&menu=search&ri=2&source=~!siartinventories&term=Doyle%2C+Alexander%2C+1857–​­1922%2C+sculptor.&index=AUTHOR (­describing sculptor Alexander Doyle’s oeuvre, including the Robert E. Lee monument sited in New Orleans); Nat’l Park Serv., U.S. Dep’t of the Interior, Nat’l Register of Historic Places Registration Form, https://­npgallery. nps.gov/­N RHP/­GetAsset/­bf67e975-​­a67f-​­4922-​­ac26-​­ade34cc11aa0/ (­registration form for the “­L ee, Robert E., Monument,” describing the monument being aligned along the major compass points); Janell Ross, “­T hey Were Not Patriots”: New Orleans Removes Monument to Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee, The Washington Post (­M ay 19, 2017), https://­w ww.washingtonpost.com/­n ational/­new-​­orleans-​­begins-​­removing-​­monument-​­to-​ ­confederate-​­gen-​­robert-​­e -​­lee/­2 017/­05/­19/­c4ed94f6–​­364d-​­11e7–​­99b0-​­dd6e94e786e5_story.html (­describing removal of the Lee monument from its supporting column). 3 Juanita Solis, A Monumental U ­ ndertaking—​­Tackling Vestiges of the Confederacy in the Florida Landscape, 8 U. Miami Race & Soc. Just. L. Rev. 109, 115 (­2 018) (­noting Confederate monuments proliferated during the Civil Rights Movement); Patterson v. Rawlings, 287 F. Supp. 3d 632, 640 (­N.D. Tex. 2018) (­d iscussing private patronage funding the removal). 4 Monumental Task Comm. v. Foxx, 157 F. Supp. 3d 573, 581 (­E.D. La. 2016) (­d iscussing cost of cleaning graffiti from the monuments); Amy Held, Shrouds Pulled from Charlottesville Confederate Statues Following Ruling, Nat’l Pub. Radio (­Feb. 28, 2018, 12:29 p.m.), https://­w ww.npr.org/­sections/­thetwo-​­way/­2018/­02/­28/­589451855/­shrouds-​ p­ ulled-​­f rom-​­charlottesville-​­confederate-​­statues-​­following-​­r uling (­describing decision forcing city to remove a shroud it had placed over the Robert E. Lee monument after an earlier, unsuccessful bid to remove it); Kriston Capps, Kehinde Wiley’s ­Anti-​­Confederate Memorial, The New Yorker (­Dec. 24, 2019), https://­w ww.newyorker. com/­culture/­culture-​­desk/­kehinde-​­w ileys-​­anti-​­confederate-​­memorial (­describing statue of a warhorse ridden by a black man in a hoodie and sneakers, situated facing Monument Avenue in Virginia); McMahon v. Fenves, 323 F. Supp. 3d 874, 877 (­W.D. Tex. 2018) (­describing relocation of a Jefferson Davis statue to the Briscoe Center for American History); Yishai Blank, City Speech, 54 Harv. C.R.-​­C.L. L. Rev. 365, 379, 382 (­2019) (­arguing for free speech protection for cities because it “­is necessary for the values of city speech to withstand ­state-​­led threats”); see, e.g., Va. Code Ann. § 15.­2–​­1812 (­West 2018) (­example of ­state-​­level “­statue statute” making ­local-​ l­evel monument removal decisions unlikely to prevail). 5 Grady v. Greenville, 123 S.E. 494, 501 (­S.C. 1924) (­calling Confederate monument a “­sermon in stone”); Pleasant Grove City v. Summum, 555 U.S. 460, 464 (­2 009) (“­Placement of a permanent monument in a public park is best viewed as a form of government speech.”).

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From Art to Artifact V. So, who drives their flags into our art? Who has standing even to make these points? Not the hands that poured red the molten bronze, not those met up in monuments’ ­shadows—​­ but those who after elected triumph stand proxy for this most public matter.6 VI. ­ atter—​­ Traffic circles, town ­squares—​­shapes that m agoras of our democratic art. Heyer’s death, Floyd’s breath shaped s­ pace—​­a triumph. Public comment finds freedom this way points. The sunny antidote sings from shadows: a bold discourse of what we choose to bronze.7 Bronze then a monument to this triumph: The moment to which Black Lives Matter ­points—​­ Light slant against shadows; there is the art.

***

Prompts and Resources • • • • • •

Are Confederate monuments art? How should the answer to that question affect public art policy in a community? What could a ­community-​­based art project look like to fill the empty space where a Confederate monument has been taken down? What is the role of the courts in disputes between groups of people who believe Confederate monuments “­say” different things? Artist Kehinde Wiley, https://­kehindewiley.com/ Battle of Franklin Trust, The Fuller Story Project, https://­boft.org/­­the-­​­­h istory-­​­­of-­​­­the-­​ ­­f uller-​­story; https://­w ww.franklintn.gov/­­our-​­city/­­the-­​­­f uller-​­story. All Monuments Must Fall, A ­Crowd-​­Sourced Syllabus, https://­monumentsmustfall. wordpress.com/?f bclid=­I wA R1f Ak3Bg j8EOLpr xOMr4GXWpVRHL- ​­ 8 qN39 MEyPdc392uAVVXof bZu1ulFg.

6 McMahon, 323 F. Supp. 3d at 880 (­reasoning that holding a viewpoint consistent with a monument’s message is insufficient to confer the legal standing needed to bring a lawsuit); Monumental Task Comm., 157 F. Supp. 3d at 601 (­f inding a city “­h as the right to speak for itself ”). 7 Monumental Task Comm. v. Chao, 678 Fed. Appx. 250, 252 (­5th Cir. 2017) (­a ffirming removal based on the public comment opportunities, reasoning, “­Wise or unwise, the ultimate determination made here, by all accounts, followed a robust democratic process”); Bonnie Berkowitz and Adrian Blanco, Confederate monuments are falling, but hundreds still stand. Here’s where., Washington Post ( ­July 2, 2020), https://­w ww.washingtonpost.com/­g raphics/­2 020/­n ational/­confederate-​­monuments/ (­noting several events that all catalyzed Confederate monument removal efforts, including the Charleston, South Carolina church shooting; Heather Heyer’s death in the Charlottesville protest; and George Floyd’s death).

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11 ­CO-​­CREATING FINE ARTS LEARNING Decolonial and Intersectional Strategies Logan MacDonald The following are ­step-­​­­by-​­step instructions to facilitate a ­hands-​­on ­a rts-​­based workshop using ­pre-​­determined objects and imagery that connects students through collaborative c­ o-​ ­creation and critique of installations. The workshop aims to strategically support intersectional and decolonial pedagogical frameworks of studio production and curatorial analysis. Like all of my teaching, this is a work in progress. The design of this creative workshop is the result of pedagogical experimentation. This exercise emerged through modifying practical and analytic methodologies. I rely on my own creative practice as a visual artist who is concerned with the critical inclusion and promotion of intersectional, Indigenous, decolonial, feminist, ­non-​­patriarchal, queer, and disability perspectives, as a way to explore how these concerns, centered in my work as an artist, could inform decolonial strategies in my teaching and could more broadly impact and benefit education curricula in Fine Arts. My intended audience with this chapter are arts educators (­instructing studio or seminar courses) who are looking for practical examples of ­in-​­classroom activities with decolonial and intersectional specified objectives, which can be followed or drawn from. Because I am interested in contributing some of the “­how” to conversations of intersectional diversification of teaching and learning, this chapter foregrounds my approaches as an artist and a teacher more than as a researcher building on previous scholarship. Ultimately, this workshop offers an opportunity for educators to consider how incorporating culturally significant imagery and methodologies reflective of diverse communities offers significant opportunities for challenging, nascent, and generative discourses to arise amongst students, as a primary focal point within Fine Arts learning.

Why This Is Important An urgent renewed criticism of the inequities, lack of diversity, and inclusion identified in public cultural institutions has been swelling. This is particularly felt in cultural spaces, such as museums, archives, and galleries, and in arts programs at universities, where it’s arguable that ­settler-​­colonial norms continue to prevail as fundamental and dominant. For instance, look no further than the creative methodologies and practices prominently featured as core to a Fine Arts education, the trends are fundamentally Eurocentric, when not tokenizing. Or look at how Indigenous material culture, from living communities, continues to be 80

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­Figure 11.1  Still of student activity outcome at University of Waterloo, 2020.

historically contextualized and held restrictively within collections of colonial institutions. Cultural institutions are complicit in the exclusion and erasure of Indigenous scholarship. I believe all educators in Fine Arts have a responsibility to foreground diverse perspectives and in particular offer opportunities to impart students with critical awareness of Indigenous epistemologies and ontologies, as an important educational advancement towards inclusion and reconciliation. To assist Fine Arts educators with this calls to action in learning, I present “­Deep Dive,” a structured learning activity I have been gradually developing through experiments with undergraduate and graduate students, as well as h ­ igh-​­school students, and for small groups in galleries and archives as part of public programming outreach (­in one case, presented as “­Unmaking the Archive” at Owen Gallery, this workshop was presented as a direct engagement with their collection). In “­Deep Dive,” learners engage in interpretive ­meaning-​­making via a f­our-​­part c­o-​ ­design experience. This learning exercise is being positioned within the scholarship of decolonial teaching as the framework supports analytic interpretation that may lead to and support discussions on decolonizing histories and center Indigenous perspectives, values, and methodologies. With these detailed instructions on how to run the program, I also draw attention to potential areas of risk, which I advise here to help educators determine how expected or unexpected challenges can be mitigated in the preparation and facilitation of this activity.

In Preparation An array of collected materials to present to participants, which I refer to as the Object Library, is core to facilitating Deep Dive. The Object Library are materials you need to assemble prior to the workshop, which can be reused and built upon. Items in this library can include anything from assorted printed matter (­postcards, packaging, cutouts from magazines, photographs, letters, posters) and objects (­handmade crafts, knickknacks, commercial goods, culturally significant pieces, artworks) to natural resources (­organic matter and minerals). Keeping in mind that objects will be handled in a collective borrowing environment, I tend to only include items that are irreplaceable. The selection of materials in your Object 81

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­Figure 11.2 

Still of student activity outcome at University of Waterloo, 2020.

Library is critical, as this is an area where you can ­pre-​­determine potential discussions and enable the ability for learners to engage with set themes through your initial curation of objects. In my practice, as currently the only Indigenous faculty member in the Fine Arts at my institution, I have chosen, as a first step with this workshop, to collect the materials for the Object Library, because I want to establish the parameters for the conversation in a way that centres Indigeneity. There are of course other approaches that could decentre instructor power further, namely, where participants in the workshop c­ o-​­create the Library itself. To ensure there is an Indigenous and/­or intersectional ­thematic-​­driven lens, carefully include signifiers that prompt such conversations. In my Object Library, I include printed reference images of art by Indigenous artists including portraiture, landscape photography, alongside printed and laminated images from Indigenous current events, commercial and organic materials significant for Indigenous traditional and contemporary uses (­such as beads, animal pelts and hides, birch bark, and dried plants). However, I personally a­void—​­and recommend all instructors ­avoid—​­any objects and imagery that are known to be culturally sacred from being included in my Object Library, which requires research and consideration of the power of each item included.

Precursor I have learned through experience with this activity that students are most engaged and that their learning is best supported if they move through the steps together but don’t necessarily know what the final activities will be; there is an aspect of a “­reveal” at the end that sparks the greatest insight. For this “­reveal” to work, it is imperative that the whole class advances 82

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through each Deep Dive step collectively. The activities are scaffolded and structured so that all groups move through each step at the same pace; the activities are not ­self-​­paced. It is important that when you introduce the instructions for each step, you also keep time to indicate the start and finish. There are four steps to this workshop. I have provided suggested time allotments beside each step. In total, I recommend budgeting between two and three hours for a group of up to 30 people.

Step One: Create Teams (­Suggested Time: ­10–​­20 Minutes) Divide the class into small teams (­a im for each group to be no larger than five and no smaller than three). Once teams have been created, have each group sequester themselves to their own table or corner of the classroom, away from other groups. Team members should introduce themselves including, for example, their year, academic location, their preferred pronouns, and one adjective to describe their frame of mind at the start of the activity. Consider having them name their own teams (­this is not essential, but can help keep teams active as the class gets organized). At this point, announce that it’s critical for teams to keep their teamwork private, and they are not supposed to share their group discussions with members of other ­g roups—​­which you articulate by instilling a bit of playful competition with the urgency of secrecy can help with getting students even more invested with the ­exercise—​­particularly when they don’t know where the exercise is leading.

Step Two: The Collective Archive (­Suggested Time: ­10–​­15 Minutes) Have your Object Library set up on a table or in a large bin at the front of the class. Have one member from each team come up and sign out one object from the collection, which they

­Figures 11.3  Still of student activity outcome at University of Waterloo, 2019.

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will bring back to their group. Repeat this step, with each team member coming up to select an object, potentially multiple times, until every team has a small collection of around ­6 –​­12 or more objects.

Step Three: ­Co-​­Creating Meaning (­Suggested Time: ­20–​­25 Minutes) This is the key part of the activity where you will describe the core goal of the exercise: Collectively within their teams, students must organize their collection of objects in some way. They are thus working at an analytical and conceptual level to synthesize and make sense of their group of objects. This is a curatorial practice; depending on the group’s familiarity with the term “­curation,” they may need a brief overview of that term. In my workshops, since I teach in Fine Arts, I emphasize instead the conceptual and analytical work of grouping, explaining, and exploring coherence and disjunctures among groups of objects through assemblage. They must use every object that has been collected by their team, finding a way to configure the objects into a comprehensive arrangement (­this can happen on the floor, on a table, against a ­wall—​­allow students to collectively ­self-​­determine). You can offer a few examples as prompts, but try not to be prescriptive, as engaging results require students to work collectively, having them share with one another, learn about objects, and be inspired with how signifiers may relate. Some examples for organizing objects include arranging them in order of value, age, texture, or synthetic versus natural, function versus decorative, or perhaps they illustrate a narrative or historical analysis. There are many ways students can arrange their objects, so elaborate how organizing is entirely up to them to consider as a team. It’s helpful to also keep a selection of office supplies like coloured masking tape, string, and ­post-​­it notes to offer teams a support for their arrangements should they need. Indicate how much time students have to complete this part of the activity, and let everyone know when five minutes remain. Teams should assign a r­ ecord-​­keeper to report the process to be submitted at the end

Figure 11.4  Stills of student activity outcome at University of Waterloo, 2019–2020.

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of class. It’s important to remind students to keep their teamwork p­ rivate—​­as this is crucial to the next step of the exercise. Visit each team as they are in discussion around how to organize their collection into an assemblage and to ask questions about the objects they have. If you are working with a more advanced class, feel free to deliver an additional object to add to their collection m ­ id-​­way through this step, which they must incorporate. This can challenge students to keep thinking about how categorizations and understandings change as new learnings, actions, or objects enter into relationship with what already is. Ask questions that inspire students to think about how objects might relate to one another? Can significant connections or distinctions be made? Do these objects have histories? How were they created? Are they political? Do they have different values? How do they hold cultural significance? How could objects be arranged to reinforce a politic, classification, or narrative?

Step Four: Peer Assessment (­Suggested Time: 10 Minutes per Team) Once teams have finished their arrangements, the class gathers together. Before starting this step, explain that the whole class will move together to visit each arrangement, with other teams being asked to interpret how each team has organized their objects (­this is why there was a need for teams to be working in secrecy, as having other teams interpret without preconceived knowledge will help stimulate engaging and revealing discussions). This is usually the most ­t ime-​­consuming part of the activity so plan accordingly. Be strategic and select the team (­Team A) that was the most physically distanced in the classroom, as a way to ensure they likely did not overhear each other’s discussions (­let’s say Team D). Allow the whole class a moment to examine Team A’s arrangement of objects.

­Figure 11.5  Unmaking the Archive Workshop at Owen’s Gallery, 2019.

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Then have members of Team D begin to analyze the reasoning behind the intentions of the organization. Once Team D has provided their assessment, encourage the rest of the teams to add additional commentary. Finally, call on Team A to explain how they decided on this arrangement, ask them to talk through the specific evolution of decisions which led to the configuration. You will likely be surprised by how close reads of the assemblages can be, and in particular when incorporating Indigenous and/­or other intersectional signifiers, how astute students are in being able to collectively pick up on tones and conceptual nuances to match the intentions of the home teams. Once you’ve progressed throughout all the teams, this will conclude the activity. As a debrief, facilitate a final summary discussion to see how students felt their arrangements were interpreted, and whether they learned from these discussions. While the mechanics of this workshop are fairly simple, students are often inspired by this activity with how legible artistic assemblages are to “­read.” As such, this becomes an excellent precursor activity before presenting on the work of contemporary Indigenous or diverse a­ rtists—​­as a way to enthrall students to actively contemplate signifiers and intentions.

The Personal Variant When running the activity for a second time with the same class, or with students who’ve previously participated, a variant is having students bring their own objects or printed imagery to class, having the students build the Object Library (­as opposed to you offering these materials). Prompt students in several ways, for example: Bring two non-irreplaceable objects/­ imagery to the next class: (­1) something representing meaning to you and (­2) something with

­Figure 11.6 

Unmaking the Archive Workshop at Owen’s Gallery, 2019.

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­Figure 11.7 

Unmaking the Archive Workshop at Owen’s Gallery, 2019.

cultural significance. In the next class, when students arrive with their materials, have objects distributed away from their owners into other groups. This will mean the other groups may use objects and imagery in different contexts, which could foster dynamic discussions.

The Archival Variant Another version of this workshop is if your class has access to an archive, or if you are running this as a workshop within a museum and have the opportunity to engage with their archive. Still working with your own Object Library, you will also have groups work alongside or incorporate material culture or imagery that exists in the archives. This is an excellent way to activate an archival collection by having students critically create visual vocabularies and prompt new ideas by juxtaposing items, and r­e-​­considering their histories, value, and original purposes.

Conclusion Incorporating culturally significant imagery or materials may need facilitation of difficult conversations, should they be misunderstood or misused. These can be very important conversations where allowing students space to speak and work through difficult discussions can have the potential for the entire class to learn with cultural competency. This can be a useful ­hands-​­on way for students to experience how relationality between objects and imagery codes meaning and help distinguish how Indigenous sovereignty and political resistance can be applied and understood in artistic practice, with material culture being a powerful visual 87

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tool for decolonizing how objects are understood. I have augmented these activities by providing readings and discussion opportunities. Some example resources are the chapter on cultural appropriation in Indigenous Writes by Chelsea Vowel and On Whiteness and the Racial Imaginary by Claudia Rankine and Beth Loffreda.

Prompts and Resources • •

• • •

How do you balance a philosophy of ­co-​­creation, inclusive of diverse participants, that also ensures respectful engagement of Indigenous practice? How can you teach art and curation in ways that are inclusive of Indigenous practice that does not exploit Indigenous labor without reciprocity? How can you feature reciprocity as a framework in the objectives for student learning? And where do you identify reciprocity taking place? How can we centre Indigenous creative practices that are specific, not generic? How can arts teaching connect classroom learning with local realities? ­Iseke-​­Barnes, Judy M. “­Pedagogies for Decolonizing.” Canadian Journal of Native Education, vol. 31, no. 1, 2008, ­pp. ­123–​­148. Kirkness, Verna J., and Ray Barnhardt. “­FIRST NATIONS AND HIGHER EDUCATION: The Four R’­s—​­Respect, Relevance, Reciprocity, Responsibility.” Journal of American Indian Education, vol. 30, no. 3, May 1991, ­pp. ­1–​­15., https://­doi.org/­http://­ www.jstor.org/­stable/­24397980.

Works Cited Rankine, Claudia, and Beth Loffreda. “­On Whiteness and the Racial Imaginary. Where Writers Go Wrong in Imagining the Lives of Others.” Literary Hub, 9 Apr. 2015, https://­lithub. com/­­on-­​­­whiteness-­​­­a nd-­​­­the-­​­­racial-​­i maginary/. Vowel, Chelsea. Indigenous Writes a Guide to First Nations, Métis & Inuit Issues in Canada. HighWater Press, 2016.

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12 HILANDO HISTORIAS Y TERRITORIOS Textile Cartography of Contemporary Indigenous Communities Bianca ­Castillero-​­Vela Introduction “­Textile mapping of ­present-​­d ay communities” was a workshop developed at the Cuautepec campus in Mexico City, of the Universidad Autónoma de la Ciudad de México (­ UACM), held from September 2016 to April 2017. Cuautepec is a metropolitan area bordering the State of Mexico, which suffers high rates of violence. From 2018 to 2020, eight students were killed in different violent events. It is also a neighborhood where many families that migrate to Mexico City settle down. Most of the students belong to native communities with which they keep ties. Some of them regularly visit their pueblos on holidays and family celebrations; others recreate their festivities within their urban context; and a few more have created ties with other native territories, like getting married in Cuautepec with members of different cultures and pueblos.

The Experience As the workshop progressed, the need to modify the initial objective became evident due to the interactions that took place between the group and the process that was DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-14

­Figure 12.1 Side of triqui huipil woven on a backstrap loom by María Esther Amatitla, one of the workshop participants. Photo by the author, 2016. Used with permission of María Esther Amatitla.

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­Figure 12.2 Paper maps embroidered and intervened with different techniques. Collective work. Photo by the author, 2016.

being experienced in the classroom. The nature of working on textiles, which allows for dialogue and work at the same time, transformed the classroom into a space for conversation where theory and practice were intertwined with the experiences and considerations of the attendees. The participants, who mostly had ties with the Mixe, Triqui, and Otomí communities, sought to learn, understand, and resignify the textile manifestations of their place of origin within their urban context. The conversations based on the textiles built an atmosphere of community and trust where, in an organic and

spontaneous way, the attendees shared the traditions of their native communities, the way these traditions take place at their homes in Mexico City, and, at the same time, how their problematics, such as ­gender-​­specific roles and gender violence, are linked to their interpersonal and familiar relationships.

The Workshop The initial objective was to create an artistic cartography with the characteristics of ­present-​­day Mexican textiles that would help students to identify their origins and 90

Textile Cartography of Contemporary Indigenous Communities

­Figure 12.3 Collage of some works and moments from the workshop. Photo by the author, 2016.

The Outcomes

production, familiarizing them with the meanings they contain. The students were introduced to basic techniques of paper embroidery in order to incorporate them into already printed, paper maps. As a result, each participant individually and thoughtfully created their own maps and incorporated their own meanings about the territories printed. An embroidered cartography of Mexico was created as a land of contemplation and individual reflection from a collective learning context. With the thread as a raw material, each student was able to integrate their knowledge, thoughts, and experiences. The workshop, which was initially programmed to last four months, was doubled to eight. The students managed to extend it by showing their interest in continuing the reflective dialogue. Their main interests were focused on establishing a point of view against the cases of plagiarism and extractivism that constantly occur around textile practices.

Phase 1 The Art Installation: El territorio The problems experienced on a daily basis shared by the attendees during the work sessions created a link between the textile work they created and their affectivities. In addition to the initial individual work, a proposal was added to make a collaborative map of the Mexican Republic. Students selected paper maps of some states with which they had emotional ties. In some cases, their choice had to do with the cities, towns, and neighborhoods from which they migrated. In others, there was a cultural, familial, or economic interest. In each map, the word “­woman” was embroidered in one of the indigenous languages that are still spoken in the area. The work where the formal characteristics were shown was anchored to the collaborative 91

Bianca ­Castillero-­Vela

­Figure 12.4 Art installation made in a public and community space of the Autonomous University of Mexico City, Campus Cuautepec. Photo by the author, 2016.

map by colored threads of yarn indicating the state to which they referred. The final work sought to visualize the voice and language of all indigenous women, both those who live in their communities and those who, like the workshop participants, had to migrate. The students found themselves in the voice of these women, which has been repeatedly silenced, recognizing that it is in textile techniques and designs where they have the possibility of expressing their knowledge, thoughts, and ways of life. This cartography was perceived as a shared and unique territory that was created with collective and individual work at the same time.

stories about the mimicking of their traditional garments and the appropriation of their ways of life, not only in their original communities but also in the urban spaces they inhabit. They created a warp1 where each thread was made by inserting printouts in black and white from newspaper reports on current plagiarism cases and ­full-​­color images, printed on the same paper, of the original garments plagiarized. The final piece had two objectives: first, to create an incomplete object, a fabric without weft2 that would show the lack of context, knowledge, and meaning of plagiarized textiles; and second, it sought to highlight the need to regulate indigenous textile practices and emphasize the conception of textile work as a contemporary artistic process.

Phase 2 The Art Installation: La historia Once a crafted territory had been created and accepted, the participants decided to symbolize the extractivist processes to which they are exposed through a visual narrative in which the actuality of textile pieces and their problems, specifically cultural appropriation, were highlighted and interwoven with their own

1 The warp of a woven fabric is a term of directionality (­­up-­​­­a nd-​­down, vertically) that refers to the threads that run the length of the fabric. 2 Warp and weft are the two directional components that turn a thread into fabric. While the warp is the lengthwise threads, the weft is the horizontal threads.

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Figure 12.5  P  resentation of the artistic installation made in a public and community space of the Autonomous University of Mexico City, Campus Cuautepec. Photo by the author, 2017.

Final Thoughts Colonization fractures communities and their identity as collectives. Decolonization involves healing communal connections with the fabric of s­elf-​­determination. The workshop experiences provided evidence of the benefits and importance of textiles used as an educative tool and strategy, accentuating the following aspects of textile work: (­a) the collaborative nature of weaving and embroidery has been shown to allow for the establishment and strengthening of affective ties that promote and create community;3 (­b) embroidering or weaving allows working and talking at the same time; (­c) the dialogue is one of the main elements for the creation of that community; (­d) daily personal experiences are recurring themes that are exchanged during organic and spontaneous conversations, precisely the reason why textiles and artistic manifestations are charged with daily life; (­e) customs and traditions change and travel with their actors and, due to this, they resignify and question it repeatedly; (­f ) in response to these changes, traditional techniques and tools are modified and updated; in addition to being contextualized in different ways in various territories, traditions and customs are not ­immovable—​­they are dynamic and are created day by day; (­g) the individual always has resonance in the collective, and collaboration is a force that unites wills and possibilities because the we is more powerful than the me; (­h) the textile techniques of original communities are contemporary artistic processes that go beyond the limits of the territory that were imposed; and (­i) artistic cartography is a tool for the production of knowledge and artistic 3 See Parker (­2 010) and ­Pérez-​­Bustos (­2 016) for an insightful analysis of this trend.

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­Figure 12.6 Embroidered maps with the word woman in otomí, rarámuri, maya and yaqui. Collective work. Photo by the author, 2016.

reflection that allows us to rethink, reconsider, and redefine the static geographies that are imposed. The cartography work allows the creation of stories and territories that are not only built on the basis of various discourses, but that also include the ambiguous and problematic realities with diluted and diffused borders. Finally, it is essential to emphasize that the classroom is a flexible material that adapts to its participants, ready to be modified, corrected, and ­extended—​­a ­non-​­static territory that is always in motion.

Workshop Participants Araceli Karina Carreón Benjamín Corro Evelin Ruíz Fanny Esparza 94

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Frida Azcárraga Jessica Saavedra María Esther Amatitla Mario Alberto Campo María Rueda Liz Servín Porfirio Garfias Sinaí Franco Yunuén Chávez

Prompts and Resources • • • •

• • • •

What is a classroom? How could you incorporate craftivism into your classroom? How are textile practices important to your community? Seminario Hilando Sentidos https://­w ww.schoolandcollegelistings.com/ ­X X/­Unknown/­115444463627860/­ ­H ilando-​­Sentidos https://­web.facebook.com/­­H ilando-­​­­Sentidos-​­115444463627860/ Museo Textil de Oaxaca https://­museotextildeoaxaca.org Escuela Libre Textil https://­w ww.escuelalibretextil.cl Hilando Datos https://­escueladedatos.github.io/­­h ilando-​­d atos/­2020/­03/­07/­­g uia-​­t aller.html Katia Olalde Rico. Una víctima, un pañuelo. Bordado y Acción Colectiva contra la violencia en México. Ciudad de México: Red Mexicana de Estudios de los Movimientos Sociales A.C., 2019. http://­w w w.redmovimientos.m x/­2 016/­­w p- ​­ c ontent/­u ploads/­2 019/­11/­­U na-­​ ­­v ictima-­​­­un-­​­­pañuelo-­​­­V F-​­comprimido.pdf

Works Cited Parker, Rosika. The Subversive Stitch: Embroidery and the Making of the Feminine. I.B. Tauris. 2010. ­Pérez-​­Bustos, Tania. “­Etnografías de los contactos. Reflexiones feministas del bordado como conocimiento.” Antípoda. Revista de Antropología, no.26, ­September–​­December 2016, ­pp. ­47–​­66.

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PART II

Enacted Encounters

Enacted encounters are shorter than traditional format chapters describing teaching and research processes. They focus on the efficacy or failure of enacted curriculum and/or pedagogical strategies. These chapters speak to personal encounters in professional practice and the challenges and triumphs of decolonizing work rooted in arts education. These analyses include experimentations with arts integration, collaborations in museum education and docent training development, participatory public art and poetic analysis, craft-based and writing-based mask (making), theater-education, digital storytelling, a/r/tography, self-observation methods, performative writing, and narrative inquiry. Authors explore topics ranging from anti-essentialist curriculum and examinations of power-structures in educational digital interfaces to ecojustice and ecological aesthetic curricula.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-15

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13 IN FONTAINE’S FOOTSTEPS Students’ Visual Essays Tackle the Difficult History of Canada’s Indian Residential Schools Agnieszka Chalas and Michael Pitblado

In Canada, the current discourse around decolonization is inextricable from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (­TRC) who in 2015, after a ­six-​­year investigation, produced a ­multi-​­volume report documenting the tragic history of the federal government’s Indian Residential School (­IRS) system. The residential schools were a systemic tool of colonization that sought to forcibly and violently assimilate First Nations, Metis, and Inuit children into settler society under the guise of education from the late nineteenth century to the end of the twentieth century. Included in the Commission’s report were 94 specific “­calls to action” (­T RC 319) aimed at both acknowledging a gamut of colonial injustices and fostering recon­ on-​­Indigenous peoples. ciliation1 between Indigenous and n Of those calls to action, 11 targeted public education directly. The ­sixty-​­third call to action, for example, challenged federal, provincial, and territorial governments to make ­age-​ ­appropriate curriculum related to residential schools and the broader history of Indigenous peoples in Canada a mandatory education requirement for ­K-​­12 students (­T RC 7). In taking up these recommendations and renewing their curricula accordingly, Ministries of Education across the country thrust teachers into the frontlines of the truth and reconciliation process by positioning them to play a significant role in helping students come to terms with the history and lasting impacts of settler colonialism in Canada. In this chapter, w ­ e—​­an art teacher who immigrated to Canada at the age of eight and a ­Canadian-​­born history ­teacher—​­present an ­a rts-​­integrated history project that saw secondary students enrolled in a ­tenth-​­grade Canadian History course learn about the historic harms and ongoing effects of Indian residential schools and create visual essays in response to the memoir of one school survivor and member of the Sagkeeng First ­Nation—​­Theodore Fontaine’s Broken Circle: The Dark Legacy of Indian Residential Schools.2 The Chair of the TRC, Justice Murray Sinclair, said, “­education is what got us into this mess and education will get us out of it” (­Steenkamp para 8). Echoing this sentiment, we view teaching our students about this dark period in Canada’s colonial past as a step towards 1 While there exist divergent conceptions of reconciliation, in the context of Indian Residential Schools, the TRC defines reconciliation as “­coming to terms with events of the past in a manner that overcomes conf lict and establishes a respectful and healthy relationship among people going forward” (­6). 2 We dedicate this chapter to the memory and legacy of Theodore Fontaine (­­1941–​­2021).

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DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-16

In Fontaine’s Footsteps

advancing reconciliation. As such, we position ourselves as “­ accomplices” (­ Indigenous Action Media 2) in the struggle to confront and unsettle colonialism and move the next generation forward in creating a more just and inclusive Canada.

Our Approach to Integrating the Visual Arts with Historical Inquiry While a lack of consensus exists on any one definition of arts integration, we align ourselves with two broad groupings of definitions that Burnaford et al. identified in their review of the relevant work in the field: (­a) arts integration as a curricular connection process and (­b) arts integration as collaborative engagement (­11; sec. 3). The first definition of arts integration links curricular expectations across academic disciplines and is characterized by a commitment to upholding the integrity of each discipline involved (­Burnaford et al. 13). Burnaford et al.’s second definition describes arts integration as a process of collaboration between either professional teaching artists or art specialists and K ­ -​­12 classroom teachers, emphasizing shared curricular planning and ­co-​­facilitation (­14). Aligning ourselves with the foregoing definitions is most illustrative of our approach to planning and facilitating ­arts-​­integrated projects. Ours is a ­co-​­equal teaching partnership in which we address the content, objectives, skills, and structures of our respective disciplines in a rigorous and balanced manner (­see also Chalas and Pitblado “­The Suitcase Project” 281; Chalas and Pitblado “­Voices of Protest” 11). Art education has mounting evidence for the value of arts integration in achieving a range of essential learning goals across the curriculum. Scholars have argued that this curricular approach can be particularly useful in enhancing student learning in and engagement with history (­Dawes Duraisingh and Boix Mansilla 22; Vitulli and Pitts Santoli 117). Dawes Duraisingh and Boix Mansilla, for example, assert that ­arts-​­integrated history projects call on students to reinterpret, restructure, and synthesize historical information through artistic production and, in so doing, construct new knowledge (­i.e., an artwork) that could not have emerged through a historical lens alone (­24). Indeed, we have observed firsthand in our teaching practice that when a ­co-​­equal approach is used and high standards for both disciplines are upheld, integrating the visual arts with history pedagogy grounded in historical thinking (­Seixas 595; Seixas and Morton 2) can not only deepen students’ understandings of historical content, stimulate emotional connections to the past, and increase their interest in the period under study, but also result in works of art that are successful both on a formal level and at conveying complex ideas, making them more aligned with those of many contemporary artists who grapple with important historical questions and advocate for social justice in their work.

Project Description In direct response to the educational reforms called for by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada and working within a critical pedagogy framework, we designed the visual essay project as a way for our students to gain a deeper understanding of the causes of the Indian Residential School (­IRS) system and the devastating consequences it had and continues to have for Canada’s Indigenous peoples. To establish the requisite historical context, the first seven classes of the unit were dedicated to exploring the roots of discrimination against Indigenous peoples in the country, their shifting legal status over time, the initiation of the IRS system in the latter half of the nineteenth century, and the beliefs and motives of the Federal Government which sponsored the schools as well as those of the churches who operated them. Students also debated whether this dark chapter in Canadian history should 99

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be considered a genocide or a cultural genocide and what official apologies may or may not accomplish as a means of moving toward justice and reconciliation. While these lessons allowed the students to grasp the causes of the residential schools on a macro level, Fontaine’s memoir described their heartbreaking consequences. In Broken Circle: The Dark Legacy of Indian Residential Schools, Fontaine reveals the traumatic impact that the experience of attending the Fort Alexander Indian Residential School in Manitoba during the 1950s had on the course of his life. Writing his memoir with the express intent of sharing his story with youth was a significant part of that journey. Fontaine presents his life in four key phases categorizing the years prior to attending residential school as his period of innocence—​­full of pleasant memories of freedom and joy under the protection and security of his family. This is followed by 12 years of destruction spent incarcerated at the Fort Alexander Indian Residential School. Next, Fontaine struggled for survival as a young adult coping with trauma. The final ­phase—​­reconciliation—​­was a period where Fontaine found the strength and courage to seek help and found renewed hope and purpose in life. After reading the memoir, we tasked our students with creating identity charts using words and phrases to describe the many different factors that shaped Fontaine’s life and identity. Next, they created two separate graphic organizers detailing the different ideas and art forms they intended to use to depict the four phases of Fontaine’s life in their visual essays. The first organizer invited the students to brainstorm key themes, places, objects, people, and specific moments that best represented each phase. The second had students produce a series of four thumbnail sketches that illustrated their visual ideas and proposed both the artistic materials and techniques students wanted to work with. Ultimately, students chose to work in a variety of art forms (­e.g., painting, drawing, collage, digital arts, and sculpture), and over the course of the next four weeks, dedicated their efforts to producing insightful and striking visual ­essays—​­each in four ­parts—​­depicting the innocence, destruction, survival, and reconciliation stages of Fontaine’s life. Once their visual essays were complete, students wrote personal letters addressed to Fontaine in which they reflected on their learning in the project. They were invited to attend a public event entitled “­Connecting Students to Survivor Stories” organized by Facing History and Ourselves, where they could exhibit their work, meet Fontaine in person, and gift him with an edited collection comprising images of their visual essays and excerpts from their personal letters. In a generous note of gratitude, Fontaine shared what the students’ work meant to him: You and your students have given me a gift likely beyond what you might have imagined. You have reflected my story back to me, in a passionate and emotional outpouring of understanding, witnessing, affirming, and consoling. You have lifted my spirit and brought me to my knees at the same time… I was shocked to see that [your students] clearly portrayed the insights that evolved through my healing journey, insights and understanding that have taken my lifetime to uncover… I can see how you have led them carefully yet steadily toward painful and substantive deliberations and analysis. They have truly followed in my own footsteps in this process. I wish I had had such guidance along the way.

Visual Essays In the following section, we describe the visual essays of four students who participated in this project and kindly allowed us to share their real ­names—​­Naomi, Madison, Emily, and 100

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Charlotte. Inspired by American artist Joseph Cornell, Naomi’s visual essay is comprised of four separate assemblage boxes (­see ­Figure 13.1). Madison represents Fontaine’s life journey using mixed media sculptures comprised of plaster hand castings combined with a variety of other materials (­see ­Figure 13.2). Emily employed an altered book technique to make four unique book sculptures using copies of Broken Circle (­see ­Figure  13.3). Charlotte’s visual essay contains four collages inspired by the papier collé technique developed by Caroline Monnet—an Algonquin French contemporary artist. Each of her pieces is made of strips of cut images that are collaged inside the outlines of representative objects from Fontaine’s life (­see ­Figure 13.4). To highlight the similarities and differences among the visual essays, we have organized the following section in the order of Fontaine’s four life ­phases—​­innocence, destruction, survival, and reconciliation.

Innocence Painted an earthy brown to reflect the Fontaine family’s deep connection to the land, the first of Naomi’s assemblage boxes (­­Figure 13.1 top left) is lined with a page from a Batman comic book as, prior to entering residential school, ­seven-­​­­year-​­old Fontaine unwittingly liked the idea of attending school to learn how to read them. This background is overlaid with a variety of other found objects, placed both in the middle and foreground of the box, each symbolizing some of the happy childhood memories Fontaine lovingly describes in the first chapter of his memoir. These objects include a photo of his family, a small model b­ irch-​ ­bark canoe, and vintage images of blueberries representative of his family’s many b­ erry-​ ­picking trips. Madison focused specifically on the warm and loving relationship between Fontaine and his mother. As such, a l­ife-​­size plaster cast of a woman’s hand holding that of a young child’s hand sits atop a wooden platform which has been collaged over with old black and white Fontaine family photos (­­Figure 13.2 top left). Representing the innocence phase of his life, both Emily and Charlotte draw on an early memory of Fontaine’s father’s deer hunting. In Emily’s book sculpture, collaged directly over the specific pages where Fontaine recounts the episode, is a colourful forest scene depicting a meadow, a large tree, and two deer (­­Figure 13.3 top left). The colour green predominates and was intentionally used to symbolize Fontaine’s love of nature and the tranquility he felt in his early childhood. Using a similar motif, within the silhouette of a deer, Charlotte inserted a collage of various images symbolizing some of Fontaine’s other early childhood memories of daily life in his home community of Sagkeeng First N ­ ation—​­from a boy chopping wood to a woman baking traditional bannock bread (­­Figure 13.4 top left).

Destruction Naomi, Madison, and Emily’s pieces representing the destruction phase of Fontaine’s life all speak directly to the Roman Catholic, Anglican, United, and Presbyterian churches’ attempts to assimilate the Indigenous population of Canada by “­k illing the Indian in the child.”3 To represent the trauma Fontaine experienced at residential school, Naomi painted her second assemblage box (­­Figure 13.1 top right) a somber black due to the colour’s widespread association with darkness and despair. In its background is a photograph of a young Fontaine sitting amongst other students in a classroom at Fort Alexander Indian Residential 3 This phrase is commonly but incorrectly attributed to Duncan Campbell Scott, though his actions as the head of the Department of Indian Affairs between 1913 and 1932 suggest that he likely agreed with the idea.

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School. Looming in the rear of the room stands a nun. Next to this figure, Naomi affixed a sizeable wooden cross to symbolize the dominance the Catholic church exerted over Indigenous children. In the bottom front of the box stand seven candles representing the age at which Fontaine first entered the residential school system. In Madison’s second sculpture (­­Figure 13.2 top right), a plaster cast of a youth’s palms pressed together in prayer sits on top of a round wooden base covered with a torn black and white image of Fort Alexander Indian Residential School. Meanwhile, a closed copy of Broken Circle stands upright on a black base in Emily’s second book sculpture (­­Figure 13.3 top right). The shape of a doorway is cut from the front cover through numerous pages of the memoir to deliberately reveal a page where Fontaine describes some of the worst of his residential school experiences. In the doorway stands a ­black-­​­­and-​­white image of Fontaine’s oppressor: a nun. As if backlit, an outline of her shadow, collaged from another page of the memoir where Theodore describes the abuses he faced at the hands of the church, casts forward onto the base of the piece. Charlotte chose to focus her second collage (­­Figure 13.3 top right) on a different memory from Fontaine’s years at residential school. Specifically, the author vividly recalls being denied bananas while the nuns allowed them to decay and rot in plain sight but just out of reach. Her piece representing the destruction phase of Fontaine’s life is, therefore, composed of various images symbolizing his memories from this time which are nestled inside the outline of a bunch of bananas. The images are tinted a similar brown colour to that of bruised and rotting bananas to symbolize the loneliness, sadness, and isolation Fontaine experienced during his school days. Among them is an image of Theodore standing on the front steps of Fort Alexander Indian Residential School in 1950 and another of children having their teeth inspected.

Survival After leaving the Indian Residential School system, Fontaine led a transient life, moving from one town to the next across western Canada and Ontario where he struggled to hold down a job and turned to alcohol to cope with his childhood trauma. Importantly, during this same phase of his life, Fontaine also ultimately found the strength to turn his life around and went on to experience some of the key milestones of adulthood (­e.g., graduation from a ­post-​­secondary institution, marriage, and the birth of a child). Naomi, Madison, Emily, and Charlotte’s visual essays all explore these themes in different ways. Naomi’s third assemblage box (­­Figure  13.1 bottom left), painted black to remind the viewer that Fontaine’s troubles did not end with graduation from high school, is lined with a map of Canada. Red push pins on the map mark the key locations across the country that he made his home during this time. Fontaine’s struggles to find and retain meaningful work are represented by pink slips and his alcohol dependency by a handful of beer caps. Also included in the assemblage is a photograph of Fontaine with his young daughter Jacqueline, who was a continuous source of hope for him, as well as a hockey medal to symbolize the positive outlet Fontaine found in playing and coaching the quintessentially Canadian sport. In her third sculpture (­­Figure 13.2 bottom left), Madison also chose to include a map of Canada and used push pins to mark key locations where Fontaine lived and worked during the survival stage of his life. Protruding out of this map, which is collaged over the base of her sculpture, is the plaster cast of a young man’s clenched fist symbolizing not only Fontaine’s anger over his lost childhood and culture but also the internal fortitude he drew on to save himself from the path of s­ elf-​­destruction he had been following. The focus of Emily’s third book sculpture (­­Figure  13.3 bottom left) is a small t­wo-​ d­ imensional beige figure of a male youth in a sitting position who hugs his legs into his 102

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chest while burying his face in his knees. The youth is placed facing away from the spine of the memoir on a page that describes some of the challenges Fontaine experienced during the survival phase of his life. A series of folded and ­fanned-​­out pages rest against the youth’s back to symbolize the many ­t rauma-​­induced burdens that weighed Fontaine down after he left school. Like Naomi, Charlotte’s third piece (­­Figure  13.4 bottom left) also considers Fontaine’s struggles with addiction by using the recognizable shape of a beer bottle as the outline shape for her collage. Within the contours of the bottle can be found several images that represent some of the interests and relationships he both developed and returned to as a young adult. Included among the images, tinted green to symbolize hope and rebirth, is a photo of a hockey game and a photo of Fontaine with his daughter. Likewise included in the collage is an image of figures walking in the w ­ oods—​­an activity that, in his memoir, Fontaine credits with helping him return to his roots in nature and begin to take meaningful steps towards healing.

Reconciliation Central to Fontaine’s healing journey was, among other things, rediscovering his lost Ojibway language and culture as well as sharing his residential school story with others. Naomi’s fourth and final assemblage box (­­Figure  13.1 bottom right), painted in an earthy hue, is therefore emblematic not only of Fontaine’s return to his roots but also of him finding his life’s purpose. An Ojibway syllabary forms the background along with a photo of Fontaine at one of his many public speaking engagements. In the forefront of the box are small glass bottles containing keywords that characterize this last chapter of Fontaine’s life: healing, family, and learning. Fontaine’s journey of ­self-​­exploration and healing necessitated that he both confront and come to terms with some of the darkest moments of his childhood. Madison’s final sculpture (­­Figure 13.2 bottom right) therefore includes a plaster cast of a grown man’s cupped hands protectively holding a small, framed photograph of Fontaine as a young boy. The casting sits on a base collaged with the first and last pages of Broken Circle, suggesting that, to use Madison’s own words, Fontaine’s “­life journey enabled him to complete a circle that was once broken.” In his memoir, Fontaine describes finding solace and comfort in a close friendship he developed with a fellow residential school survivor with whom he would go camping and who he credits for helping him move in the direction of reconciliation. In Emily’s final book sculpture (­­Figure 13.3 bottom right), she recreates a camping trip scene, which Fontaine explains was the ultimate turning point in his journey towards healing. On top of a closed copy of Broken Circle, Emily placed paper sculptures of an evergreen tree, a tent, and a ­campfire—​­all made using the book pages that describe the camping experiences. Echoing her first book sculpture, the scene is brimming with colour to indicate that Fontaine’s life is about to come full circle, allowing him to find happiness once again. Charlotte chose an eagle feather for the shape of her last collage (­­Figure  13.4 bottom right) as it is considered to be the most sacred of feathers among Canadian Indigenous peoples. It represents everything that is positive in life (­e.g., respect, honour, truth, love, courage, and wisdom) as well as the concept of choosing to walk the good path in life. Inside the feather, Charlotte placed images symbolic of the key activities that Fontaine devoted himself to in the last phase of his ­life—​­sharing his residential school experiences with students and enabling other survivors to do the same, advocating for First Nations rights, languages, culture and traditions, and spending time with his family. 103

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­Figure 13.1 Naomi’s visual essay. © Responsibility of Agnieszka Chalas.

­Figure 13.2 Madison’s visual essay. © Responsibility of Agnieszka Chalas.

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­Figure 13.3 Emily’s visual essay. © Responsibility of Agnieszka Chalas.

­Figure 13.4 Charlotte’s visual essay. © Responsibility of Agnieszka Chalas.

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Conclusion Before honest and meaningful reconciliation between Indigenous peoples and settlers can occur, all Canadians must not only first learn about Indigenous and Canadian history but also think critically about how they themselves are implicated in the colonial project. In this chapter, we described how we used an ­arts-​­integrated curricular approach to respond to the recommendations set out in the 2015 report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada and engage students with the difficult history and impacts of the Canadian Indian Residential School system. We contend that art and history educators are in a unique position to cross disciplinary boundaries to collaboratively address difficult historical truths in our shared pasts and, in so doing, play an important role in the truth and reconciliation process. Until he passed away, Theodore Fontaine worked tirelessly to help the next generation of Canadians grapple with the injustices of settler colonialism. In a letter to us and our students written a couple of years before his passing, Fontaine touched our hearts by writing, “­You have strengthened my resolve with these visual essays. I will draw from them in my ongoing work with students and adults to help them learn about Indian residential schools and to understand the true meaning of reconciliation.” In sharing our visual essay project and the sample student works described above, we aim to inspire other art and history educators to collaborate on similar a­ rts-​­integrated projects and hope that they will find the ideas presented herein useful to their own ongoing a­ nti-​­colonial, accomplice, Indigenizing, and broader decolonizing work. As more and more unmarked children’s graves continue to be discovered on former Indian Residential School sites across Canada (­Eneas para. 1), this work has never been more urgent than now.

Prompts and Resources What role can art education play in helping a nation, individuals, and groups heal from past trauma? How might an ­arts-​­integrated approach to historical inquiry create safe spaces for students to explore other instances of difficult history? • •

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Beyond 94: Truth and Reconciliation in Canada: https://­ newsinteractives.cbc. ca/­­longform- ​­single/ ­­beyond-​­94?&cta=1 Facing History and Ourselves, Truth and Reconciliation: https://­w ww.facinghistory. org/­­stolen-­​­­l ives-­​­­i ndigenous-­​­­peoples- ­​­­canada-­​­­a nd-­​­­i ndian-­​­­residential- ​­schools/­­h istorical-​ ­background/­­t ruth-­​­­a nd-​­r econciliation#:~:text=Truth%20and%20reconciliation%20 commissions%20have, government%20against%20its%20own%20citizens National Centre for Truth and Reconciliation: https://­nctr.ca/

Works Cited Burnaford, Gail, Brown, Sally, Doherty, James, and McLaughlin, James. Arts Integration Frameworks, Research & Practice: A Literature Review. Arts Education Partnership, 2007. Chalas, Agnieszka and Pitblado, Michael. “­The Suitcase Project: Historical Inquiry, Arts Integration and the Holocaust.” International Journal of Education through Art, vol. 17, no. 2, 2021, ­pp. ­281–​­301. Chalas, Agnieszka and Pitblado, Michael. “­Voices of Protest Against the War in Vietnam: An ­A rts-​ ­Integrated History Project.” Canadian Art Teacher, vol. 16, no. 2, 2019, ­pp. ­11–​­21. Dawes Duraisingh, Liz and Veronica Boix Mansilla. “­Interdisciplinary Forays Within the History Classroom: How the Visual Arts Can Enhance (­Or Hinder) Historical Understanding.” Teaching History, vol. 129, 2007, ­pp. ­22–​­30.

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In Fontaine’s Footsteps Eneas, Bryan. “­Sask. First Nation announces discovery of 751 unmarked graves near former residential school.” CBC News, https://­w ww.cbc.ca/­news/­canada/­saskatchewan/­­cowessess-­​­­m arieval-­​­­i ndian-­​ ­­residential-­​­­school-­​­­news-​­1.6078375. Accessed 1 July 2021. Fontaine, Theodore. Broken Circle: The Dark Legacy of Indian Residential Schools. Heritage House, 2010. Indigenous Action Media. Accomplices Not Allies: Abolishing the Ally Industrial Complex, 2014. https://­ www.indigenousaction.org/­­w p-​­content/­uploads/­­Accomplices-­​­­Not-­​­­A llies-​­print.pdf. Seixas, Peter. “­A Model of Historical Thinking.” Educational Philosophy and Theory, vol. 49, no. 6, ­pp. ­593–​­605. Seixas, Peter and Tom Morton. The Big Six Historical Thinking Concepts. Nelson Education, 2013. Journal of Social Studies Education Research, vol. 6, no. 1, 2015, ­pp. ­1–​­25. President SteenKamp: National Day for Truth and Reconciliation.” Royal Steenkamp, Philip. “­ Roads University, https://­w ww.royalroads.ca/­news/­­president- ­​­­steenkamp-­​­­n ational- ­​­­d ay-­​­­t ruth-​ ­reconciliation. Accessed 2 October 2021. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (­T RC). Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015. Vitulli, Paige and Susan Pitts Santoli. “­Visual Arts and Social Studies: Powerful Partners in Promoting Critical Thinking Skills.” Social Studies Research and Practice, vol. 8, no. 1, 2013, ­pp. ­117–​­134.

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14 UNSETTLING COLONIAL NARRATIVES IN THE ART MUSEUM Grace VanderVliet and Ozi Uduma

How can we, as museum curator and educator, amend centuries of harmful collecting practices and unlearn damaging myths by reframing familiar objects? Unsettling Histories: Legacies of Slavery and Colonialism, a reimagining of the permanent collections of European and American art at the University of Michigan Museum of Art (­UMMA), confronts museums’ complicity in favoring colonial voices and silencing those of the marginalized. First, Ozi will share what we are doing to unsettle gallery practices such as label writing and object positioning, then Grace will share how docent training and touring further push the collective work of disrupting an art museum. For us, “­unsettling” refers to both collection disruption and feelings of disorientation. What does “­decolonizing” encompass, and how do our efforts contribute to it? To decolonize something means to atone for the harmful effects of ­colonization—​­to give back land, resources, and agency to the people to whom they originally belonged (­Tuck and Yang 2). As scholars Eve Tuck and Wayne Yang argue, decolonizing is not a generic term for social justice; it is not diversification efforts, a­ nti-​­racist action, ­a nti-​­oppression work, metaphorical references, attempts to reconcile settler guilt, or the application of Indigenous people to a Western framework of liberation (­21). In their article, “­Decolonizing and Diversifying Are Not the Same Thing,” Amber Hickey and Ana Tuazon reflect that they wish they had shouted “­loud and clear from the beginning” that decolonization is not about “­d iversifying representation in museums or tearing down monuments, it is about a complete reconfiguration of dominant relations to land and life.” UMMA is addressing concerns about the repatriation of specific collection objects in a separate exhibition, Wish You Were Here: African Art and Restitution. Our goal in Unsettling Histories was to begin to dismantle attitudes of superiority and ownership by complicating narratives of European and American art made between 1685 and 1885 on display in UMMA’s Marvin H. and Mary M. Davidson Gallery of European and American Art. Within our spheres of influence, we use different tools. Ozi Uduma, assistant curator of global contemporary art, with a background in African studies and cultural anthropology, interrogates objects, gallery space, and labels. Grace VanderVliet, educator in UMMA’s Public Experience and Learning department for seven years, probes curriculum and conversations. Together we aim to tell a more complete and truthful story of our nation’s and museum’s ­h istory—​­one that unsettles and refuses simple narratives. 108

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-17

Unsettling Colonial Narratives in the Art Museum

Unsettling the Museum (­Ozi) The museum last reinstalled the Davidson Gallery in 2009, just after reopening its doors at the end of a ­three-​­year expansion that added a new wing to the original building, significantly extending exhibition space for the collections. European and American art was housed in the “­old wing,” the former Alumni Memorial Hall, a Beaux Arts Building fronted by bannered columns and a row of steep, inaccessible steps evoking the authority of museums such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the National Gallery. The central gallery (­k nown as “­the apse”) displayed ­large-​­scale ­n ineteenth-​­century European and American art and was flanked by two galleries of European art: (­a) the Richard and Rosann Noel Gallery, with painting, sculpture, decorative arts, and works on paper from the medieval through the Baroque periods, and (­b) the Davidson Gallery, filled with British portraits, Dutch still lifes, and European decorative arts. In 2019, the apse underwent a major reinstallation. Under the leadership of Director Christina Olsen and Vera Grant (­former deputy director of curatorial affairs), UMMA began to rethink its identity on campus and explore how to present a more expansive and mutable history of art, one that shows the powerful connections of art across time, media, politics, and cultures. The gallery was cleared for a new installation, called Collection Ensemble, that surveyed the breadth of the collections, bringing together art from different time periods, places, and cultures. The thematic groupings of the artworks remind us how meaning can change depending on context. This was the first phase of a larger project, called “­Openings,” to transform the museum.

­Figure 14.1 Titus Kaphar, Flay ( ­James Madison), 2019, oil on canvas with nails. University of Michigan Museum of Art, Museum Purchase made possible by Joseph and Annette Allen, 2019/­ 2.184. Used with permission of the artist. © Titus Kaphar Photo credit: Charlie Edwards.

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­Figure 14.2 Unsettling Histories: Legacies of Slavery and Colonialism exhibition [detail view], with works by John Hopner, Charles Philips, Tyree Guyton, Joseph Wright of Derby, Randolph Rogers, and Eastman Johnson. University of Michigan Museum of Art, Marvin H. and Mary M. Davidson Gallery of European and American Art, February 2021.  Photo credit: Grace VanderVliet.

When UMMA acquired Titus Kaphar’s Flay ( ­James Madison) in late 2019, our interim chief curator, Laura De Becker, and I (­Ozi) decided to use the painting to anchor a reinstallation of the Davidson Gallery both physically and conceptually. Through the acts of shredding, cutting, shrouding, tarring, erasing, breaking, and nailing in this work, Kaphar reveals how American history has been rewritten, distorted, reimagined, and misunderstood. Flay is one of several portraits in which he scrutinizes the Founding Fathers, many of whom fought to achieve liberty for the colonies while participating in the transatlantic slave trade. Madison, for example, owned over 300 enslaved people. By shredding the canvas itself, Kaphar flays the myth of the hero as well as the medium, forcing us to reckon with our complicated history. Using the painting as a catalyst, my goal was to curate an installation that made visible how the ideas of colonial expansion and Western domination are present in artworks, both overtly and invisibly, and to create an unsettling experience that caused our audiences to reflect on the legacies of slavery and colonialism.

Unsettling the Narrative (­Ozi) My first goal was to unsettle a narrative that perpetuated the “­l ie of neutrality” in the gallery, which made it too easy to ignore the stories of the marginalized that are hidden in still lifes, 110

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portraits, and decorative objects (­K aphar). To surface invisible stories, I decided to unsettle conventions of museum display that rigorously separate art based on geography and time period and put works from different periods in dialogue. I kept some of the works in the gallery, but I changed the scope. I moved n ­ ineteenth-​­century American art into the gallery, including Randolph Rogers’s sculpture Lincoln and the Emancipated Slave (­ca. 1866), John Mix Stanley’s Mount Hood from the Dalles (­1871), and Eastman Johnson’s Boyhood of Lincoln (­1868), to demonstrate how American art of this period legitimizes the nation state and attempts to promote colonial expansion. I also introduced two additional contemporary ­a rtworks—​­Kara Walker’s lithograph Freedom, a Fable: A Curious Interpretation of the Wit of a Negress in Troubled Times (­1997) and Tyree Guyton’s sculpture Untitled ( ­bird cage, ­re-​­lynching) (­ca. ­1980–​­2010)—​ ­that make the history and legacy of slavery visible. Additionally, we added contemporaneous photography of African Americans and Indigenous North Americans from the late nineteenth century, to show how members of these communities used photography to shape, share, and preserve images of themselves. We also added textiles from the Ojibwe nation, which provides an opportunity to reflect on how Indigenous groups continued to create work under the pressure of settler colonialism. The object labels were designed to elucidate the conversations among the objects in the installation, to provide the installation’s structure, and to surface the stories of absence and things that go unheard/­unseen. They insistently prompt visitors to think about invisible histories and to hold the complexities of the events and/­or people portrayed in the artwork. This often meant more directly stating the contradictions or the absences within the works. While the previous label for Randolph’s sculpture of Lincoln, for example, acknowledged that the sculpture participated in the creation of “­a narrative of theoretical peace and unity” following the Civil War, the new label points out that this narrative “­obscures Lincoln’s fraught and contradictory ideas on slavery,” reminding the reader that “­In his inaugural address as president in 1861, Lincoln promised not to interfere with slavery in the South,” and that here the “­abolishment of slavery is presented as a gift from Lincoln, rather than as ­hard-​ ­won by African Americans themselves.” Similarly, the new label for Salomon van Ruysdaels’s nationalistic landscape painting View of the Fortifications at Gennep on the Maas River (­1665) notes that while the Dutch were celebrating their independence from Spanish rule, they “­used their newfound freedom to achieve prosperity through colonization and domination in the Americas, on the African continent, and Southeastern Asia,” while the label for ­Jean-​ ­Jacques Hauer’s General Lafayette and Madame Roland Drawing a Plan for the Festival of the French Federation (­1791), a painting new to the gallery, points out that this celebration of the French revolutionary ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity was completed the very year that the enslaved people of the French colony of ­Saint-​­Domingue began their 1­ 3-​­year struggle for independence from France. And the label for a pair of ­eighteenth-​­century silver Dutch sugar casters acknowledges for the first time that the sugar they so beautifully contained was “­one of the most significant drivers of the transatlantic slave trade, with devastating impacts for Indigenous populations, the climate, and, of course, enslaved Africans.” The theme of unsettling in the gallery is announced in an introductory panel that addresses how museums perpetuate the silence around slavery and colonialism. This message is reinforced by the graphics used in the exhibition didactics: the typeface is an ­open-​­source font called Redaction, created by Kaphar and the poet Reginald Dwayne Betts in collaboration with Forest Young and Jeremy Mickel of MCKL for the Redaction Project, exhibited at MoMA PS1 in 2019, which looked at the injustices and abuses within the U.S. criminal justice system. Knowing that our present criminal justice system is rooted in the legacies of chattel slavery, we see the use of this typeface as an acknowledgement that this nation has 111

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yet to meaningfully grapple with the legacies of slavery and colonialism that haunt us to this day and a challenge to do so.

Unsettling Education (­Grace) Unsettling Histories is also provoking UMMA’s educational team to unlearn how we have taught for decades. With a team of volunteer docents, I (­Grace) create and coordinate gallery tours for community ­g roups—­​­­K-​­12 students, adults, and visitors with memory ­loss—​­serving around 6,000 students in person annually and now upwards of 10,000 virtually. New labels and juxtapositions meant that we could, and should, change the way we presented familiar objects. And given the gallery’s new emphasis, layout, and pairings, if educators don’t encourage conversations about (­lack of ) representation, race, and historic erasures, visitors surely will bring them up. It was time to retool our training and tours. We wanted to welcome complexity and acknowledge tough truths like slavery, unjust economic systems, and the consequences of the project of manifest destiny. Due to the C ­ OVID-​­19 pandemic, public access to the museum was suspended, so I designed a virtual course for docents, which was mandatory if they wanted to continue touring when the museum reopened. Rather than continuing to highlight temporary exhibitions through a ­curator-​­led lecture format, encouraged by administration, I chose to develop a ­year-​­long investigation of a­nti-​­racist gallery teaching and our permanent collection. A course of 12 biweekly modules required intensive personal reflection and facilitated group discussion. The course set out to sustain learning (­instead of fulfilling a o ­ ne-​­time DEI requirement), tailor content to UMMA’s collection, and maintain connection while we were isolated from the museum and each other. I also incorporated as many voices into the course as possible, in the form of readings, podcasts, videos, and speakers, to balance my singular white, cisgender female perspective. The docents were divided into six discussion groups that included UMMA staff from various ­departments—​­curation, collections, retail, security, and education. This ­cross-​­institutional approach gave us a more holistic picture of museum operations and visitor experience. In the Fall semester of 2020, the curriculum began with four modules of a broad base of ­a nti-​­racist foundational texts, followed by two modules that considered how the museum field is responding to calls to decolonize and change unjust practices. Next, we focused on UMMA’s commitment statement to a­ nti-​­racist action (­https://­u mma.umich.edu/­blm), examining what we say we will do, to whom we are accountable, what our role is in enacting the statement’s four objectives, and how we measure our impact. Now, we are applying our conversations and reflections to tour plans for Unsettling Histories, figuring out how to pair familiar paintings with new works, so we are not tempted to revert to prior talking points or techniques. The course directly addresses different layers of the meaning of the word “­unsettle”: both exposing settler colonialism and leaning into a feeling of unease. We explore how we are programmed to encourage visitors to enjoy themselves in a museum, not provoke them and expect them to stick around. Naming the discomfort of deliberately ruffling visitors has provided clarity around why it seems unnatural. Not only does unsettling extend its reach to every object in the gallery, but it also requires sitting with extended discomfort, for this reimagined space will not be packed up in three months like a temporary exhibition. It is important to recognize the commitment docents have voluntarily made this year. They have dedicated ten hours per month to stretching themselves into new territory, in a l­ess-­​­­than-​­ideal format for discussing sensitive personal and historic topics. Shifting to an online experience while also letting go of prior practices might not be what every docent 112

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signed up for, and of 100 docents on the roster, 30 decided to opt out because of life circumstances, technical challenges, or the content emphasis. A handful voiced fear of alienating our audiences if we held up a mirror to the ugly parts of history. Seventy docents enrolled in the course. Participants generally fall into three camps: those fully devoted to examining their language and practices; those who are genuinely open but uncertain about how to discuss power, harm, privilege, and complexity in a tour context; and those who would like to just get back to the gallery and do what they have always done. So how does unlearning actually work? Reconsidering deeply held myths and methods takes time and recalibration. A scene of Abraham Lincoln’s childhood, an oversized landscape of Mt. Hood, and a portrait of Martha Washington are perennial docent favorites because they foreground inspirational myths of national origin, greatness, and manifest destiny in the United States. The recontextualization of these paintings in Unsettling Histories challenges former foundations by revealing how they are complicated by slavery and settlement. The original label for Rembrandt Peale’s portrait of Martha Dandridge Custis Washington (­­1731–​­1802) (­1858), for example, spoke to the c­ ult-​­like fascination with the Washington’s during the late 1700s and the fact that the portrait was created with the goal of capturing “­the idealized character of America’s ‘­Founding Mother,’ emphasizing her stoic nature and strength of character.” The new label draws attention to the uncomfortable fact of Washington’s participation in the transatlantic slave trade, noting that upon the death of her first husband, one of the wealthiest plantation owners in Virginia, she inherited 84 enslaved laborers and that she brought most of them with her to George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate. In order to effectively tour this portrait, docents must come to terms with the fact that for some, Martha Washington symbolizes freedom, while for others, she represents oppression. During a group discussion, one docent wrestled with this duality. Previously, it was a common practice for docents to teach the portrait by assuming Martha Washington’s identity and character, and some dressed in costume to do so. She asked, “­How are we supposed to tour with this portrait now? Can we still uphold Martha Washington’s positive aspects?” Prompted to say what she admired about the former first lady, she mentioned her business acumen, dedication to the troops, and encouragement of women. Another docent chimed in: I think what’s so tough is not necessarily recognizing that Martha Washington is human, because everyone is, but that I was taught that America was the best country in the world. And I don’t know how to present that now. Someone else suggested we move forward by acknowledging this is a grieving process. The larger decolonization issue here is learning to let go. Some docents and visitors are giving up ­deep-​­rooted convictions, rethinking what seemed certain, and moving into a space of ambiguity. Museums and universities privilege academic rational thought, but changing a mindset and retelling an ingrained story involve emotions: grief, loss, anger, and empathy. We need to remember to allow time and space for these to emerge. Unsettling Histories has provided opportunities to practice a type of reflection and personal decolonization that is essential to dismantling hierarchies and superiority. I, for example, note for the docents that I come from a lineage of Dutch ancestors who chose to settle in West Michigan because the landscape reminded them of home. They came to own the land because the Treaty of Chicago (­1821) opened the area to settlement, and the people of the Three ­Fires—​­Bodewatomi (­Potawatomi), Odawa (­Ottawa) and Ojibwe (­Chippewa)—​­were displaced and often forcibly relocated (­K appler). Tribal natural resources provided the raw 113

Grace VanderVliet and Ozi Uduma

materials that made Grand Rapids a global hub of furniture manufacturing, including a business started by my mother’s family. When I look at Vanitas, a s­eventeenth-​­century still life by Dutch artist Willem Claesz Heda that cautions viewers about the ephemerality of luxury objects that a wealthy Dutch family might have owned, I see my grandparents’ Dutch protestant ­values—​­hard work, frugality, humility, and democracy. But considering the painting alongside Flay, I reread my story in light of how those objects ended up on that table and the economic and religious systems that perpetuated colonial reaping and the transatlantic slave trade. I am the beneficiary of generational wealth. I have privilege not only because of my family’s sacrifices and hard work but also because of my white skin and the resources the land provided my ancestors. We have also asked the docents to investigate their own, and UMMA’s, history with the land, and digging into these personal histories has been a key step in telling more complex stories. Hopefully, when we are able to tour in person again, docents’ training and encounters with complicated emotions will allow them to help visitors to delve into the uncomfortable histories contained in our collections, to hang their personal histories alongside Flay, and to ask what is missing in the versions they tell. By grappling with what is visible and what remains hidden, we are forced to take this essential step in ­decolonizing—​­examining whose stories and histories are prioritized and why, both inside and outside the museum.

Reflections and Future Challenges We (­Ozi and Grace) briefly consulted during Unsettling Histories’ conception, Ozi and museum technicians brought the installation to fruition, then Grace took the online exhibition content and tested some virtual activities with docents, older adults, early literacy teachers, and t­ hird-​­grade students. Moving forward, we have the opportunity to collaborate more deeply. Before we dive into joint presentations and tours, we wanted to reflect on the process and consider what challenges lie ahead. As you unsettle your own educational spaces, we hope our reflections can act as a guide for your process. We have learned: • •

•

•

Institutions should become comfortable with being uncomfortable. You will lose people along the way, visitors will be upset, and strong personal emotions will surface. Discussing topics of ancestral removal, the abuse of enslaved people, and economic injustice requires tact and v­ ulnerability—​­especially with visitors we don’t know, who may be victims of trauma. We’ll be more effective at tackling these tough conversations if we lean into them and our accountability. It can be hard to accept the idea that museums may be sites of harm in addition to places of joy. After nine months of course discussions, some docents still struggle to recognize this. Because they love museums and because they may personally feel at home in the space, they resist this truth and don’t want to communicate it to visitors. We are practicing ways to get them to be able to hold both notions at the same time. Remain engaged. Ozi could have stepped away from Unsettling Histories to focus on upcoming projects, but because she believes her curatorial responsibilities include caring for people in addition to caring for objects, she has committed to participating in conversations with colleagues and visitors. It is also our priority to remain engaged with visitors as they encounter new perspectives that may unsettle them. The point is to keep going. We hope to encourage colleagues near and far to persevere and to continue taking collective steps to ensure lasting change. 114

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Prompts and Resources •

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How can museums support artists and K ­ -​­12 educators and be a place where uncomfortable conversations about decolonization can happen, especially in a charged political climate? How can curators care for themselves and each other while they’re changing their institutions? What could a supportive network look like? Writing this chapter together showed the importance of ­cross-​­departmental collaboration. How can you, in your institution, find a practical way to overlap and glean understanding from other colleagues? Howard Zinn: The Zinn Education Project: https://­w ww.zinnedproject.org/ Dr. Kelli Morgan, Curator and Activist: Instagram @elli616 Decolonizing Museum Practices: Seminar Series from Illinois State University: https://­ www.youtube.com/­watch?v=evGyuJqvK8A Titus Kaphar: Can Art Amend History? TED Talk: https://­w ww.youtube.com/­watch?v= DDaldVHUedI

Works Cited Hickey, Amber, and Ana Tuazon. “­Decolonizing and Diversifying Are Two Different Things: A Workshop Case Study.” Art History Teaching Resources, 10 May 2019, arthistoryteachingresources. org/­2019/­05/­­decolonizing-­​­­a nd-­​­­d iversifying-­​­­a re-­​­­t wo-­​­­d ifferent-­​­­things-­​­­a-­​­­workshop-­​­­case-​­study. Kaphar, Titus. “­Can Art Amend History?” Ted2017, April 2017, https://­w ww.ted.com/­t alks/­t itus_kaphar_ can_art_amend_history?language=en. Kappler, Charles Joseph. “­Indian Affairs: Laws and Treaties.” Oklahoma State University Digital Collections, vol. 2, 1904, https://­dc.library.okstate.edu/­d igital/­collection/­k applers/­id/­26040/­rec/ Accessed 22 April 2021. Tuck, Eve, and K. Wayne Yang. “­Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, vol. 1, no. 1, 2012, ­pp. ­1–​­40, clas.osu.edu/­sites/­clas.osu.edu/­fi les/­Tuck%20and%20 Yang%202012%20Decolonization%20is%20not%20a%20metaphor.pdf.

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15 TRANSBORDER PROVOCACIONES THROUGH ­LOZANO-​­HEMMER’S BORDER TUNER | SINTONIZADOR FRONTERIZO PUBLIC ART INSTALLATION Andrea Blancas Beltran and León De la Rosa Carrillo In November 2019, L ­ ozano-​­Hemmer’s Border Tuner landed on the J­uárez-​­El Paso border. It was a participatory public art installation that used six individual stations, each consisting of three powerful searchlights controlled with a dial and a microphone that allowed users to hold conversations with people in any of the other stations by intersecting their beams. While literal bridges of light were drawn, the oppressive implications of the technology and contemporary art’s penchant for mining and abandoning communities meant that Border Tuner had to earn the trust of “­la frontera” if it hoped to be meaningful within an area molded by economic, political, cultural, linguistic, and social gaps and a community that otherwise claims to coexist as one. The authors were commissioned to write and perform two poems to bookend the ­11-​­night engagement, joining many other local artists, activists, and educators that became stakeholders in the Border Tuner. They collaborated with a set of specific objectives in mind, which will be deconstructed using their own poetry as a road map. In order to differentiate between the two voices, and in keeping with the conceit of Border Tuner, ­Blancas-​­Beltran will use the left side and De la ­Rosa-​­Carrillo the right, while the poems will retain their original form and language in the center of the page as their shared, liminal space.

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DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-18

Transborder Provocaciones through Lozano-Hemmer’s Border Tuner

Provocación [For Two Voices Para Border Tuner] First, we need to address the title; even though at first the curatorial team, including me, wanted an invocation, we both knew that the term was laden with religious underpinnings and would’ve shrouded Border Tuner in a misguided sense of mystery. Instead, we crafted an invitation to take over the technological behemoth that was the tuner.

Speaking of curation, according to Azoulay: It is not possible to decolonize the museum without decolonizing the world. It doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t engage with this important work, but we have to do so with the full awareness that decolonization cannot be limited to discrete objects… and cannot be substantial as long as the people from whom all this wealth was expropriated are not allowed to lead the process. It is not about hiring an individual curator from Congo or Nigeria, but about opening the imperial borders and letting people ­re-​­build their worlds in proximity to their objects. (­qtd. in Alli, sect. 4)

Spectators needed to be provoked into becoming interlocutors. At no point should anyone be compelled to simply contemplate. “­Decolonization is a process. The process of decolonizing is also a process of decolonizing the self ” (­Yepez). In the case of Border Tuner, the process of decolonization needed to occur nightly by provoking spectators into becoming interventionists.

­L ozano-​­Hemmer decentered himself and invited curators from la frontera.

Prov, pro, provo, provoz, pro voz, pro voice, impro voice, impro voz, improvisation let us provoque

este elefante blanco nuestra voz

The language is important here: a provocation for participants to resist spectacle. The “­we” invoked in discussions about decolonization begs the question of who “­we” are and why “­we” are so defined. Sintonizador Fronterizo and our provocación collaborate to resist the easy language of the “­we” by fusing ourselves with the participants. We, creators and conduits of the opening and concluding sequences, provoke others into activating a platform we activate ourselves.

PROVOCACIÓN hasta que sus trompas de luz speak nothing but

I doubt my voice as a curator from Juárez decentralized ­L ozano-​­Hemmer, after all the curator figure reeks of hegemony, “­which points at the legacy of ‘­Western’ empires that include both the institution of the museum and the objects contained in them” (­Gaupp et.al. 112). Furthermore, as far as México goes, I am la colonia: male, fair skinned, with degrees from foreign institutions, fluent in English and Spanish, while completely illiterate in all indigenous languages.

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I also only partook in the curatorial effort because my colleague Kerry Doyle, Director at the Rubin Center for the Visual Arts at UTEP, is committed to transborder collaborations, and we have a long history of past partnerships. Nevertheless, I would argue that ­L ozano-​­ Hemmer’s decentralization had more to do with a couple of Border Tuner’s characteristics: (­1) its incompleteness, and (­2) its site specificity. From its inception, Border Tuner was understood as a platform designed for users to converse with others across the border, so it needed to occupy the border instead of a traditional art venue where authors tend to be lionized. In Border Tuner’s case, however, not only did celebrating a single author risked alienating potential users from their chance to become ­co-​­authors, it could also turn it into a proverbial White Elephant with an exorbitant price tag that served no public purpose.

nuestra responsabilidad response ability

our ability to respond reclaim, rewrite, redefine, retomar la narrativa,

A plethora of competing narratives shaped Border Tuner. Perhaps the most obvious has to do with contemporary art’s penchant for mining historically and economically vulnerable locations to produce objects that ostensibly comment on this precariousness for the benefit of artists, collectors, and art institutions. Ciudad Juárez, like many other contested spaces, has witnessed its share of similar projects that use la frontera as source material with no ­long-​­term commitment. Border Tuner intended to work differently.

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It began months before my involvement with Kerry Doyle leading ­L ozano-​­Hemmer through immersion visits in El Paso, and Alejandro Morales, the project’s original ­co-​­curator, doing the same in Cd. Juárez. These visits were intended to familiarize the artist with the realities of life across the borderlands and dispel mediated accounts of border walls and migrant caravans. Afterwards, the visits included open forums where community members were exposed to the Border Tuner pitch and had a chance to offer their input into the voices and conversations that should be amplified. Evidently, these strategies were still insufficient; the visits were guided, the forums’ reach was limited, and the ­decision-​­making processes remained in the hands of a reduced number of stakeholders that eventually included me. However, they were the building blocks to further Border Tuner’s stated purpose to turn la frontera into a protagonist.



seamos protagonistas as we ­resist—​­ don’t just stand there and be reduced to an espectador seduced by this switchboard of search and rescue aquí no hay nadie que rescatar pero hay voces preñadas y listas para otorgar and rage y llorar and play comulgar and say fuck you if that’s what you want to do. Vete a la chingada elefante blanco get out of our room you don’t get no invitation al elefante blanco que es nuestra frontera le urge a provocation

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We do not begin but instead disrupt by projecting our voices through the bureaucratic impossibility that is The BorderTM. Sintonizador Fronterizo resists the monolithic museum by choosing two locations on either side of the border that are not beholden to local, or foreign, interests but are public spaces, symbolic of the resilience exhibited by the people in these ­a reas—​­Bowie High School in El Paso, Texas and Parque Chamizal en Ciudad Juárez, Mexico. The border fence and concertina wire were within viewing distance of all three stations at the Bowie campus. This makes clear that optics were no concern and neither was the desire for the manicured visual experience that ­so-​­called community spaces like the El Paso Museum of Art (­EPMA) strive ­for—​­spaces that time and again reveal themselves as extensions of private interests instead of attending to the histories of the public they’re purported to serve. Like in the case of the censorship denounced by Lxs Dos, a local art collective that wished to highlight Barrio Duranguito and its legacy of resistance as part of their EPMA commissioned pictorial map of Juárez and El Paso but were denied (­m aintainstudio).

When provoked, all borders are likely to spit out scores of untold stories about the tension between colonial domination and perpetual resistance. The site chosen for Border Tuner, El Chamizal, is itself an archive of tensions relating to the ­so-​­called “­Chamizal Dispute [which] is, indeed, an unresolved politic… urging us to fill it with human life and recover its deeply human, poetic, imaginary, and Indigenous geographies” (­H inojosa). While el Parque Chamizal remains the only piece of land given back to México, via the 1964 Chamizal Treaty, it also holds, within its own displacement, the stories of loss left behind by thousands of US citizens forced to give up their ­once-​­private property as they were relocated. The border was retraced and the grounds for Ciudad Juárez’ largest urban park suddenly became Mexican again. Here, Juarenses engage in activities like picnics, celebrate Easter Sunday, and stage marriage proposals while being cognizant of the political and historical implications buried below the grass (­Chávez). Even before Border Tuner landed, El Chamizal had already obviated the border; revealing it as an arbitrary white elephant whose voice was summoned for purely political and colonial reasons.

cada voz es un puente sure, but

how much silence

is worth a wall

listen…

ausencia Art requires presence. Sintonizador Fronterizo allowed for accessibility in that participants did not have to pay for admission. Being a temporary exhibition, it was too ephemeral to allow for ­long-​­term commitments. What would the experience of Sintonizador Fronterizo be if it remained for a month instead of just 11 nights? Certainly, this was not feasible, but how could this exhibition have been further extended into virtual space to allow for more engagement, greater communication, and a deeper connection?

Herzfeld speaks of ­crypto-​­colonialism to discuss nominally independent countries that remain subjugated through economics, politics, and proximity. When Donald Trump promised to build a wall at the expense of Mexico, he did so fully aware of the ­crypto-​­colonial power at his disposal. Never mind that a fence already stood and that during the next few years Mexico became a virtual wall by retaining migrants as they waited to be heard by a nation that refused to let them enter (­Martínez Prado).

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Months before Border Tuner, a group of migrants emanating from the central and southern states of México, set up camp on the other side of El Chamizal, right by the Cordova international port of entry. As permits were being procured to use the public grounds, we were aware that local authorities could use an art project by a renowned artist as an excuse to remove the camp, so a point was made to acknowledge its presence and their right to continue their occupation. Afterwards, we reached out to the camp’s leaders and invited them to make use of the Border Tuner at a time of their choosing. They agreed to consider it but then the communication ceased and their voices remained absent even as their presence was undeniable.

let’s make sense of our presence and refuse our pretenses “­a ll aboard this spaceship your ticket is your tongue”

a fast fix does not exist descubramos el camino largo el que nos promete paciencia y conversación y un espacio para cada voz

you can hold it or dejarla susurrar search light up this desert sky

is nothing more than a device

the architecture que nos rodea (­do not divide) sintoniza synthesize.

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Closure [para dos voces for Sintonizador Fronterizo] Our commission included a second poem to close out the final night of Border Tuner, but we understood that a sense of closure could only be approached after engaging the artwork. Additionally, we decided to use our original provocation as a skeleton to wear the new insights as skin. To begin, we needed to acknowledge the fact that contrary to expectations, users had mostly just greeted each other through the tuner and that very few conversations had expanded beyond the initial hello.

hola, hello, what’s your age?

cómo te llamas?, a qué te dedicas? where are you from?



how do you say, are you okay?

todo tranquilo? La política del saludo, Más gigante aún when it drills clear un muro, un desierto cielo in search de



the smallest of talks CONVERSACION! There is nothing small about an authentic hello

nuevos extraños nostalgias unclaimed. A new name to remember, our ability to be reminded

remendados even if only nightly as we took our inside voices out for an i­nvoice-​­free flight

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Joselit writes about civic responsibility and how to dismantle structural racism inherent in arts institutions, “­I believe there are three dimensions that must be addressed: the program, the patrons, and access for various constituencies” ( ­Joselit, para. 6). Sintonizador Fronterizo was free to experience as was the dissemination and experience of knowledge. But “­a s long as knowledge is understood as the exclusive possession of one group of experts over another, there will never be racial justice” ( ­Joselit, para. 6). Again, Sintonizador Fronterizo disrupts the status quo by replacing traditional academic spaces with innovative learning panels, forms, and workshops by and for the community such as “­Augmented Reality is For Everyone,” and “­Transitando las fronteras de cuerpos LGBT” among other programming.

convertida en luz y posibilidad y commitment ¿Ya encontraste un compromiso del otro lado? Te regalo two middle fingers over there, because I will miss youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu Why say goodbye? Ojalá sean strong enough to hold porque I’m not ready to let go. Me quedo con tu heartbeat desde acá, as it vibrates through my voice. I keep thinking about experiencing Corazonadas Remotas. While it felt like such a profound moment of connection, it is even more pronounced as I consider the pandemic just a few months later. In over a year with lack of touch, the memory of feeling someone else’s heartbeat through a device both unsteadies and rights me. The way that Sintonizador Fronterizo allowed for unmediated experiences through mediated messages.

Remote pulse was a companion piece to Border Tuner. It consisted of two small stations, each on either side of the border, where a user’s pulse was transcoded into vibrations that could be felt by the participant on the other side. It was left behind as part of Border Tuner’s legacy, along with a fund to support local artists.

It is my proof of life Ritmos y aspiraciones. Cada una de nuestras voces,

Pulsos de vida.

they ARE the light 123

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y el puente and the artwork cada autor all autonomous synonymous y dijimos tanto como we ARE willing to listen. Llegó el momento de sintonizarnos sin la noche de por medio. Take back the sunlight and throw around enough shade, all the refuge that is required Palimpsesto poderoso Para cada una de las ausentes, los provocados, los que se fueron before having a chance to be an agent of change by simply exchanging greetings Sintonizador Fronterizo situated itself as a portal to redistribute knowledge that resists the empire commonly preserved by art institutions. Sintonizador Fronterizo instead invokes a holistic approach of engaged participation and pedagogy, which is an intentional effort of “­striving not just for knowledge in books, but knowledge about how to live in the world” (­hooks ­14–​­15). Sintonizador Fronterizo did not seek to decolonize or reform traditional art venues but instead implemented new modes of engagement in public spaces in the borderland. This portal activated a mode of learning independent from access privileges, just by being within the community.

con la voz de un extraño. Exijo un momento de silencio por todas las voces QUE NUNCA LLEGARON! las que nunca trajimos.

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To provide space for our ancestors is a decolonizing gesture. It is an effort at reclamation, at calling in the voices that were long silenced in the borderland in the name of power, plunder, and profit. The silence we demand in this moment also serves as a reminder to those of us with the agency to speak that our voices, too, can be othered, silenced, and so we must keep demanding space for our voice. As Cecilia Vicuña says,

An unfortunate byproduct of occupying El Chamizal in Juárez was its inaccessibility through public transportation, turning the Border Tuner into a privilege mostly reserved for the ones who own a vehicle. To offset this, we developed a plan to use ­24-​­hr supermarket parking lots as pickup spots for visitors that needed a ride. Even though the city had committed to providing buses, they never came through. We never brought the voices that couldn’t arrive on their own.

Perhaps, in di vi dual says un divided dual attention un divided dual belonging (­Vicuña, sect. 3) Together, for a blip of time according to the colonial ­calendar—​­two cities, two lands, and its inhabitants came together to further our ancestors’ futures.

The distance is real, the divide still matters, our sense of sight is still firmly attached to a single side of the fence. A feast of lights was not enough! Pero tal vez desde hoy seremos capaces de imaginar just how much it takes to render obstáculos obsolete once they have been identified, impossible to ignore, asimétricamente sistemáticos sistemáticamente uprooted out of reach. I PROMISE TO REMAIN WITHIN REACH

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­Figure 15.1 Tattoo of two middle fingers designed by De la ­Rosa-​­Carrillo and shared with ­Blancas-​ ­Beltran “­to remain within reach”.

Que nadie olvide su voz, sus latidos de corazón

“­please take care as we land and be sure to collect your belongings, every greeting, all names, each conversation held tight “

and every other shared pattern que por doce noches surcaron this desert sky. Las luces que hoy se apagan (­excusas para compartirnos)

were nothing but illusions nuestras voices are the vehicles listen

presencia. make every hello a point of departure.

Sigue saludando a extraños Do not divide Sin ti, your voice.

Contigo, my heartbeats.

Sintonizaaaaaaaaaaa goodbye goodbye goodbye 126

Transborder Provocaciones through Lozano-Hemmer’s Border Tuner

adiossssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss goodbye adios adios hello? hello is someone out there? hola helloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo hola, hola, hola?

Conclusion This collaboration felt genuine from the outset, filled with open discussion, which assumed a variety of forms through Twitter DMs, voice memos, and text messages, as well as ­in-​­person dialogue. My thoughts, opinions, and work were always met with an open mind and broad discussion. In a recent lecture, Long Soldier discusses true decolonization as a work of revitalization. I see our work at the frontera as a work of expansion, which was a consistently felt experience through the Sintonizador Fronterizo. “­Decolonization is the process of deconstructing colonial ideologies of the superiority and privilege of Western thought and approaches… decolonization involves dismantling structures that perpetuate the status quo and addressing unbalanced power dynamics” (­L ong Soldier). As a poet, I believe in the possibility of poetry as intentional use and subversion of language as resistance. “­I don’t believe the pleasures of poetry can be dissected and explained, but one of them must surely be its ability to give us a sense of community: as we think along with someone else the boundaries between two minds come down.” (­Waniek para. 15) Sintonizador Fronterizo as portal poeTRY possibility

“­Revolution starts at home, preferably in the bathroom mirror,” (­Mould) and preferably face to face with the abyss that separates us from the other, just a greeting away, even if faced with an international border.

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Prompts and Resources • • •

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Can you think of other instances in which conversations attain and enact political agency? What are the implications of allowing the human voice, but not the humans, to travel past international boundaries? Can you think of a place/­space in your community where a participatory public art installation similar to this could be installed and what would be required for it to become meaningful? Stanlee and Gerald Rubin Center for the Visual Arts Las Americas Immigrant Advocacy Center La Mujer Obrera Wise Latina International Fund for Ethical Practices in Transborder Art Frente en Defensa del Chamizal

Works Cited Addae, Yaa. “­­RE-​­IMAGINING MUSEUMS AS PORTALS.” Medium, Afrotectopia Imagineer Fellowship 2020, 15 Sept. 2020, medium.com/­­a frotectopia-­​­­i magineer-­​­­fellowship-​­2020/­­re-­​­­i magining-­​­­ museums-­​­­a s-­​­­portals-​­de1dd3d6dc1. Alli, Sabrina. “­A riella Aïsha Azoulay: ‘­It Is Not Possible to Decolonize the Museum without Decolonizing the World.”.” Guernica, 20 Mar. 2020, www.guernicamag.com/­­m iscellaneous-­​­­fi les-­​­­a riella­​­­a isha-​­a zoulay/. Chávez, Lizette V. “­Construcción simbólica del parque el chamizal en ciudad juárez: análisis de los factores que influyen en el uso del espacio público.” Fronteras: Expresiones artísticas y espacio público, edited by Edwin Aguirre & Brenda Ceniceros Editorial UACJ, 2020, ­pp. ­183–​­204. de Hinojosa, Alana. El Río Grande as Unruly Archive: Submerged Histories of the Chamizal Dispute. 2017 UCLA, PhD Dissertation. “­Engaged Pedagogy.” Teaching to Transgress, by Bell Hooks, DEV Publishers  & DISTRIBU, 2017, ­pp. ­14–​­15. “­Fábulas Del Comienzo y Restos Del Origen.” Instan, by Cecilia Vicuña, Kelsey St. Press, 2002. Gaupp, Lisa, et al. “­Curatorial Practices of the ‘­Global’: Toward a Decolonial Turn in Museums in Berlin and Hamburg?” Journal of Cultural Management and Cultural Policy/­Z eitschrift für Kulturmanagement und Kulturpolitik: Vol. 6, Issue 2: ­Museum-­​­­Politics-​­Management 12 (­2020): ­107–​­138. Herzfeld, Michael. “­The Absent Presence: Discourses of ­Crypto-​­Colonialism.” The South Atlantic Quarterly 101.4 (­2002): ­899–​­926. Joselit, David. “­A rt Museums Will Never Be the Same. That’s a Good Thing.” The MIT Press Reader, 22 July 2020, thereader.mitpress.mit.edu/­­a rt-­​­­museums-­​­­w ill-­​­­never-­​­­be-­​­­the-­​­­same-­​­­thats-­​­­a-­​­­good-​­thing/. @maintainstudio. “­Barrio Duranguito Illustration.” Instagram, posted by maintainstudio, 13 Nov. 2018, https://­w ww.instagram.com/­p/­­Bq JEpu-​­hQRM/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link. Martínez Prado, Hérika. “­ México se convirtió en muro virtual de Trump”. El Diario [Ciudad Juárez]. 24 Oct. 2019. https://­d iario.mx/­juarez/­­mexico-­​­­se-­​­­convirtio-­​­­en-­​­­muro-­​­­v irtual-­​­­de-­​­­t rump-­​ ­­20191023-​­1578508.html Accessed 24 Apr. 2021. Mould, Bob. Liner notes. Warehouse: Songs and Stories Music by Hüsker Dü. Warner Bros., 1987. CD. Nelson Waniek, Marilyn. “­Owning the Masters.” The Gettysburg Review, 1995, www.gettysburgreview.com/­selections/­detail.dot?inode=­750c6431-­​­­75cf- ­​­­422c-­​­­a 3c2-​­e830e13afd8a. Soldier, Layli Long. Video Archives > VIDEO: “­W here Did I Go Wrong?” with Layli Long Soldier, April 1st, 2021. The Poetry Project, 1 Apr. 2021, www.poetryproject.org/­l ibrary/­recordings/­­v ideo-​­a rchives/ ­­v ideo-­​­­where-­​­­d id-­​­­i-­​­­go-­​­­w rong-­​­­w ith-­​­­layli-­​­­long-​­soldier. Yepez, Heriberto. “­DECÁLOGO PARA DESCOLONIZAR LO DECOLONIAL. UNA CRÍTICA A LA ESTÉTICA DE ENRIQUE DUSSEL.” Co_Laboratorio_de_Crítica, 22 Nov. 2020, colabdecritica.com/­2020/­11/­20/­­estetica-​­decolonial. Accessed 12 March 2021.

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16 CREATING MÁSCAR(­A/­ILLA)­S A Decolonizing ­Us-​­ing Rebecca C. Christ, Bretton A. Varga and Timothy Monreal

Penny Dreadful: City of Angels is a television show following a Chicano1 community in Los Angeles during the 1930s (­Logan). Chicanos are presented as obstacles to the “­f uture” of the city and face growing (­sous/­sur)­veillance, reinforced by acts of police violence and white supremacy. The program centers on a Chicano family, who perpetually grapples with grief after the patriarch died in an agricultural fire. The show follows Tiago, the middle ­brother—​ ­ ho met supernatural forces (­Santa Muerte and her kin, Magda) at the time of his father’s w death. In his role as the “­fi rst Chicano detective” in Los Angeles, he intertwines with different characters including a w ­ ise-​­cracking Jewish police partner, a spiritually conflicted Christian love interest, an assemblage of Pachucos, individuals possessing in/­d irect Nazi connectivity, and supernatural (­near) encounters. Our entry point into the show came as Becky watched the introductory episode and found various storylines corresponding with/­to specific interests of each author. For example, Becky engages with/­in genocide education, and the show features a Nazi subplot. Bretton has written extensively on grief/­death/­hauntings, and the show centers on the anthropomorphism of death. Tim’s identification as Chicano—​­a nd interest in researching the teaching and representation of Chicanx ­ h istory—​­ overlapped with one of the main foci of the show. Furthermore, we three hold similar theoretical and methodological ­commitments—​­broadly ­post-​­humanism/­colonialism/­structuralism/­qualitative inquiry (­see, for example, Barad; Deleuze and Guattari; Mignolo; Nxumalo; Snaza and Weaver; and St. Pierre; amongst many others) as a way to confront and dismantle oppressive structures such as white supremacy, settler colonialism, capitalism, and orientalism.2 Here, following the example of Kuby and Christ, we take up ­us-​­ing—​­a perpetually becoming ontological/­ theoretical concept inviting us/­ourselves/­each other into the lively packets of relations that help us (­re)­configure our ­pedagogies—​­to (­a lso) articulate our process of becoming with the show and think about how we might (­re)­configure our methodologies. Thus, we detail an­ 1 We recognize that names/­n aming matters. We use the label “­Chicano” because that is the label that the show uses, apparently naming a community of Mexicans and M ­ exican-​­Americans living in Los Angeles in the 1930s. However, it is likely that such a community would not have referred to itself in such a matter during that time. 2 See, for example, A. Smith for how these logics operate.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-19

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us-­​­­ing—​­a how and a what—​­of how we conducted inquiry and what we methodologically and theoretically (­and physically) produce(­d). In particular, we examine ­us-​­ing as a potential form of decolonizing engagement that might activate social imagination and action that is equity/­­justice-​­driven within art, craft, and visual culture education. While ­us-​­ing, as a concept, was not originally designed as a decolonizing one, our commitments within this project always already were/­a re. This chapter serves, therefore, as a brief aspiration/­reflection about if ­us-​­ing (­can) work(­s) as a decolonizing engagement. We are challenged to (re)think what decolonization (­can) mean(­s) as L. Smith reminds us, The intellectual project of decolonizing has to set out ways to proceed through a colonizing world. It needs a radical compassion that reaches out, that seeks collaboration, and that is open to possibilities that can only be imagined as other things fall into place. (­x ii) We look to put the act of decolonizing in conversation with (­our) relationships and look to see what other things (­m ight need to) fall into place. Specifically, we outline how our collective use of theory and method to create máscar(­a/­illa)­s, an ­intra-​­/­­inter-​­active mask, as an ­us-​­ing to make non/­sense of the show and open possibilities for imaginative engagement toward decolonial projects. The process, itself an ­us-​­ing, emerged after we met virtually following each episode to discuss what was individually/­collectively produced from our entanglement(­s) with the popular television program. In taking a cue from Ahmed, we approached each individual/­g roup engagement with the perspective that “­the obvious is that which tends to be unthought and thus needs to be thought” (­O n Being Included 19). As we made non/­sense of the series, we came to ask two central questions: (­1) To what end do un/­m ask(­ing)­­s—​­resulting from (­sous/­sur)­­veillance—​­contribute to the development/(­re)­presentation of identity, epistemes, and ontologies of characters in the show; and (­2) What did our consumption of this television series and making masks un/­m ask for us about the possibilities of working towards decolonizing (­our methodologies and pedagogies)? These emerging questions and methodological/­ theoretical commitments all necessitated a different inquiry/­ m aterial entanglement, an ­us-​­ing, we are calling máscar(­a/­illa)­s. By (­theoretically/­methodologically) braiding ­us-​­ing, un/­m ask(­ing), (­sous/­sur)­veillance, and what was produced during our ­intra-​­/­­inter-​­actions with Penny Dreadful, we respond to Pugliese’s notion that our “­personal and academic labor of decolonization is strictly unfinished business” (­27, emphasis in original).

Un/­Masking (­Sous/­Sur)­veillance To help us make non/­sense out of the way the characters in Penny Dreadful create masks and work towards the un/­m asking of themselves/­each other, we lean into Browne’s positioning of (­racializing) surveillance as being “­not static or only applied to particular human groupings, but it does rely on certain techniques in order to reify boundaries along racial lines, and in so doing, it reifies race” (­17). For example, Tiago, as the first Chicano detective, puts on different masks as he navigates his own c­ ommunity—​­which suffers from police b­ rutality—​­while also thinking about his acceptance into the white police force. We understand the various modalities associated with monitoring to be controlled by ­whiteness—​­which guides, shapes, and un/­m asks the different ways in which class, gender, sexuality, and other traits relating to identity ­intra-​­/­­inter-​­sect. Thus, even as stories and narratives are tools for marginalized 130

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communities to un/­m ask “­embedded truths and to expose ideas that lurk behind other more accessible and more conventional conclusions” (­Montoya 26), they can also be a tool of power to mask white supremacy under the guise of multiculturalism. The (­a lways) unfinished processes of un/­m asking are an internalization and a refusal, a s­ elf-​­surveillance and an agonism, a ­self-​­governance and a ­counter-​­conduct (­see, for example, Fanon; Foucault) of white norms. Along with the complexification of race, veillance— ​­observing and ­watching—​ ­is also replete with nuance. According to Browne, this observing/­watching “­is done by an entity in a position of power relative to the person(­s) being observed and recorded” (­18). Conversely, sousveillance acts as an inversion to surveillance through the “­observing and recording of an entity not in a position of power or authority over the subject of the veillance” (­Mann 3). Thinking with these tenets, Jackson and Mazzei allowed us to interrogate the ways in which the watching, seeing, observing, and recording (­i.e., surveillance) contributed to the shaping of characters’ (­re)­actions and (­unfinished) un/­m asks in the show as well as factors that influenced our own consumption of the show (­i.e., sousveillance). As Montoya explains in her own discussion of máscaras/­m asks, “­A fraid of being mocked, I unsuccessfully masked the truth, and consequently revealed more about myself than I concealed… we fear that we will be discovered to be someone or something other than who or what we pretend to be” (­5, 14). This lens also foregrounds the role of (­sous/­sur)­veillance in recent societal events (­i.e., the recording and watching of the murder of George Floyd, the global COVID pandemic, the ongoing fights for Indigenous sovereignty), which (­undoubtedly) influenced our viewing and conversations which help us be(­come) more “­­response-​­able in mutual (­re)­configurings of pedagogies [and methodologies] (­and elsewhere)” (­Kuby and Christ 975).

Creating Un/­Mask(­ing)­s Montoya writes, “­Masks can be sartorial, ideological, cognitive. Masks can also be lexicographic, rhetorical or linguistic” (­35). We hold that our decolonial commitments and un/­­masks—​­just like the characters of the show (­a nd ourselves as researchers)—​­are infinite, produced by a multiplicity of ­us-​­ings and entanglements. As such, our viewing(­s) of the show, our own non/­­sense-​­making, and our contemporary sousveillance too stands at the crossroads of theory, method, positionality, and (­unfolding) current events. Towards these ends, we sought to engage our central inquiry questions by creating actual masks in a material move to think with these entanglements, produce new ones, and create (­re)­new(­ed) concepts. Within this ­us-​­ing/­m aterial entanglement, we engaged with such materials as s­tore-​­bought masks, markers, buttons, thread, printed notes from our conversations, paperclips, safety pins, a Santa Muerte candle, disposable face masks, and more. We each individually made a mask and then mailed the masks to each other. Once we received another’s mask, we made and unmade (­w ith) the mask in a continuous process of ­us-​­ing, not knowing what was happening to our ‘­own’ mask. Then we passed the mask along again to the next person, until it had made its way through the three of us. What we recount below reflects some of the many possibilities within ­us-​­ing through our collective un/­m asking. And, while each of the three masks could be seen as individual entities [see ­Figure 16.1. Individual Máscar(­a/­illa)­s], they are in fact, all wrapped up in one entangled, lively packet of ­relations—​­an ­us-​­ing—​­but for the sake of (­re)­presenting them on paper, we disentangle the ­m asks—​­as individual ­us-​­ings—​­first, before bringing them all back together again, in an enactment of cutting together apart (­Barad 16) [see F ­ igure 16.2. ­Us-​­ing Máscar(­a/­i lla)­s]. 131

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­Figure 16.1 Individual Máscar(­a/­i lla)­s

Becky’s Máscar(a/illa)3: An ­Us-​­ing: ­Becky-​­Printed Notes from Our ­Conversations-­​­­Double-​­Sided ­Tape-​­Disposable Face ­Masks-­​­­Tweet-​­Safety ­ Pins-­​­­Paperclips-​­Tissue Paper I’ve often thought about weaving pages of text t­ogether—​­wondering what it could produce to have conversations woven together to form ­new—​­but always already the ­same—​ ­conversations, so I started by weaving strips cut from printed notes of our conversations about Penny Dreadful together, crisscrossing the conversations that unfolded over time into one ­double-​­sided woven tapestry. Then, I thought of the braid, with three strands ­us-​­ing, as potentially (­re)­presenting the three of us ­us-​­ing to “­tie” the mask together. Kimmerer reminds me that “­Sweetgrass, as the hair of Mother Earth, is traditionally braided to show loving care for her ­well-​­being. Braids, plaited of three strands, are given away as signs of kindness and gratitude” (­203). While I am not Indigenous (­I am a white, a­ ble-​­bodied, heterosexual, cisgender woman, and thus, I may never fully understand Kimmerer’s relationship with sweetgrass and sweetgrass’s braiding), I am deeply inspired by braiding as loving care, kindness, and gratitude. Next, I cut out eyes and mouths from the printed conversation notes (­or the blank portions of the paper) so the woven/­braided face could “­see” and perhaps “­speak.” After my “­own” mask made its way back to me, I was intrigued that the mask now con­ asks—​­safety pins on Bretton’s mask and distained materials that I had used on others’ m posable face masks on Tim’s mask. This was especially a surprise, given that we didn’t know until the end what others were doing with our own masks. What do/­d id these materials mean to us, and how do/­d id materials “­surveille” us/­our making?

3 The mask is not “ ­just” a mask, nor does it “­belong” to any one of u ­ s—​­it is an ­us-​­ing, a be(­com)­­i ng-​­w ith of materials/­ourselves. Thus, we utilize the strikethrough to put the words under erasure “­to engage in the process of using them and troubling them simultaneously, rendering them inaccurate yet necessary” ( ­Jackson and Mazzei 18).

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Bretton’s Máscar(a/illa): An ­Us-​­ing: ­Bretton-​­‘­ski mask’-­​­­Thread-Buttons-​ ­Printed ­Paper-​­Clothes ­Pins-​­Disposable ­Mask-­​­­Wax-­​­­Charring-​­(­Colonial) Ghosts Considering my personal attunement to the relationship between ­identity—​­including my own cisgender, heterosexual, ­able-​­bodied, white identity ­m arkers—​­and materialities, it was my goal to create a mask that played with Deleuze and Guattari’s idea of smooth and striated spaces. These materials are not neutral as they articulate tension and discursive (­m aterial) interplay (­Lysen and Pisters)—​­much like the complex nature of the characters’ identities and the ambivalence underpinning what was (­not) un/­m asked. According to Deleuze and Guattari, “­To think is to voyage […] Voyage smoothly or in striation, and think the same way… But there are always passages from one to the other, transformations of one within the other, reversals” (­482). Using a “­ski mask” as my starting coordinate reminded me of Ahmed’s (­W hat’s the Use?) work on the uses of use and the purloinment of certain materials in the social world, considering its common association with acts of violence and terror. The “­ski mask” comprises the striated space (­Deleuze and Guattari) representing ­state-​­run institutions, white supremacy, commodification, ­captured-​­ness, and colonialism. Despite Deleuze and Guattari using felt to underscore principles relating to the “­infinite, open, and unlimited in every direction” (­­475–​­476), I mapped these signifiers onto the buttons and thread to articulate c­ ontinuous-​­ness, im/­possibility, liminality, speculation, beauty, joy, and resistance. Despite my efforts to repurpose/­reorientate the “­ski mask” away from its normative associations with violence, as I opened my (­returned) mask, I was taken aback by the violence (­for example, burn marks and wax drippings) that had been enacted upon it and causing me to ask: How does decolonizing work account for and work with/­against material and ghostly/­ haunted acts of violence? And, how might adopting a hauntological perspective (­see, for example, Varga and Monreal) help us to lead a more ethical and caring coexistence with the ­more-­​­­than-​­human world?

Tim’s Máscar(­a/­illa): An ­Us-​­ing: ­Tim-​­Plastic ­Mask-​­Masquerade ­Masks-​­Sharpie ­Ink-​­(­Printed) Show ­Quotes-​­QR Codes Linking to ­Music-​­(­Santa Muerte) ­ Wax-­​­­Fire-​­Disposable ­Masks-​­Mannequin(­s)-​­String Sitting down to a “­blank” plastic mask, I scanned our collective notes and conversation for a spark. I could not un/­m ask Tiago, the show’s first Chicano detective character, without un/­m asking myself/­ves. Tiago was both never Chicano enough and always too Chicano. Never welcome, but craving a home. Rejecting religion, yet driven to find faith. I listened to the show’s soundtrack on loop. I pictured ­1938—​­the (­zoot) suites and the joy, the fear and violence, living together as one. I pictured my own family, dressed and dancing, perhaps in Mexico, perhaps in Arizona, perhaps in Los Angeles. I thought of my white mother dancing conjuntos with my dad, my dad telling me to stop wearing my hat like a gangbanger, my coworkers laughing at my Spanish. Who is watching who? Who is un/­m asking who? Surveilling myself, the characters, and my c­ o-​­writers, I thought my mask to be, similar to Chesnut’s description of Santa Muerte, “­the sacred and the profane mixed freely [an object] refusing to be cordoned off in separate spaces” (­89). I dripped Santa Muerte candle wax 133

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­Figure 16.2 ­Us-​­ing Máscar(­a/­i lla)­s

across my mask, and in my own surveillance of Bretton, I thought he would appreciate the same. I burnt and dripped his “­ski mask” as ceremony, only to hear he thought it was ­destruction—​­one of the many tensions we discuss next in the in/­conclusion section.

Un/­masking (­Possible) In/­Conclusions Through our ­inter-​­/­­intra-​­actions with Penny Dreadful and the un/­m asking of máscar(­a/­i lla)­s, we think-with and make-with the entanglements of (­sous/­sur)­veillance and the possibilities that open up media and identity (­re)­presentation. Furthermore, the ongoing, becoming process of ­us-​­ing via the ­co-​­creating of máscar(­a/­illa)­s affords us possibilities of unmaking binaries that often preclude us from (­re)­configuring not only our pedagogies and curricula but also our identities, our orientations toward popular media/­culture, and our inquiry practices/­methodologies. Considering Patel’s position that ordering is fundamental to colonialism and that “­[c]oloniality created projects of knowledge for the purposes of segmenting and overriding ability to segment, to own the truth about the parts” (­19), we were purposeful in our decolonial efforts to create disorder with our máscar(­a/­illa)­s methodology. In particular, we were attuned to what Tuck refers to as a pedagogy of pausing “­which involves intentionally engaging in suspension of one’s own premises and projects, but always with a sense of futurity” (­x ii). Time was an essential feature of our approach (­i.e., time lapses between show viewings/­meetings, waiting(­s) for each other’s mask to arrive in the mail) that opened up necessary space for each of us to (­attempt to) process storylines, comments, and, ultimately, becomings of our individual/­original masks. Notwithstanding the importance of disorder and pausing during our process, emotions couched within coloniality were experienced by one of the authors/­a rtists during the un/­ masking process. Sometimes, things are not always received as we originally intend(­ed) them 134

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to be received. Thus, a broader outcome of this project is a reminder that intentions are not enough. As Kuby and Christ discuss: These tensions and struggles are also important in relation to ­us-​­ing (­a nd all that is a part of those entanglements), meaning the tensions in themselves constitute relations, and therefore, constitute ­us-​­ing(­s). Within these tensions, we participate in the becoming of the world through the agential cuts we make (­­968–​­969) And within these tensions, surveillance revealed itself to be(­com)­ing very different than what we expected (­i.e., the waxing/­burning of Bretton’s mask). Perhaps without even knowing it, throughout our máscar(­a/­illa)-​­ing(­s), we were always already surveilling each other and, importantly, each other’s intentions. In the context of settler colonialism, we must also constantly reflect on how surveillance, intention, and action are always already entangled with colonial projects (­of the mind, of the material, of power relations, of the future). And so we ask, what are we decolonizing? Who gets to name something as decolonial? The origins of the idea of ­us-​­ing were not necessarily decolonial; so, can it ever be? Is decolonization, writ large, conceivable? And if not, to what end does decolonization within an artistic context matter? Just because we want this process to decolonize, to challenge oppression, disrupt colonial logics, and rise above it all, does that mean it does? The short answer is no: Land is not being returned, and dispossession is not being reversed through this art(­f ull) ­us-​­ing project. Coloniality haunts all of our (­artistic) move(­ment)­s, including the move(­ment)­s that we have yet to (­re)­imagine. Moreover, this project reminded us that coloniality lives in all our ­lives—​­even those prioritizing and seeking to centralize decolonial ways of viewing, creating, and be(­com)­ing. Embedded within this process were uncertainties and uncomfortable moments, which we consider to be an integral part of the decolonial project. In particular, the process of máscar(­ a/­illa)­s discomforted our sensibilities, especially in light of our privileged identities, and (­re/­d is)­connected us to otherwise masked logics of systematic oppression. Undoubtedly, there were overt and covert repercussions, vibrations, and affects that máscar(­a/­illa)­s laid bare. That being said, this undertaking underscored the vital importance of be(­com)­ing more attuned to the vibrations each of our doings and be(­com)­ings is setting off. Engaging with each ­other—​­through máscar(­a/­i lla)­s and ­us-​­ing—​­reminded us that relationships matter and that be(­com)­ing attuned to the complexities within how we connect can cultivate deeper, more beautiful understandings of one another, how we see the (­de/­colonial) world, and the (­d ivergent) ways that we respond to/­w ith materials. There is intimacy in doing this máscar(­ a/­illa)­s project and ­co-​­creating artistic representations of our own entanglements with the show, theory, materialities, and each other. Materials (­be)­come to play out differently for each of us; the material and the art process are deeply p­ ersonal—​­and ­more-­​­­than-​­personal (­see also Ulmer et  al. 5). Just because land is not returned, it doesn’t mean that we can’t (­re)­i magine (­more) decolonial space(­s) that cultivate critical and material aspiration/­reflection (­see also Taylor). We remain hopeful that this (­re)­new(­ed) sense of attunement and (­­intra-​ /­ ­­inter-​­)­relationality will lead toward better move(­ment)­s in the world and with each other (­human and ­more-­​­­than-​­human alike).

Prompts and Resources • •

In the process of, and in calls for, decolonization who/­what is surveilling who/­what? Considering our position that un/­m asking is entangled with (­sur/­sous)­velliance, how might other a­ rts-​­based approaches to education (­e.g., digital arts, music, and performing 135

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• • •

arts) help cultivate resistance to structures of power that promote standardization and singularity? Penny Dreadful: City of Angels: Television show created by John Logan, aired on Showtime. Alma Luz Villanueva: Chicana poet, short story writer, and novelist. https://­w ww. almaluzvillanueva.com and www.almaluzvillanueva.blogspot.com Robin Rhode: South African artist, now living and working in Berlin. Pan’s Opticon Studies, 2009. https://­w ww.­mercedes-​­benz.art/­en/­a rtwork/­­robin-­​­­rhode-­​­­pans-­​­­opticon­​­­studies-​­2009/

Authors’ Note Throughout the chapter, we rely on ­post-​­(­re)­presentations of writing, which means we often use various punctuation marks (­i.e., slashes [/] and dashes [-​­]) and neologisms, or words that ­we—​­or ­others—​­made up. We recognize that some readers may be unfamiliar with such types of writing; however, these moves are purposeful, and we hope to open up (­re)­newed understandings of the text (see also endnote #2 in Varga et al.).

Works Cited Ahmed, Sara. On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life. Duke University Press, 2012. —​­—​­—​­. What’s the Use? On the Uses of Use. Duke University Press, 2019. Barad, Karen. “­Ma(­r)­k ing Time: Material Entanglements and ­Re-​­memberings: Cutting ­Together-​ ­Apart.” How Matter Matters: Objects, Artifacts, and Materiality in Organization Studies, edited by Paul R. Carlile, Davide Nicolini, Ann Langley, and Haridimos Tsoukas, Oxford University Press, 2013, ­pp. ­16–​­31. Browne, Simone. Dark Matter: On the Surveillance of Blackness. Duke University Press, 2015. Chesnut, R. Andrew. Devoted to Death: Santa Muerte, the Skeleton Saint. 2nd ed. Oxford University Press, 2018. Deleuze, Gilles, and Guattari, Félix. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Translated by Brian Massumi, University of Minnesota Press, 1987. Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. Translated by Richard Philcox, New York, Grover, 2008. ­ 977–​­197. Edited by Foucault, Michel. Security, Territory, Population: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1 Michel Senellart, Translated by Graham Burchell. New York, Picador/­Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Jackson, Alecia Y., and Mazzei, Lisa A. Thinking with Theory in Qualitative Research: Viewing Data across Multiple Perspectives. Routledge, 2012. Kimmerer, Robin W. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis, Milkweed, 2013. Kuby, Candace R., and Christ, Rebecca C. “­­Us-​­ing: Producing Qualitative Inquiry Pedagogies with/­in Lively Packets of Relations.” Qualitative Inquiry, vol. 25, no. ­9 –​­10, 2019, ­pp. ­965–​­978. Logan, John, creator. Penny Dreadful: City of Angels. Showtime, 2020. Lysen, Flora, and Pisters, Patricia. “­Introduction: The Smooth and Striated.” Deleuze Studies, vol. 6, no. 1, 2012, ­pp. ­1–​­5. Mann, Steve. “­Veillance and Reciprocal Transparency: Surveillance versus Sousveillance, AR Glass, Lifeglogging, and Wearable Computing.” 2013 IEEE International Symposium on Technology and Society (­ISTAS): Social Implications of Wearable Computing and Augmediated Reality in Everyday Life, Technology and Society, June 2013, ­pp. ­1–​­12. doi:10.1109/­ISTAS.2013.6613094. Mignolo, Walter D. “­ Delinking: The Rhetoric of modernity, the Logic of Coloniality and the Grammar of ­De-​­Coloniality.” Cultural Studies, vol. 21, no. ­2 –​­3, 2007, p­ p.  ­4 49–​­514. doi:10.1080/­09502380601162647 Montoya, Margaret E. “­Mascaras, Trenzas, y Greñas: Un/­Masking the Self while Un/­braiding Latina Stories and Legal Discourse.” Chicana/­o Latina/­o Law Review, vol. 15, no. 1, 1994, ­pp. ­1–​­37.

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Creating Máscar(a/illa)s Nxumalo, Fikile. “­Situating Indigenous and Black Childhoods in the Anthropocene.” International Research Handbook on Childhoodnature: Assemblages of Childhood and Nature Research, edited by Amy Cutter-­​­­ ­ Mackenzie-​­ Knowles, Karen Malone, and Elisabeth Barratt Hacking, Springer, 2018, ­pp. ­535–​­557. Patel, Leigh. Decolonizing Educational Research: From Ownership to Answerability. Routledge, 2016. Pugliese, Joseph. Biopolitics of the ­More-­​­­than-​­Human: Forensic Ecologies of Violence. Duke University Press, 2020. Smith, Andrea. “­Indigeneity, Settler Colonialism, White Supremacy.” Racial Formation in the ­Twenty-​ ­First Century, edited by Daniel Martinez HoSang, Oneka LaBennett, and Laura Pulido, University of California Press, 2012, ­pp. ­66–​­90. Smith, Linda. T. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. 2nd ed. London, Zed Books, 2012. Snaza, Nathan, and Weaver, John. A., editors. Posthumanism and Educational Research. Routledge, 2015. St. Pierre, Elizabeth A. “­Post Qualitative Research: The Critique and the Coming After.” The SAGE Handbook of Qualitative Research. 4th ed., edited by Norman K. Denzin and Yvonna S. Lincoln, SAGE, 2011, ­pp. ­611–​­625. Taylor, Affrica. “‘­The Sun Always Shines in Perth’: A ­Post-​­colonial Geography of Identity, Memory and Place.” Australian Geographical Studies, vol. 38, no. 1, 2000, ­pp. ­27–​­35. Tuck, Eve. Foreword. Decolonizing Educational Research: From Ownership to Answerability, by Leigh Patel, Routledge, 2016, pp. ­x ii–​­x v. W hat do Pedagogies Produce? Thinking/­ Teaching Qualitative Ulmer, Jasmine Brooke, et  al. “­ Inquiry.” What Do Pedagogies Produce? Thinking/­Teaching Qualitative Inquiry, special issue of Qualitative Inquiry, vol. 26, no. 1, 2020, ­pp. ­3 –​­12. doi: 10.1177/­1077800419869961. Varga, Bretton A., and Monreal, Timothy. “(­Re)­opening Closed/­ness: Hauntological Engagements with Historical Markers in the Threshold of Mastery.” Taboo, vol. 20, no. 3, 2021, ­pp. ­80–​­97. Varga, Bretton A., et al. “Introduction: Be(com)ing Strange(r): Toward a Posthuman Social Studies.” Toward a Stranger and More Posthuman Social Studies, edited by Bretton A. Varga, Tim Monreal, and Rebecca C. Christ, Teachers College Press, 2023, pp. 1–10.

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17 DECOLONIZATION OF THEATER EDUCATION An Examination of the Collective Creative Process through Culturally Relevant Pedagogy Maria Cristina Leite, Luiz Ernesto Fraga, Marcio Saretta and Tarlia Laranjeira Cardoso Introduction Context In 1998, a group of seven novice theater teachers crossed paths when accepting their first teaching positions in a public institution located in Quintino Bocaiuva, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. As a result of this encounter, we (­the teachers) established the first theater school of the Fundação de Apoio à Escola T ­ écnica—​­FAETEC (­Quintino Theater School) to offer alternatives for the initial qualification of those interested in theatrical careers and as a venue to serve FAETEC high school students in the subject of arts as an integral part of the general curriculum. The FAETEC is part of the State Department of Science and Technology of Rio de Janeiro (­State of Rio de Janeiro Government) and supports professional qualification in multiple areas for public school students and those seeking continued education. The campus is located in Quintino Bocaiúva and houses multiple centers (­escolas), where leisure and professional qualification in the areas of arts and crafts, music, languages, and technology, among other areas, are offered on a tuition free basis to all students. Quintino Bocaiúva is a neighborhood in the north zone of Rio de Janeiro. Distant from the main tourist spots, the north area of the city presents limited traditional artistic spaces, such as classic theater buildings, but it is notorious for the richness of its popular culture. Religiosity is an integral part of Quintino1 as the area is renowned for Saint George’s (­São Jorge) church, holiday, and festivities. São Jorge is a Catholic saint in Rio de Janeiro and is associated with the African deity (­O rixá)—­​­­Ogum— ​­a s part of the Brazilian religious and “­cultural syncretism” (­Smith ­1–​­18). The Quintino Theater School has been incorporated into the local scene by merging the teaching of performing arts with the cultural characteristics of an eclectic and vibrant community.

1 Quintino Bocaiuva neighborhood in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil (­Calado).

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Reunited by the Pandemic In 2020, while the ­COVID-​­19 pandemic imposed alternatives for teaching and learning, we reunited remotely and agreed to work on a series of enacted virtual encounters with members of the school community focusing on the celebration of the school’s 23rd anniversary. These virtual events, broadcasted in the school’s YouTube channel, Dionisio, a Lança, e o Dragão,2 allowed unique opportunities for us to reconnect with previous colleagues and students and engage in deep reflection about our individual and group experiences at the school. We examined the relevance of this theater space for the region and exchanged valuable experiences with our former students, who became professionals and researchers in the fields of theater, education, and African studies. We elaborated on past pedagogical approaches and discussed connections with Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed and other authors who founded their ­ adson-​­Billings. methods and practices in Freire’s approach, such as bell hooks and Gloria L

Methodology To support our reflection on past experiences as teachers and artists, we employed photographic elicitation (­Prosser and Schwartz ­101–​­115) as a method for facilitating conversations and expanding the memories formed. We met for the first time in early August 2020 to discuss the inaugural virtual event. After the event, which took place on August 24 (“­ ­Live  – ​­Escola de Teatro de Quintino”), we engaged in biweekly meetings to discuss our perceptions, memories, and analysis of the pedagogical processes we utilized when producing theatrical performances in the early years of the school. We examined photographs from previous school productions to stimulate the analysis and determine the dynamics of these encounters. The themes emerging from the conversations, photos, and the literature review informed the categories that compose this narrative: (­1) pedagogies, (­2) decolonization of the theatrical space, and (­3) t­eacher-​­student relationship as the basis for the creation of a third space,3 which we affectionately referred to as “­Our Backyard” (­Nosso Quintal). To create an academic basis for the analysis, we conducted a literature review to support the conversations that took place between August 2020 and February 2021. We established questions to facilitate the analysis in alignment with the themes that emerged. The results of the conversations and literature review took the form of answers to the following questions: 1 What were the foundations of the pedagogy used in the formation of the school’s initial curriculum? 2 How does the concept of decolonization permeate the school’s artistic production? 3 What does decolonization mean in the context of teaching the performing arts? 4 How did the decolonizing discourse influence the school’s physical and intellectual space and the ­teacher-​­student relationship?

Literature During our meetings, we deliberately focused on reflecting on our work through a theoretical lens. Each of us contributed with a piece of literature that demonstrated relevance to the 2 Quintino Theater School YouTube Channel: Dionísio, a Lança e o Dragão. The name of the YouTube channel alludes to the Theatre of Dionysus and the local culture and religiosity manifested through the image of Saint George (­São Jorge), and the dragon. 3 See Bhabha’s conceptualization of third space (­2 004).

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understanding of our past processes within a current context as a way of generating a narrative that could inform future practices to be implemented in the school. This portion of the narrative includes the definition of terms discussed during the conversations that have become significant in describing our pedagogical experiences.

Colonialism and Decolonization The definition of the term colonialism is relevant as it creates the foundation for the employment of associated terms, such as decolonization. Anibal Quijano, a Peruvian sociologist, defined colonialism as a “­d irect, political, social and cultural” (­168) relationship of domination by Europeans over the peoples of conquered continents. Silvio Almeida, law professor at the Universidade de São Paulo, defines colonialism as “­the movement to take civilization to where it did not exist, which resulted in a process of destruction and death, of stealing and degradation, executed in the name of reason” (­19). For Achille Mbembe (­a s cited in Almeida), colonialism imposed universalization with the purpose of “­inscribing the colonized in the space of modernity” (­19). We elaborate on Quijano’s definition of epistemological decolonization as an initial step towards a new intercultural communication. Quijano emphasized, “­The liberation of intercultural relations from the prison of coloniality also implies the freedom of all peoples to choose, individually or collectively, such relations” (­178). This freedom of choice expands to various cultural orientations, but above all, it is reflected in the autonomy to produce, to criticize, and in the exchanges between “­culture and society” (­Quijano 178). We employed the term “­decolonization” in the narrative as a “­process.” Through this process, we aim to confront structures of power founded on inequality, discrimination, and domination by deconstructing traditional practices within the context of drama education.

Cultural Hybridism and Third Space Postcolonial theorist Homi Bhabha discusses a way of life in which hybridism is present “­in the articulation of cultural differences” (­200). We discussed the definition of cultural hybridism according to Bhabha’s formulation of complexities “­of cultural identification and discursive address” (­201) that works to place the people as inherent subjects of the narrative. The concept of cultural hybridism in the narrative serves to illustrate artistic and educational practices that welcome differences without imposing or supposing any type of hierarchical relationship. Considering cultural hybridism as a natural product of the ­in-​­between designations of cultural identities, Bhabha defines a third space as a cultural space, “­where the negotiation of incommensurable differences creates a tension” (­312), which may result in an ­in-​­between (­56) social, cultural, or political product. This space, although unrepresentable per se, “­constitutes the discursive conditions of enunciation that ensure the meaning and symbols of culture have no primordial unity or fixity” (­55), which allows for translations and alternative readings of these symbols. Edward Soja, spatial theorist and urban planning professor at University of California, attributed flexibility to the term “­Thirdspace” and argued it tentatively “­attempts to capture what is actually a constant shifting and changing milieu of ideas, events, appearances, and meanings” (­2). Alex Kostogriz, professor of languages at Monash University (­Australia), based his “­Thirdspace” Pedagogy of Literacy on Soja’s trialectics of space. In his trialectics, Soja defined first, second, and third spaces, respectively, as material (­perceived), mental (­conceived), and action (­lived) spaces (­9). Kostogriz emphasized the interdependence and 140

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simultaneity of these spaces within the pedagogical context of multicultural literacy (­11). As part of our analysis, we further reflected Bhabha’s definitions of third space (­55) and cultural hybridism (­200), in alignment with Kostogriz’s proposed pedagogical spaces within culturally diverse classrooms (­11).

Popular Culture and Folclore José Luiz dos Santos, an anthropology professor at Universidade de Campinas, defines culture as the initial description of learned knowledge formed in Europe at the end of the medieval period and accessible only to the dominant classes (­54). Santos explains that erudite knowledge or culture was considered superior to the knowledge shared by most of the population, also understood as a form of culture, but defined as popular culture (­54). Santos argues that popular culture can be understood by the cultural manifestations of the ­non-​­dominant classes, which exist independently of institutions based on Eurocentric values and which come to serve as a form of resistance and transformation (­55). The concepts of erudite culture and popular culture emerged from social polarization (­55), which Santos defines as a colonizing relationship considering the expansion of erudite ­culture—​­from the dominant ­class—​­into social institutions, such as education (­56). In connection to the definition of popular culture, we employ the term folclore (­Folklore) as defined by psychologist and music professor, José Teixeira D’Assumpção, who served as music teacher in the theater school from 1998 until his retirement in 2013. Assumpção argued, “­folklore is the group of songs, dances, music, and ethnography that is spontaneous from peoples” (­16). He listed four conditions for the existence of folclore, which include: (­1) antiquity, as folk manifestations are mostly part of old traditions; (­2) permanence, as folklore activities are connected to specific regions of a country; (­3) extension, considering the “­folkloric fact” (­17) is extended to the whole community in a town, city, or region; and finally (­4) orality, which ensures the “­folkloric fact” (­17) is transmitted orally. Our discussions examined how we incorporated folklore and popular culture elements as foundational aspects of the theater curriculum.

Discussion Pedagogy What Were the Foundations of the Pedagogy Used in the Formation of the School’s Initial Curriculum? In retrospect to the work that started in the late 1990s with the establishment of the theater school, we conducted an analysis of theatrical productions and a reflection about our pedagogical approaches. The pedagogy implemented at the Quintino Theater School was founded in Paulo Freire’s work, Augusto Boal’s Theater of the Oppressed, and other renowned pedagogical and theatrical approaches. Folklore and popular culture have permeated the curriculum since the school’s foundation and often served as a weapon to resisting Eurocentric tendencies (­Santos) present in the curriculum of traditional theater schools. Many aspects of the pedagogy implemented in the drama school led to what American professor, Gloria ­Ladson-​­Billings, defined as culturally relevant pedagogy (­CRP), which is centered on the success of culturally diverse students who had limited educational experiences as a result of historically unequal and oppressive systems (­159). ­Ladson-​­Billings advocates for a pedagogy that considers the “­student’s culture as a vehicle for learning” (­161). She defines 141

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culturally relevant methodologies as “­pedagogy of opposition” (­160) centered on collective and not simply individual empowerment (­160). Under this perspective, CRP is founded on three criteria: (­1) The academic success of students, (­2) The development or maintenance of cultural competencies, and (­3) The development of critical awareness that serves as a challenging factor in oppressive social systems (­­Ladson-​­Billings ­159–​­165). In the context of Brazilian education, Paulo Freire defined liberating education as something irreconcilable with a form of pedagogy that has been a practice of domination, either consciously or unconsciously (­7 ). Freire condemned “­banking education” (­82) as the act of merely depositing knowledge into the students. According to Freire, banking education perpetuates the oppressive society reflected in the culture of silence where the relations of power between teacher and student maintain the oppressive educational dynamic (­82). Freire’s critique of the banking education system aligns with Gloria ­L adson-​­Billings’ “­pedagogy of opposition” (­159) and CRP as they recognize the students’ culture and the development of their critical conscience as the center of the educational process.

Decolonization of the Theater Space How Does the Concept of Decolonization Permeate the School’s Artistic Production? In Brazil, we have a legacy imposed by colonialism that leads us to believe our Brazilian theatrical and academic history begins with the arrival of the Portuguese expeditions and, from then on, Brazil begins to exist. This mindset ignores the glorious past of stories and scenic experiences lived by native peoples. Professor Zeca ­Ligiero—​­from Universidade Federal do Estado do Rio de Janeiro—​­clarifies the need for understanding the theater as an unfolding piece of the ritual containing in its performance, the complete practice of drama. This practice presents the manipulation of traditions (­26) and, consequently, the understanding of the importance of strengthening existing cultures in Brazilian lands in opposition to an imposed acceptance of cultural subalternity. Performing arts researcher, Elisa Belém highlights the presence of “­play”—​­as an act of ­joy—​­along with dramatic representations (­8). Belém also mentions the value of scenic and dance manifestations for the sense of belonging, bringing to the fore the expressiveness experienced by bodies mixed with artistic creation and the making of popular dance (­9). The merging of popular culture and dramatic representations became an integral part of our work in the Quintino Theater School as we recognized the importance of offering a culturally meaningful experience to our students. Folkloric dance as a subject area offered to students in regular classes and in scenic exercises led students to reflect on Brazilian culture in practical and theoretical ways. The study and practice of folk dances, such as Frevo, Bumba Meu Boi (­Mendes), or Jongo do Rio de Janeiro (“­C asa do Jongo”), provided the knowledge of Brazilian culture from and through popular expressiveness, which was decisive for the new look given to the dramaturgy classics produced at our school. The study and practice of folkloric dances were significant elements in productions centered on Brazilian culture or written by national authors. These elements also contributed to the richness of culturally hybrid versions of classic theater narratives. As an example, one of the school’s past productions based on Tennessee Williams’s original play “­A Streetcar Named Desire,” was conceptualized through the research conducted by students on the 142

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neighborhood of Madureira.4 The play, titled “­A Streetcar Named Desire, Station Madureira” (­Um Bonde Chamado Desejo, Estação Madureira), was a culturally hybrid portrayal of an American drama ­re-​­contextualized through the lens of the local popular culture.

What Does Decolonization Mean in the Context of Teaching the Performing Arts? In the context of dramatic education, Boal’s ­theater—​­in agreement with Freire’s pedagogy of the ­oppressed—​­aimed to inspire the people as spectators with the power to transform society and engage in revolutionary acts rather than compliantly adjusting to ­pre-​­existing oppressive systems (­47). Considering adaptations of classic ­texts—​­from European, American, or Brazilian ­authors—​­our pedagogical work gave rise to alternative productions, where classics were studied through a critical lens with the purpose of producing “­culturally relevant” experiences (­­Ladson-​­Billings ­159–​­165) for students. By producing theater plays that represented students’ identities in conjunction with teaching the school c­ urriculum—​­not yet free from the influence of ­colonialism—​­our work resulted in spaces where teachers and students had the freedom to articulate culturally hybrid (­Bhabha) pieces. These pieces were often born from the relationship of art, education, and the desire for liberation through teaching as an act of resistance (­hooks).

Teacher and Student Relationship How Did the Decolonizing Discourse Influence the School’s Physical and Intellectual Space and the ­Teacher-​­Student Relationship? In Freire’s work, bell hooks finds parallels for questions about oppressive systems of domination and exploitation of ­non-​­dominant classes such as racism, sexism, and the impact of these colonial processes (­46) in society. Like Freire, hooks criticizes the “­banking education” format, as a system of information memorization and regurgitation (­5). She states that education should be centered on critical thinking and understanding of identities within the political context (­43), aiming at what Freire defined as conscientizacão, or critical awareness (­Freire). The importance of encouraging critical thinking and facilitating the “­conscientization” process (­Freire) among our students became recurring elements during our reflection. The pedagogical processes involving theatrical productions were initially focused on the analysis of theatrical narratives, their social contexts, and on the political positioning of their authors, considering that many were avid social critics of their times, such as Brazilian drama author Martins Pena (­Lyday ­63–​­70). With a focus on the conscientizacão of our ­student-​­actors and on our own understanding of our role as educators, the examination of theatrical texts and numerous conversations conducted during the production process resulted in an alternative space for creation. These practices permeated the material, mental, and action spaces,5 redefining our relationships at the physical, theoretical, and affective dimensions.

4 Madureira neighborhood in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil (­X avier). Within the vicinity of Quintino, Madureira is traditionally known for its culture rooted in the history of music and carnival, and home for many of our students. 5 See Soja in Kostogriz.

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Conclusion Our Backyard (­Nosso Quintal) as Third Space Kostogriz expanded the conceptualization of third space to challenge dichotomies often present within culturally and linguistically diverse educational settings. In his Thirdspace Pedagogy of Literacy, Kostogriz utilized Soja’s trialectics of space6 as a way to reconstruct pedagogies by deconstructing “­the essentialised representations of meanings and identities and by introducing ‘­­other-​­than’ choices” (­9). Accordingly, the critical examination of our work in the drama school led us to understand the pedagogical spaces formed from the dynamics established between teachers and students during the creative and educational processes. As a result, we defined the following interconnected pedagogical spaces in our analysis: 1 The first space is the perceived, material, or physical space, in this case, the theater school within the FAETEC Campus located in Quintino, Rio de Janeiro. 2 The second space is the conceived or mental space where the intellectual interactions between students and teachers take place considering previous cultural experiences from both parts. 3 The third space is where the action occurs. It is what we call “Our Backyard,” which reflects the results of the interactions taking place in the first and second spaces and defines cultural and artistic hybridism as central to the work performed at the school.7 The significance of a school that supports the development of students’ learning and critical awareness through culturally relevant practices is present in our former students’ voices as they describe the impact of the theater school in their formation (­see ­Figures 17.1 and 17.2). The following testimonials converge to the idea of a space that is open to acceptance, ­self-​ ­d iscovery, and transformation:

­Figure 17.1 I don’t say I feel I’m coming home or going back to the backyard because I never felt like I left the backyard. This backyard is present in my life, and I take it with me wherever I go. All the experiences we had in the Quintino Theater School are experiences for a lifetime (“­Encontro e Conversa, Cris Pedrosa e Lucio Enrico”).7 6 Ibid. 7 Former student Lucio Enrico Attia. Testimonial during Live “­Encontro e Conversa.”

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­Figure 17.2 It was like I was at home … I really felt cozy with the atmosphere of creation… The theater allowed me to recognize myself as a human being in full mutation; it was there that I learned to value the life experience of other people who spoke differently from me, and who had hair or eyes different from mine (­A ssumpção, Alencar, and Fraga, ­71–​­72).8

We conclude this brief narrative based on the argument of Kostogriz, in which the pedagogy of the third space introduced a culturally responsive perspective that led to a ­re-​­imagination of the educational space centered on the collectivity and diversity of the students (­9). Under this premise, the teaching of d­ rama—​­in the context of the Quintino Theater ­School—​­aims to transcend ­socio-​­cultural binarisms and deconstruct representations through the creation of alternative interpretations formed by teachers’ and students’ deep analysis of social, cultural, artistic, and educational contexts. 8

Prompts and Resources • • • • • •

What is the role of theater education as a weapon of resistance against oppression? What makes Freire’s and Boal’s approaches to education and theater internationally relevant? Can the decolonized arts curriculum lead to social transformation? Ligiéro, Zeca. “­Performance ­A fro—​­a mostração.” YouTube, Jan. 10, 2018, https://­w ww. youtube.com/­watch?v=Px0wxKEZ8BA Red Ma(­g)­d alena International. https://­teatrodelasoprimidas.org/­­red-​­m agdalena/ “­Trailer Augusto Boal e o Teatro do Oprimido (­Augusto Boal and the Theatre of the Oppressed).” YouTube, uploaded by MapaFilmes 13 March 2012, https://­w ww.youtube. com/­watch?v=y5cYAz6n4Ag

8 Former student Tatiana Henrique. Testimonial in Assumpção et al. ­Figure 2 shows Tatiana’s participation in Live Escola de Teatro de ­Q uintino—​­Nosso Quintal (­October, 26, 2020).

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Works Cited “­Casa do Jongo.” http://­v isit.rio/­en/­que_fazer/­­casa-­​­­do-​­jongo/ “­Encontro e Conversa, Cris Pedrosa e Lucio Enrico.” YouTube, uploaded by Dionísio, a Lança e o Dragão, 28 Sept. 2020, www.youtube.com/­watch?v=zznzlN_3c9Q&t=2221s “­Escola de Teatro de Quintino inaugura Centro de Memória.” 6 Nov. 2019, www.faetec.rj.gov.br/­ index.php/­i nstitucional/­­a ssessoria-­​­­de-​­comunicacao/­noticias/­­973-­​­­e scola-­​­­de-­​­­teatro-­​­­de-­​­­quintino-­​ ­­i naugura-­​­­centro-­​­­de-​­memoria “­­Live – ​­Escola de Teatro de Quintino.” YouTube, uploaded by Dionísio, a Lança e o Dragão, 24 Aug. 2020, www.youtube.com/­watch?v=Vd0dL1TfmYc&t=8048s “­­Live – Escola ​­ de Teatro de Quintino.” YouTube, uploaded by Dionísio, a Lança e o Dragão, 26 Oct. 2020, https://­w ww.youtube.com/­watch?v=­N2G4dbkD-​­9Y&t=2541s Almeida, Silvio. Racismo Estrutural: Feminismos Plurais. Editora Jandaira 2019. Assumpção, José T. Curso De Folclore Musical Brasileiro. Livraria Freitas Bastos, 1967. Assumpção, José T., Alencar, Patricia, and Fraga, Luiz E. O. “­Escola de Teatro do CETEP Quintino e seus Caminhos Artísticos.” História e Memória da Educação Profissional no Rio de Janeiro, edited by Centro de Memória da ­FAETEC – ​­CEMEF Editora Multifoco, 2017. Belém, Elisa. “­Notas Sobre o Teatro Brasileiro: Uma Perspectiva Descolonial.” Revista Sala Preta, vol. 16, no. 1, 2016, ­pp. ­121–​­130. doi: 10.11606/­issn.­2238–​­3867.­v16i1p120–​­131. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. Routledge, 2004. Boal, Augusto. Theater of the Oppressed. Theater Communications Group, 1985. Calado, Beatriz. “­ Quintino Bocaiuva, Celeiro de Político e Craque de Futebol.” Multirio: A Mídia Educativa da Cidade, 09 Sep. 2016, www.multirio.rj.gov.br/­i ndex.php/­leia/­­reportagens-​ ­a rtigos/­reportagens/­­10252-­​­­quintino-​­bocaiúva, -­​­­celeiro-­​­­de-​­pol%C3%­A Dtico-­​­­e -­​­­craque-­​­­de-​­f utebol FAETEC Secretaria de Ciência, Tecnologia e Inovação; Governo do Estado do Rio de Janeiro, www. faetec.rj.gov.br/­i ndex.php/­i nstitucional/­­apresentacao-​­f aetec Freire, Paulo. Pedagogia do Oprimido. Paz e Terra Ltda, 2013. Hooks, Bell. Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom. Routledge, 1994. Kostogriz, Alex. “­Teaching Literacy in Multicultural Classrooms: Towards a Pedagogy of ‘­Thirdspace.’” Australian Association for Research in Education Annual Conference, ­1–​­5 Dec. 2002. Brisbane: AARE, 2002. ­L adson-​­Billings, Gloria. “­But That’s Just Good Teaching! The Case for Culturally Relevant Pedagogy.” Theory into Practice, vol. 34, no. 3, 1995, ­pp. ­159–​­165, www.jstor.org/­stable/­1476635. Ligiéro, Zeca. Teatro das Origens: Estudos das Performances ­Afro-​­Ameríndias. Garamond, 2019. Lyday, Leon F. “­Satire in the Comedies of Martins Pena.” ­Luso-​­B razilian Review, vol. 5, no. 2, 1968, ­pp. ­63–​­70. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/­stable/­3513021 Mendes, Maria. “­Expressões Artísticas que Contribuem Para a Cultura do País.” Educa Mais Brasil, 14 Jan. 2019, www.educamaisbrasil.com.br/­enem/­­educacao-​­fi sica/­­d ancas-​­brasileiras Prosser, Jon, and Dona Schwartz. “­Photographs within the Sociological Research Process.” ­Image-​ ­Based Research: A Sourcebook for Qualitative Researchers, edited by Jon Prosser, Falmer Press, 1998, ­pp. ­101–​­115. Quijano, Anibal. “­Coloniality and Modernity/­R ationality.” Cultural Studies, vol. 21, no. ­2 –​­3, 3 Apr. 2007, ­pp. ­168–​­178. Taylor and Francis Online, doi: 10.1080/­09502380601164353. Quintino Theater School. “­Escola de Teatro de Quintino inaugura Centro de Memória,” 2019, http://­ www.faetec.rj.gov.br/­i ndex.php/­i nstitucional/­­a ssessoria- ­​­­de-​­comunicacao/­noticias/­­973- ­​­­e scola-­​ ­­de-­​­­teatro-­​­­de-­​­­quintino-­​­­i naugura-­​­­centro-­​­­de-​­memoria Santos, José Luiz dos. O Que É Cultura? Editora Brasiliense, 2009. Smith, T. Lynn. “­Three Specimens of Religious Syncretism in Latin America.” International Review of Modern Sociology, vol. 4, no. 1, 1974, p­ p. ­1–​­18. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/­stable/­41420506. Soja, Edward W., Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other ­Real-­​­­and-​­Imagined Places, Blackwell, Cambridge, 1996. State of Rio de Janeiro Government (­Science and Technology), http://­w ww.faetec.rj.gov.br/­index. php/­i nstitucional/­­apresentacao-​­f aetec Xavier, Malena. “­­Madureira  – ​­407 Anos e Muita História para Contar.” SESC RJ, 20 May 2020, https://­w ww.sescrio.org.br/­noticias/­cultura/­­m adureira-­​­­407-­​­­a nos-­​­­e -­​­­muita-­​­­h istoria-­​­­para-​­contar/

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18 CULTURAL NETWORKING, STORYTELLING, AND ZOOM DURING THE ­COVID-​­19 PANDEMIC Conversations with A ­ frican-​­Caribbeans on Using a Decolonized Digital ­Arts-​­Based Educational Platform Judith ­Bruce-​­Golding and Sue Brown Digital community a­ rts-​­based programs are known to enhance the health and ­well-​­being of children and young people (­A nderson and Wallace). However, little is known about the experiences of people over the age of 50 years from marginalized communities taking part in digital ­a rts-​­based participatory projects. Digital ­a rts-​­based programs use technology as the medium to bring individuals and groups together to create an art piece that could not otherwise be done without technology (­Randall). ­Co-​­creation is at the heart of the programs, which promotes equal power relations (­Sanders and Stappers). Approaches that use digital storytelling and creativity are known to enhance w ­ ell-​­being and promote therapeutic benefits (­Wijnen and Wildschut), enable the discussion of c­ ounter-​­narratives (­Delello and Rochell; Lenette, Cox, and Brough), and aid in the preservation of cultural stories and history (­Balestrini et al.). This chapter joins the debate on the importance of providing decolonized digital arts spaces for marginalized voices. Although mainstream research states the benefits of digital arts programs, the shortcomings include the omission of voices and programs designed for communities from an African heritage. With funding from Black Arts Forum and Birmingham City Council, the community project Nakuona Arts (­meaning ‘I See You’ in Swahili) collaborated with eight participants including their family members to form the Cornerstone Project.  The project focused on the ­well-​­being of the over 50s during the lockdown period. An Africentric approach is adopted, which acknowledges the diversity, characteristics, beliefs, and values of individuals within the African diaspora ( ­Jamison), and from this approach, it is argued that bespoke digital ­a rts-​­based programs that embed decolonized approaches can promote racial and emotional healing, creativity, and value during uncertain times. The first part of the chapter discusses the approaches that were used in the Cornerstone Project, which focus on overstanding, sociodrama, and how they can challenge ‘­the digital’ DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-21

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artistically, scholarly, and pedagogically. The second part of the chapter focuses on the implementation and evaluation of the Cornerstone Project Program, the participants, the work done during the sessions, and their performance piece. This program explored three research questions that arose from the impact of the ­COVID-​­19 pandemic on individuals from the African diaspora: • • •

How can approaches that decolonize the digital challenge traditional digital technologies in terms of cultural representation, language, knowledge, and identity? How can bespoke digitally decolonized art programs be used effectively to support creativity and encourage cultural networking? How can storytelling and creativity help the over 50s and the elderly to produce new knowledge to express difficult emotions during uncertain times?

Colonization has had ­long-​­lasting damaging emotional and mental health effects on ­non-​ w ­ hite populations globally (­Beavis et al.). A generalized wealth of data regarding mental health trauma exists; however, these findings have been mainly from a White Western perspective (­Diamond). Keikelame and Swartz call for more culturally appropriate health research as part of decolonizing racial health inequity. The process of colonialism meant that indigenous societies and political structures were overpowered by physical and emotional violence, with their voices being omitted or unrecognized in society. In the Caribbean, dehumanization through mental, physical, sexual degradation, and denial of cultural identity and education meant that supreme practices of colonization were maintained. As a result, mental institutions were built to contain slaves who were deemed unfit or mentally unstable (­H ickling). Thus, the emotional and mental ­well-​­being of ­non-​­white populations is still of significant concern in the t­ wenty-​­first century and now with the C ­ OVID-​­19 pandemic (­Razai; Williams). The lasting effects of colonization can be debilitating to the individual and how they perceive their role, position, and purpose in society. These experiences cannot be understood in a similar way to the dominant population. However, it is vital that significant changes are made to acknowledge and enact societal change regarding the psychological effects of racism. Studies reflect the different manifestations of racism, including ethnoviolence (­Helms et al.), transgenerational effects of white racism (­Goosby and Heidbrink), and racism and its cause of posttraumatic stress disorder (­Sibrava et al.). Historical accounts have also shown how dominant Western experiences have silenced the trauma in n ­ on-​­white individuals, making their pain invisible, unimportant, and abnormal compared to the norm (­H ickling). Hickling and Hutchinson highlight this when exploring the traumatic migration experiences of Caribbean people traveling and settling into English life. They reported high rates of psychosis within this migrant population and asserted that continued hostility and environmental structures resulted in lifelong pathological mental health effects for these populations. ­Ndlovu-​­Gatsheni refers to the ‘­d irty history’ that needs to be undone to produce knowledge that is not based on the dominant worldview. Colonization and the migration process have had a generational and psychological impact on ­non-​­white populations, so space to explore these unique voices and experiences of the individual is crucial as part of the healing process.

Decolonizing the Digital The media plays a large part in maintaining the negative stereotypes and s­ ub-​­human portrayals of the African diaspora (­hooks). In view of this, it is important to obtain the voices 148

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of indigenous populations in a digital platform as part of preserving the voices of marginalized cultures (­Harle and Abdilla). Scholars have confirmed how intersectional research has benefited from digital arts spaces in challenging traditional narratives and being a voice for the marginalized communities (­­Adams-​­Santos; Crenshaw). In considering decolonization, the Cornerstone Project group wanted to imagine a world where the participants could tell their stories without the harms of colonial thought. The conversations with the Cornerstone participants highlighted how cautious they had to be when expressing their thoughts and experiences in the workplace. All of the participants were able to recount their experiences of systemic racism that they had experienced. The process of recognizing and acknowledging voices from marginalized cultures and backgrounds and placing them in a digital space is a start to undoing a century of psychological control and digital colonization.

Overstanding Having an understanding of the cultural differences and historical backgrounds of n ­ on-​ ­white community group members can strengthen collaboration, reveal insights, as well as contribute to the creation of a safe space. Overstanding is a methodology that originates from the Rastafarian ­socio-​­spiritual movement, which resisted against the colonial systems of oppression in the Caribbean and rejected the concept of one race ruling over another. The Rastafarian movement embraces Leonard Percival Howell, the former Ethiopian monarch Haile Selassie I, and philosopher Marcus Garvey as the driving forces for change against colonization and seeing a way of life contrary to the Western worldview (­Taylor). According to Rastafarianism, the word ‘under’ is associated with ‘lack of ’ or ‘below,’ so the true message could be lost in the process of communication. In contrast, to overstad reflects a recognition and acceptance of the meaning, which then builds on the opinions and thoughts of the individual. Therefore, the morphological reconceptualization of the word ‘­u nderstanding’ resulted in the more positive word ‘­overstanding’ to align with its true meaning, which represents the process of deep thinking, reflection, and consideration of the topic in question while allowing individuals to retain their power in the conversation (­Chevannes; Hutton; Owens). Methodologies and approaches that challenge language are crucial because they reveal the embedded historical, racial, and social systems and processes of inequity that continue to guide thought, perspectives, and d­ ecision-​­making processes.

Sociodrama ­ ommunity-​­based arts educational programs that include a variety of creative approaches C can help participants to learn new skills, enhance w ­ ell-​­being, and make connections with collaborators. ­A frican-​­Caribbeans have a history of storytelling and educating others through oral traditions, as well as physical and musical forms of expression, so this drew on the inspirational work undertaken by Fredrick Hickling, who was the founder of the Dream A World Cultural Therapy. Hickling used psychohistoriographic cultural therapy (­PCT), which uses historical analysis and oral tradition to describe complex emotions and experiences through sociodrama approaches to promote rehabilitation with patients at the Bellview Mental Hospital in Jamaica (­H ickling). The Cornerstone Program explored the experiences of migration, integration in the community, school and work experiences in the Caribbean and England, and how the pandemic affected 149

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the participants. The Cornerstone Program adapted Hickling’s model by using creative writing approaches, music, and movement. Cultural therapeutic approaches that include arts and creativity provide a refreshing and healing outlet for participants to engage in, especially when discussing and revisiting historically traumatic experiences with collaborators.

Methods The program adopted an interpretative approach that focused on the voices and lived experiences of the individual using an Africentric lens (­­ Anderson-​­ Carpenter; Benoliel). The Africentric lens rejects traditional Western methods that do not recognize decolonial thought. Observation, collaborative written activities, verbal discussion, and evaluation were used throughout the research and provoked conversation amongst the collaborators.

The Cornerstone Project Program The Cornerstone Project took place over eight weeks between July and August 2020 with ­two-​­hour weekly sessions in ZOOM®. Fourteen ­A frican-​­Caribbean participants initially agreed to participate and were recruited using online and f­ace-­​­­to-​­face methods; however, due to ill health, life commitments, and unexpected events, only eight participants (­including family members) took part in the project. After consent to take part in the program was obtained, the participants and their caretakers were invited to a Cornerstone ­pre-​­gathering in ZOOM® to discuss the project. Below is an overview of five of the eight Cornerstone participants. Elaine was born in Jamaica, and she came to Birmingham during the 1960s. She is a mother of six children, a grandmother, and also a g­ reat-​­grandmother. Elaine trained and worked as a nurse for many years. Eventually, she became a Community C ­ aregiver—​­Befriending Project Manager for the over 50s, which involved setting up social groups for the elderly. Elaine is a published author; she is a writer and a poet, a member of Birmingham’s Writers without Borders UK, Writers Café, and the Cornerstone Project. Barrington was born in Wolverhampton, England, in 1962. He has worked in schools, colleges, and community settings for over 30 years. Barrington enjoys writing short stories and performance poetry. He has a history of acting, directing, and mentoring others. Barrington is also a grandfather and a member of the Cornerstone Project. Laurel was born in Kingston, Jamaica, and was educated to university level. She came to England in 1985 to join her husband. Laurel has had various roles in the NHS, social care, and hospitality services. Her hobbies include writing and performing poetry, and she has performed locally, nationally, and internationally. Laurel loves singing, dancing, and taking part in community events. She is a proud mother and grandmother. Cochita was born in 1944 in St. Catherine, Jamaica. She arrived in England and worked at Robert’s, making gas fires. In 1977, Cochita worked as a seamstress and owned a clothing and underwear shop. She made garments and sold them to local customers. During the period ­1972–​­1985, Cochita worked at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital as a catering assistant. She then worked as a cleaner and catering assistant from 1985 to 1990. Hyacinth was born in Jamaica and came to England in the 1960s. She is the mother of six children. Hyacinth always enjoyed looking after and supporting others. When her children were old enough, she trained as a mental health nurse and worked in many different types of hospitals. Hyacinth remained in nursing for over 30 years. 150

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Cornerstone Project Preparation To prepare for the Cornerstone Project, the facilitators carried out the following tasks: (­1) ­ frican-​­Caribbeans and Historical accounts and documents regarding the experiences of A experiences of migration and integration were sought; (­2) Narratives and media represen­ ell-​­being, and mental health on the lives of tation concerning gender roles, social class, w ­A frican-​­Caribbeans were explored; and (­3) We also sought to find out about each individual’s experiences of using Zoom technology and their level of confidence. We discovered that all but one of the members needed support with accessing Zoom, and some needed additional support from their family members. As such, the necessary support included creating short movies on how to access the platform and speaking to participants before the session to enable them to access Zoom confidently. The research questions were revisited throughout the sessions.

Program Overview: Beginning the Session At the start of the session, the participants would take part in the icebreaker activities, which included finding out about the participants’ places of birth, what they missed about their home country, and, for those who were born in England, what they missed from their childhood. At the start of the sessions, the participants were asked to name one thing that had given them strength during the pandemic. Elaine mentioned that prayer had given her strength. Miss P mentioned that writing was something that gave her strength. Barrington stated that having loved ones around helped him to get through difficult times. The main sources of strength were from their relationship with their creator and their relationships with close family and friends in the church. We then had a group conversation about how these relationships helped them during times of stress, especially with them not being able to have physical contact with family members.

Nursery Rhymes, Poetry, and Proverbs All sessions involved an exploration of language, meaning, power, and humor. African and Caribbean nursery rhymes and proverbs such as ‘­Teeth do not see poverty’, ‘­Monkey know which tree to climb’, and ‘­A bird in the hand is like two in the bush’ were explored with perspectives on the oral tradition, language, and how these forms of communication made group participants feel. Everyone was able to sing and share proverbs that meant something to them. Hyacinth (­who was suffering with dementia) really enjoyed this session and talked about the different nursery rhymes that she remembered. She also shared the ­h and-​­clapping games that she used to play at school. Hyacinth also recalled how her mother made some ­l ife-​­size dolls, which gave her great comfort. Elaine’s written response, shown below, is in relation to how toys have changed from the past and what she would do for fun: Talk to me Gladys, dem pickney nuh know how lucky dem is. When we did lickle awl we ould di was meck up we own play time wid things had at hand. Were happy then to play simple games like Jax. Hude and Seek. 123 Red Lite. Ring a ring a Roses. Marbles. Make kite to fly. Dress Paper Dollies. Of course Cricket an other Ball games. Now all them think about is Comouter Games, day and nite. 151

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Poetry We watched Miss Lou perform a song called ‘­Long time gal’ along with a video about African nursery rhymes. Miss Lou or Dr. Louise Bennet Coverley is a renowned Jamaican poet, writer, folklorist, and educator who performed her writings in Jamaican Patois. Her actions aimed to preserve the Jamaican national language and maintain its validity through creative approaches including music. We then talked about proverbs and language in these songs and rhymes. We also compared how the nursery rhymes of the past had changed over the years. Humpty Dumpty and Ring a Ring a Roses were used as examples of ways of documenting historical situations and meanings through music and rhyme. Elaine and Cochita shared about the impact of Miss Lou and her pride in the Jamaican language, which also renewed their sense of pride in Jamaican culture and identity. These sentiments have stayed with Elaine throughout her life, and she has written numerous poems, stories, and skits, which aim to keep the Jamaican culture alive. Barrington shared about the dual worlds that he was part of regarding growing up in England and having Jamaican roots or heritage. While acknowledging his heritage, he would speak English outside the home and speak Jamaican patois1 within the home. Barrington spoke about how powerful colonialism was in terms of trying to wipe out his story (­h istory).

Children’s Toys We invited Vanley Burke, who is a Jamaican photographer and artist, to talk to the group about the history of Caribbean games. Vanley showed examples of toys that were made in the Caribbean. He showed an example of a cricket bat made out of willow trees and bamboo, and a ball made out of fruit seeds. He also showed how stones were used as marbles, along with a handmade spinning top which most of the group recalled using in their childhood. In response to Vanley’s presentation, Laurel shared how different fruits such as coconut and mango seeds were used for ball games and homemade toys.

Music Creation The music tasks focused on music rhythms, verse, and oral tradition using the mother tongue Jamaican Creole, reflecting different voices from the group members. The group was presented with a Calypso track that was created by a local musician, Asha Barnes. The remaining sessions involved using the track and the group sharing ideas on the narrative and creation of the verses for the track with additional writing pieces (­see ­Figure 18.1). Some ideas that emerged were linked to not knowing how the C ­ OVID-​­19 virus was being spread, the lack of support from MPs, confusion, guideline changes, coping, and how to stay safe. Below is Barrington’s contribution to the song: We people, mere human beings. Looking for Boris, him cyan’t be seen. Virus come in like secret agent. Boris back! Confused an spent. Black workers dying, dis is mean. NHS2 retired, back on di scene. 1 Jamaican patois is an English based creole that combines inf luences from West African and native cultural dialects within the Caribbean. 2 National Health Service.

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Cultural Networking, Storytelling and Zoom during the Covid-19 Pandemic Public stay home, maybe guh work. Protect de NHS, save lives, stay alert

Laurel, aka Miss P, wrote about the impact of the pandemic and how it affected lives: Corna, you wake up da world Yuh so wicked yuh have no fear Yuh mek so much people Shed a tear Cuz yuh are killer everywhere Yuh better go back where you come from Nuh badda stay here inna dis yah lan Too much damage already done So tek yu self ­up – ​­ga lan an run

Once the verses were recorded using Zoom, the group was invited back for a presentation evening. The participants listened to the musical piece that they had written for the song, along with poetry that they had written, which was inspired from the session.

Discussion: Cornerstone Project Themes The decolonized digital a­ rts-​­based education program described in this chapter answers the three research questions in the introduction. The results indicate: • • •

that approaches which decolonize the digital regarding cultural representation, language, and identity challenge traditional digital technologies; that bespoke digital decolonized art programs can be used effectively to support the creative expression of ­non-​­white voices and cultural networking; and that storytelling and creativity help the over 50s and the elderly produce new knowledge to express difficult conversations during uncertain times.

The findings, through observation, writings, exploratory discussion, and session evaluations during the program, showed an increase in verbal contributions from the participants throughout the sessions. The sharing of difficult emotions and the compassion shown by the participants reflected a sense of belonging within the group. All of the group members used the opportunity and space within the sessions to overstand, which enabled them to share their personal lived experiences about race, culture, identity, and the impact of the pandemic on them using sociodrama (­Hickling). New skills were developed by the participants, such as using their phones to record verses and recording online, and new knowledge was produced in each session which centered on participant voices and experiences. These findings suggest that applying an Africentric lens when designing a digital ­arts-​­based program can help to build a collaborative cultural safe space, which values and recognizes the unique experiences of the individual. In reflecting on these findings, it must be remembered that the program was bespoke in that it focused on addressing the needs of the A ­ frican-​­Caribbean community during the pandemic. The digital divide concerning the elderly and promoting a sense of community digitally were prioritized. The results obtained do not support the traditional format of a digital a­ rts-​­based education program that does not consider the significance of decolonizing digital spaces. The results also lend support to the argument put forward by ­Ndlovu-​­Gatsheni of the need to decolonize methodological approaches and research that challenge the dominant ways of thinking. In addition, the importance of addressing challenges related to the digital divide, along with the sharing and showcasing of ­counter-​­narratives, is reflected in the findings (­Delello and Rochell). 153

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­Figure 18.1 The Cornerstone Project Members, 2020.

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Concluding Remarks Being able to have a safe cultural space to express truths, sadness, and fear using storytelling and creativity is an essential process in managing difficult emotions during uncertain times. The findings presented in this essay suggest that this cultural digital ­arts-​­based program designed for ­A frican-​­Caribbeans over 50 years of age can successfully educate participants using storytelling, creativity, and collaboration to express feelings. This essay advocates for ­ ell-​­being, digital, and cultural networking needs of a specific marginalsupporting the w ized community at an uncertain time in their life, such as the C ­ OVID-​­19 pandemic. The implications of this s­mall-​­scale study are such that further research is needed regarding decolonized digital ­arts-​­based education programs, both to confirm these findings and to investigate if a similar approach can be applied to supporting the cultural, social, creative, and psychological aspects of marginalized communities. It is envisaged that the creative pieces will be made into an intergenerational digital educational resource as part of sharing their message to a wider community.

Prompts and Resources • • • • • •

What can we do to keep the histories and heritage of our Black elders alive using creativity? How do poetry and music encapsulate the experiences of the Black elderly? Vanley Burke: www.vanley.co.uk Black Arts Forum: https://­w ww.blackartsforum.co.uk/­­about-​­us Pauline Bailey: www.­paulinebailey-​­a rts.co.uk Downlow: Birmingham Activist Mural Art Trail: www.wearepunch.co.uk

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Judith ­Bruce-­Golding and Sue Brown Goosby, Bridget J., and Chelsea Heidbrink. “­Transgenerational Consequences of Racial Discrimination for African American Health.” Sociology Compass, vol. 7, no. 8, 2013, p­p.  ­ 630–​­ 643. doi:10.1111/­soc4.12054. Harle, Josh, Angie Abdilla, and Andrew Newman. Decolonizing the Digital: Technology as Cultural Practice, Australian Council for the Arts, 2019. Helms, Janet E., et  al. “­R acism and Ethnoviolence as Trauma: Enhancing Professional Training.” Traumatology, vol. 16, no. 4, 2010, ­pp. ­53–​­62. doi:10.1177/­1534765610389595. Hickling, Frederick W. “­Sociodrama in the Rehabilitation of Chronic Mentally Ill Patients.” Hospital and Community Psychiatry, vol. 40, no. 4, 1989, ­pp. ­402–​­406. doi:10.1176/­ps.40.4.402. Hickling, Frederick W. Perspectives in Caribbean Psychology, Carimensa, 2008. Hickling, Frederick W. Psychohistoriography: A ­Post-​­Colonial Psychoanalytic and Psychotherapeutic Model. Jessica Kingsley, 2012. Hickling, Frederick W., and Gerrard Hutchinson. “­Caribbean Contributions to Contemporary Psychiatric Psychopathology.” The West Indian Medical Journal, vol. 61, no. 4, 2012, ­pp.  ­4 42–​­446. doi:10.7727/­w imj.2012.128. Hickling, Frederick W., et al. “­Psychic Centrality: Reflections on Two Psychohistoriographic Cultural Therapy Workshops in Montreal.” Transcultural Psychiatry, vol. 47, no. 1, 2010, ­pp. ­136–​­158. doi:10.1177/­1363461510364590. hooks, Bell. Black Looks: Race and Representation. Second edition. Routledge, 2014. Hutton, Clinton A. Leonard Percival Howell and the Genesis of Rastafari. Edited by Clinton A. Hutton et al., University of the West Indies Press, 2015. Jamison, DeReef F. “­ Key Concepts, Theories, and Issues in African/­ Black Psychology: A pp.  ­ 722–​­ 746. View from the Bridge.” Journal of Black Psychology, vol. 44, no. 8, Nov. 2018, ­ doi:10.1177/­0 095798418810596. Keikelame, Mpoe Johannah, and Leslie Swartz. “Decolonising research methodologies: lessons from a qualitative research project, Cape Town, South Africa.” Global Health Action, vol. 12, 2019, n. pag. doi:10.1080/16549716.2018.1561175. Lenette, Caroline et  al. “­Digital Storytelling as a Social Work Tool: Learning from Ethnographic Research with Women from Refugee Backgrounds.” British Journal of Social Work, vol. 45, no. 3, 2015, ­pp. ­988–​­1005. doi.org/­10.1093/­bjsw/­bct184. Ndlovu-​­ ­ Gatsheni, Sabelo J. “­ Provisional Notes on Decolonizing Research Methodology and Undoing Its Dirty History.” Journal of Developing Societies, vol. 35, no. 4, 2019, ­ pp.  ­ 481–​­ 92. doi:10.1177/­0169796X19880417. Owens, Joseph. Dread: The Rastafarians of Jamaica; with an Introduction by Rex Nettleford. Heinemann Educational, 1979. Razai, Mohammad S., et al. “­M itigating Ethnic Disparities in ­Covid-​­19 and Beyond.” BMJ, 2021, ­pp. 372, m4921. doi:10.1136/­bmj.m4921. Sanders, Elizabeth B. N., and Stappers, Peter Jan. “­­Co-​­Creation and the New Landscapes of Design.” CoDesign, vol. 4, no. 1, 2008, ­pp. ­5 –​­18. doi:10.1080/­15710880701875068. Sibrava, Nicholas J., et  al. “­Posttraumatic Stress Disorder in African American and Latinx Adults: Clinical Course and the Role of Racial and Ethnic Discrimination.” The American Psychologist, vol. 74, no. 1, 2019, ­pp. ­101–​­116. doi:10.1037/­a mp0000339. Taylor, Patrick. “­Perspectives on History in Rastafari Thought.” Studies in Religion/­Sciences Religieuses, vol. 19, no. 2, 1990, p­ p. ­191–​­205. doi:10.1177/­0 00842989001900204. Wijnen, Eline, and Manu Wildschut. “­Narrating Goals: A Case Study on the Contribution of Digital Storytelling to C ­ ross-​­Cultural Leadership Development.” Sport in Society, vol. 1, no. 8, 2015. ­pp. ­938–​­951. doi:10.1080/­17430437.2014.997584. Williams, David. “­Stress and the Mental Health of Populations of Color: Advancing Our Understanding of ­R ace-​­related Stressors.” Journal of health and social behavior, vol. 59, no. 4, 2018, ­pp. ­466–​­485. doi:10.1177/­0 022146518814251.

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19 ART AS A BRIDGE FOR DECOLONIZING GRIEF AND ACCESSING MY NEUROQUEER SPIRIT Corey Reutlinger My boyfriend, M, broke up with me on February 22, 2019, near the back of a hipster café, saying, “­I feel you are ingenuine” and “­you are not meeting my expectations.” The disability microaggression in his harsh words catalyzed a death, not only of our relationship but also of my Spirit. He knew I am hard of hearing, but not that I am neurodiverse, having different neurocognitive functioning due to my anxiety and posttraumatic stress disorder (­PSTD; Hughes 3). His evaluation of my emotional integrity seemed to be based on oppressive ideals of religious hegemony, which traumatized me. I felt the deep cut of a sociocultural stigma associated with mental illness and disabilities. In heteronormative societies, this only harms the spirit that is tethered to debilities of the body and mind. The breakup brought me a step closer towards recognizing the complicity of institutions that normalize oppressing people who do not fit in, whether in thought or practice: a colonizing of mind and body. In this chapter, I trace the institutional systems (­a nd their origins) that enable and normalize such practices. I do this by navigating my own embodied experiences through an intersectionality of queerness, disability, and indigeneity in order to identify and confront such translations of colonizing thoughts and practices. Mentally disabled people have been stigmatized since the early nineteenth century through institutional segregation and problematic experimentation. A medical model of disability categorized behaviors such as talking aloud to oneself, “­hearing voices,” or expressing strong and visceral emotional reactions as n ­ on-​­normative (­Pfeiffer 30). This model stemmed from a paradigm of whiteness, J­ udeo-​­Christianity, ­abled-​­bodiedness, and ­cis-​­heterosexuality to categorize and stigmatize cultural and gendered ways of being. Punishments for such deviations from the imposed norm included institutionalization meant “­to fix” said deviants. People admitted to asylums like the High Royds Hospital of Menston, West Yorkshire in ­England—​­often without clear psychiatric ­reasons—​­underwent experimentation for their ­so-​­called mental deficits (“­BBC Mental”). Extreme medical procedures such as lobotomies, ­electro-​­convulsion therapies, and tranquilizer sedatives heralded in an era of medicalization meant “­to cure” disability (­Pfeiffer 31). These experiments were a scientific attempt to examine underlying spiritual phenomena masked as mental disabilities by not only conflating the two but also creating a culture of neglect, bodily abuse, and eugenics for neurodiverse people. This is but one example of the many ways institutions oppress diverse ways of being,

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-22

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in body and spirit, and promote a culture of toxic positivity, which denies and minimizes authentic human emotions in place of overt happiness and optimism (­Quintero and Long). Earlier in the week, my then boyfriend, M, had asked whether I would seek out eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (­EMDR) psychotherapy to fix my traumas. While EMDR can be helpful for people with ­t rauma-​­associated symptoms (­­Vallente-​­Gómez et al. 8), it can be intensely triggering and should be used cautiously with neurodiverse bodyminds, or ­body-­​­­and-​­minds (­Price 269). That is, EMDR is more for the “­the right person at the right time” (­Unwin et al. 643) and can potentially be harmful for those with PTSD and intellectual disabilities (­Gilderthorp 67). I saw EMDR as a descendent of the same racist, ableist, and heterosexist logics that shaped the experiments of mental asylums only seeking to cure a bodymind’s deeply entwined traumas. I didn’t feel I needed EMDR, but I guess my “­no” was insufficient. I pleaded with him. After a while, I left the café, opened my black umbrella, and walked into the sleet, still crying. I grieved strangely. The term neuroqueer is the tangling of neurodiversity and queerness to oppose the privileging of a particular way of thinking and communicating in society (­Yergeau 85). It expands the way queer is used as a verb. “­To neuroqueer” means to embody a queering of neurocognitive processes that challenge prevailing cultural standards of neuronormativity and heteronormativity; to engage in practices and artistic expressions that reclaim one’s weird potentials and inclinations; and to transform social and cultural environments, spaces, and communities (­Walker). Toxic positivity erases neuroqueerness. Contemporary workplaces and academic spaces promote a toxic positive culture, which increases institutional practices that reinforce stigmatization such as grieving in a ­step-­​­­by-​­step linear fashion. We all must visibly demonstrate and communicate a constant state of happiness in our institutions so as to gain value or become fixed within larger social systems of oppression. Academia reflected a lack of space to encounter processes that would help me connect with my embodied traumas unconventionally. However, I recall one instance that disrupted academic orthodoxies to help me heal. Here’s what happened: I sat down at the seminar table for my Spirituality, Colonialism, & Culture class. My professor, Dr. D, drew on the whiteboard a cross inside a circle. She turned to the class with a calm, yet stern expression. I don’t think she noticed my red, watery eyes. I had screamed myself awake that morning, sobbing from a nightmare where my ­now-­​­­ex-​ ­boyfriend cheated on me. I was actively grieving. “­This is the Native American Medicine Wheel,” she stated. Dr. D explained the wheel’s seven directional orientations: North represented tradition and ancestry; South epitomized emotions, relationships, and family; East meant beginnings and enlightenment; and, West stood for endings and introspection. Sky above invited change, the Earth grounded foundations, and the center of the wheel was Heart, the place for balance and harmony. The Wheel had been important for learning about her T ­ ejana-​­Chicana lineage and for developing decolonial pedagogy in the academy. Dr. D said only after orienting ourselves to the directions each morning would we experience a shift in our thinking. I was skeptical. The day’s lesson was about invoking a spiritual practice that would disrupt colonialist ways our bodyminds navigated academia, including the slippery, ­ever-​­mutating power of whiteness (­Toyosaki 252). Before asylums, the J­ udeo-​­Christian churches associated paganism, witchcraft, disability, and disease to divine displeasure or sin (­Parry 171). After failed indoctrination attempts, c­ hurch-​­states turned to education 158

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as a means of social control. Religious hegemony furthered stigmatization around any forms of thinking or bodily orientations deemed irrational, abnormal, or ­non-​­white. “­For the next 21 days, we as a class will do a systematic s­ elf-​­observation and spiritual practice practicum,” said Dr. D, passing around our newest assignment instructions. At this point in class, I had learned many new spiritual and historical techniques: meditation as contemplative inquiry (­Zajonc 15) and etiological tracings of disability to understand everyday ableism and its connection to discrimination (­­Kumari-​­Campbell 172)—​­such as how insults disguised as jokes started in the Middle Ages when kings and queens attributed disability to servitude and entertainment, frequently ridiculing dwarfs as court jesters. (­Ravenscroft 42) This assignment was different. It required us to engage in a systematic ­self-​­observation, a methodology used in social science research to gather information about our emotions, biases, habits, and behaviors (­Rodriguez and Ryave). Dr. D intended us to discover the origins of our colonialist traumas through introspection. Overall, I thought the assignment was silly, especially while I grieved. But I decided to meet requirements through prompted journaling because it valued the processing of feelings and thoughts for healing (­Adams vi). I started the spiritual practicum in the Secret Garden near my office building. Tucked away in a courtyard, the garden contained orange trees, carnations, and some patio furniture. Nothing special, then. The first few days of prompted journaling felt unfulfilling. If the goal of the assignment was to reproduce a bodily disruption from colonized routinization and problematic behaviors, then that was not happening. We had to observe if changes happened in our thoughts, speech, and actions ­three-­​­­to-​­four hours after practicing. I only felt the same bitterness and grief from the breakup. I intended journaling for shadow work, or to help me address repressed pain (­A ziz 78), but I felt I was failing miserably. Then, on the fifth day of practice, something deep in my core told me to draw. As a child, I loved to draw. I learned from my dad, a high school art teacher. I decided to sketch an elephant; it was M’s favorite animal. While I etched each line and shaded every angle, I changed. Time slowed; the world around me vanished when I gazed into the heaviness of the elephant’s eyes and wrinkles. The initial sketch was everything I wanted it to be. I felt twinges of joy and validation again. Blue, purple, black, gold, and brown hues would bring this beast to life. It would bring me back to life. I can never explain what happens when I draw. I fall into a trance: my body guides me through feelings of bliss and peace. Over the years, I lost my love for art. I never found the academy to offer me space for engaging a­ rts-​­based practices. At the heart of religious colonialism is the loss of the bodymind’s natural knowledge creation. Education has infested us with mindbugs, ingrained cognitive and social habits that, arguably, led to erroneous, discriminatory logics that have reinforced whiteness, ableism, and heterosexism (­Banaji and Greenwald 22). These logics privilege knowledge as truth where c­ lear-​­cut and often inflexible absolute sciences praise the mind but distance the Spirit. Through our educational institutions, we can forget that art, poetry, dance, and other improvisational expressions disrupt the harmful routines of oppressive cultures. Imagine what it could mean to introduce contemporary creative education to the idea of destigmatizing grief, trauma, or mental illness in the academy; or to normalize c­ reation-​­centered spiritualities and bodily epistemologies to shift pedagogies, individuated learning styles, or ­self-​­care accommodations (­Blindell 17). I posted my initial sketch to Instagram later that day. My ex unfollowed me. I felt bittersweet that he left, yet happy for recognizing a power buried somewhere deep inside me. Call it a synchronicity, a deeply meaningful coincidence that lacks a causal connection ( ­Jung 93), 159

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but the elephant’s birth into my life meant the death of my unconscious choice to continue conforming to the oppressive habits, behaviors, and structures of my institutionalized self. My recent breakup became a gift or a key to disrupting internalized colonization. I grieved in cycles of contentment and depression over the next few weeks. When the spiritual practice ended, I noticed my o ­ ver-​­attentiveness to my every movement, thought, and word. Orienting myself to the seven directions each day changed how I interacted: “­How are you, Corey?” colleagues would ask, their eyes always filled with pity. I’d pause and think carefully about each word before responding, “­I’m in the West ­today—​­feeling reflective.” My deviation from communication scripts and politeness protocols (­i.e., how we ask and answer daily mundane questions) must have discomforted my colleagues (­Sue xiv). I soon found myself feeling isolated at my cubicle; I’d work on my elephant drawing instead of the slew of semester papers I needed to finish. My colleagues were polite; they’d ask me about my drawing. Yet, I sensed inauthenticity in their speech. ­Toxic-​­positive remarks soon filled the Ivory Tower. The word “­crazy,” particularly, frequented my colleagues’ communication. That’s crazy! You’ll get over it. It is what it is. Good vibes only! You’re better off without him. These spiritual microaggressions lingered in my bodymind, exacerbating my grief with detrimental, somatic symptoms such as anxiety, exhaustion, and suicidal thoughts (­Hodge 484; Sue 127; Torino et al. 55). My colleagues did not understand the cumulative effects their words had on my neurodiverse bodymind. Ableism and other oppressive structures have always been ingrained in academia. Everyday conversations with academics show the carelessness around mental health for graduate students (­Carter et  al. 108). I was spiraling and needed help. My ended relationship was destroying me, like an emotional ulcer. I had to do something. Then, I read M ­ ehl-​­Madrona’s book, which Dr. D assigned for class. The book described how ­Mehl-​­Madrona used narrative psychiatry to treat his patients’ mental illnesses. He described how Native American elders often viewed every illness, including heartbreak, as a spirit (­181). One patient, Dora, had been devastated by a breakup. Crafting a new story around the breakup helped to heal Dora (­191). However, to complete Dora’s transition from a betrayed lover to a resilient character in her new story, she needed to complete a spiritual ceremony. Ceremony was a method of enacting story and garnering a transformation around ­ ehl-​­Madrona held a sunrise ceremony to say goodbye to her inner energy (­234). Dora and M monster, Despair. My eyes widened. This was the answer to ending my suffering: holding a funeral for my relationship and my Spirit’s death. So, one early April morning, I visited the Secret Garden, carrying items essential for a ceremony (­­Mehl-​­Madrona 241): a portrait of my e­ x-​­boyfriend and me, my therapy journal, and a prayer string. I laid each item on a picnic blanket and played some memorial music on my phone. I had to say goodbye to my inner monster, Grief. I lifted the prayer string, tied with seven pieces of multicolored cloth representing the seven directions of the Wheel. Gripping each piece tightly, I muttered a prayer: please, heal my broken Spirit. I knew what I had felt was not love, but emotional abuse. My story needed rewriting. I ended the ceremony and whispered one final prayer to my favorite song, “­Contre Qui, Rose.” I felt relieved. Grief had disappeared at that moment. My neuroqueer Spirit had reawakened inside me. Along with this rebirth meant embracing a new ethic for navigating the ­world—​­one of disability justice, humanizing bodyminds across differing identity markers, 160

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­Figure 19.1 The Blue Sage Elephant: An e­thno-​­mimetic drawing representing PTSD, emotional authenicity, and neuroqueer spirituality.

combatting everyday spiritual microaggressions, and dismantling colonialist educational policies (­Berne). I tied my prayer string to an orange tree before leaving the Secret Garden, now a sacred place. It hung there for several months unbothered by groundskeepers. I left to finish the drawing (­see ­Figure 19.1). I now realize the elephant is more than art. It is an ­ethno-​­mimesis, an image born from my systematic ­self-​­observation data (­Pink 158). This artwork resembles my inner struggle against PTSD to awaken a neuroqueer spirituality and ethicality. The differing shades, colors, and angles in the drawing act as a map for the ambiguity of colonized emotions and irrational logics I gained from my time in the academy (­Tracy and Reutlinger 69). Art disrupts my whiteness, ableism, and heterosexism. Taking s­elf-​ ­care breaks to grieve while working excessive hours in graduate school is not sustainable. As shown during the ­COVID-​­19 pandemic, the academy can benefit from methodologies like ­ethno-​­mimesis to decolonize classroom spaces and to promote c­ ommunity-​­oriented care for students, especially for those encountering ­late-​­stage pandemic fatigue (­Cushing). Art, craft, and visual culture education humanize students in an e­ ver-​­decaying academic landscape. “­Do you have a moment?” Dr. D stopped me in the ­linoleum-​­tiled hallway, gesturing to her office. On entering, my eyes darted from a Mexican skeleton painting on the wall behind her cluttered desk to a ­w ind-​­up Catholic nun toy to a chair jammed near a bookshelf. 161

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“­Have a seat.” I sat across from her. Dr. D’s expression grew unexpectedly fearful. “­I want to preface: You are not in trouble, but I have to ask anyway,” she began. I listened intently, my heart thumping. “­A re you hearing voices?” The question stunned me. I shook my head vigorously. She sighed. “­I thought not.” Her expression calmed. She leaned back in her office chair. “­Some colleagues have been saying they’re worried about you. If you had answered yes, I would’ve had to escort you to campus counseling services. I don’t want to do that.” My chest tightened. I was livid. Some colleagues wanted to institutionalize me without ever asking for my own input on my ­well-​­being. Dr. D understood. We then discussed how colonialist structures in academia had imposed violence on our neurodiverse bodyminds. Native Americans and many Indigenous populations were religiously persecuted and labeled as “­pagan savages” for their spiritual beliefs (­Fixico). Along similar historic timelines, J­ udeo-​­Christian practitioners often attributed demonic possession to mental illnesses and disabilities (­Parry 162). Learning and practicing decoloniality through neuroqueer conceptualization meant my ostracization if I continued to disrupt communicative conventions. It meant I had to be careful. It did not mean, however, to stop decolonizing work. The academy needs harmful practices dismantled. I am tasked to construct participatory methodologies that center social justice and community care for underrepresented identities. Researchers should commit to ­ethno-​­mimesis, participatory mapping, visual ethnography, feminist art therapy, or similar methods to elicit Indigenous knowledge, structure community conversations, and build resistance against colonialism (­Pink 145). This includes assembling space for Black, Brown, and Indigenous scholars to execute decolonial research. I know now how important poetry and art are for students’ emotional care. I frequently encourage creative assignment submissions from my students. Neuroqueer spirituality invites a critical pedagogy to disrupt oppressive power dynamics such as colonialism and to provide more access for neurodiverse bodyminds. This pedagogy called, “­cripping the classroom,” maintains “­a political understanding of disability as a socially constructed category that focuses attention on questions of accessibility” as central for challenging normative classroom conventions (­McKinney 114). I often ask, how can I rethink classroom policies pertaining to attendance and participation, deadlines, or academic integrity? How, for example, can I reconfigure the classroom so that silence can be seen as an authentic expression of exhaustion by the high demands of educational labor rather than as not contributing to learning (­Hao 268)? The C ­ OVID-​­19 pandemic has shown how in/­accessible ­remote-​ t­ eaching classroom formats can be for students of various economic backgrounds and abilities. Post-lockdown curriculum should normalize ­a rts-​­based practices such as collaborative group exams, active listening exercises, and interactive performances to unsettle colonial forces working to harm students identifying as disabled, spiritual, or other underrepresented identities. I left Dr. D’s office soon thereafter with a deeper appreciation for spirituality. I now realize what it means to be emotionally authentic, but cautious. I walked down the fl ­ uorescent-​ l­it hallway, thinking about M. Art had become my haven. I continue to draw, letting my 162

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neuroqueer Spirit guide my healing journey and disrupt colonialism, ableism, heterosexism, and whiteness.

Prompts and Resources • • • • • •

Besides those listed in the chapter, what other ­a rts-​­based or educational practices can we use to destigmatize grief, trauma, or mental illness in the academy? What are some ways that we can normalize conversations around authenticity and spirituality without reinforcing toxic positivity? How can we use art, craft, and visual culture education to reshape classroom structures and policies to humanize students? “­Neuroqueer: An Introduction”: https://­neuroqueer.com/­­neuroqueer-­​­­an-​­introduction/ “­Disability ­Justice—​­A Working Draft”: https://­w ww.sinsinvalid.org/­blog/­­disability-­​­­justice-­​­­ a-­​­­working-­​­­draft-­​­­by-­​­­patty-​­berne “­The Justice Fleet”: https://­w ww.thejusticefleet.com/

Works Cited Adams, Kathleen. The Way of the Journal: A Journal Therapy Workbook for Healing. 2nd ed., Sidran Press, 1998. Aziz, Robert. The Syndetic Paradigm: The Untrodden Path beyond Freud and Jung. SUNY Press, 2007. Banaji, Mahzarin, and Anthony Greenwald. Blind Spot: Hidden Biases of Good People. Bantam, 2016. “­BBC Mental A History of the Madhouse Full Documentary.” YouTube, uploaded by JLO Productions, 15 Aug. 2014, www.youtube.com/­watch?v=oswUssXzFlY&t=3048s. Berne, Patty. “­Disability ­Justice—​­A Working Draft.” Sins Invalid, 9 June 2015, www.sinsinvalid. org/­blog/­­d isability-­​­­justice-­​­­a-­​­­working-­​­­d raft-­​­­by-­​­­patty-​­berne. Blindell, Grace. What is Creation Centred Spirituality? Creation Spirituality Books, 2001. Carter, Angela, et  al. “­Bodyminds Like Ours: An Autoethnographic Analysis of Graduate School, Disability, and the Politics of Disclosure.” Negotiating Disability: Disclosure and Higher Education, edited by Stephanie L. Kerschbaum, et al., University of Michigan Press, 2017, ­pp. ­95–​­114. Cushing, Ellen. “­­Late-​­Stage Pandemic is Messing with Your Brain.” The Atlantic, 8 Mar. 2021, www. theatlantic.com/­health/­a rchive/­2021/­03/­­what-­​­­pandemic-­​­­doing-­​­­our-​­brains/­618221/. Fixico, Donald L. “­W hen Native Americans Were Slaughtered in the Name of ‘­Civilization’.” History, 26 Oct. 2020, www.history.com/­news/­­native-­​­­a mericans-­​­­genocide-­​­­u nited-​­states. Gilderthorp, Rosanna. “­Is EMDR an Effective Treatment for People Diagnosed with Both Intellectual Disability and ­Post-​­Traumatic Stress Disorder?” Journal of Intellectual Disabilities, vol. 19, no. 1, 2015, ­pp. ­58–​­68, doi:10.1177/­1744629514560638. Hao, Richie Neil. “­Rethinking Critical Pedagogy: Implications on Silence and Silent Bodies.” Text and Performance Quarterly, vol. 31, no. 3, ­pp. ­267–​­284, doi:10.1080/­10462937.2011.573185. Hodge, David. “­Spiritual Microaggressions: Understanding the Subtle Messages That Foster Religious Discrimination.” Journal of Ethnic  & Cultural Diversity in Social Work, vol. 29, no. 6, 2020, ­pp. ­473–​­489. Taylor & Francis Online, doi:10.1080/­15313204.2018.1555501. Hughes, Jessica M. F. “­Increasing Neurodiversity in Disability and Social Justice Advocacy Groups.” Autistic Self Advocacy Network, June 2016, autisticadvocacy.org/­­w p-​­content/­uploads/­2016/­06/­­whitepaper-­​ ­­Increasing-­​­­Neurodiversity-­​­­i n-­​­­Disability-­​­­a nd-­​­­Social-­​­­Justice-­​­­Advocacy-​­Groups.pdf. Jung, Carl Gustav. “­Synchronicity.” Jung on Synchronicity and the Paranormal, edited by Roderick Main, Princeton University Press, 1998, p­ p. ­93–​­102. ­Kumari-​­Campbell, Fiona. Contours of Ableism: The Production of Disability and Abledness. Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. McKinney, Claire. “­Cripping the Classroom: Disability as a Teaching Method in the Humanities.” Transformations: The Journal of Inclusive Scholarship and Pedagogy, vol. 25, no. 2, 2016, ­pp. ­114–​­127. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/­stable/­10.5325/­t rajincschped.25.2.0114. ­Mehl-​­M adrona, Lewis. Healing the Mind through the Power of Story: The Promise of Narrative Psychiatry. Bear & Company, 2010.

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Corey Reutlinger Parry, Matthew. From Monsters to Patients: A History of Disability, 2013. Arizona State University, PhD Dissertation. ProQuest Dissertations and Theses Global. Pfeiffer, David. “­The Conceptualization of Disability.” Exploring Theories and Expanding Methodologies: Where We Are and Where We Need to Go, edited by Sharon N. Barnartt and Barbara M. Altman, JAI Press, 2001, ­pp. ­29–​­52, doi:10.1016/­­S1479–​­3547(­01)­­80019-​­1. Pink, Sarah. Advances in Visual Methodology. SAGE, 2012. Price, Margaret. “­The Bodymind Problem and the Possibilities of Pain.” Hypatia, vol. 30, no. 1, 2015, ­pp. ­268–​­284. Quintero, Samara, and Jamie Long. “­Toxic Positivity: The Dark Side to Positive Vibes.” The Psychology Group, 2019, thepsychologygroup.com/­­toxic-­​­­positivity-­​­­the- ­​­­d ark- ­​­­side- ­​­­of-­​­­positive-​­v ibes/. Ravenscroft, Janet. “­Invisible Friends: Questioning the Representation of the Court Dwarf in Hapsburg Spain.” Histories of the Normal and the Abnormal: Social and Cultural Histories of Norms and Normativity, edited by Waltraud Ernst, Routledge, 2006, ­pp. ­26–​­52. Rodriguez, Noelie, and Alan Ryave. Qualitative Research Methods: Systematic ­Self-​­Observation. SAGE, 2002, doi:10.4135/­9781412986076. Sue, Derald Wing. Race Talk and the Conspiracy of Silence: Understanding and Facilitating Difficult Dialogues on Race. Wiley, 2015. Torino, Gina, et al., editors. Microaggression Theory: Influence and Implications. John Wiley & Sons, 2019. Toyosaki, Satoshi. “­­Praxis-​­Oriented Whiteness Research.” Journal of Multicultural Discourses, vol. 11, no. 3, 2016, ­pp. ­243–​­261. Taylor & Francis Online, doi:10.1080/­17447143.2015.1073735. Tracy, Sarah Jane, and Corey Reutlinger. “­How Is Qualitative Data? An Interrogation and Puppet Show Dream.” Qualitative Inquiry and the Politics of Resistance, edited by Michael D. Giardina and Norman K. Denzin, Routledge, 2020, ­pp. ­55–​­73. Unwin, Gemma, et al. “­Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing for Adults with Intellectual Disabilities: Process Issues from an Acceptability Study.” Journal of Applied Research in Intellectual Disabilities, vol. 32, 2019, p­ p. ­635–​­647, doi:10.1111/­jar.12557. ­Vallente-​­Gómez, Alicia, et al. “­E MDR beyond PTSD: A Systematic Literature Review.” Frontiers in Psychology, vol. 8, no. 1668, 2017, ­pp. ­1–​­10, doi:10.3389/­f psyg.2017.01668. Walker, Nick. “­Neuroqueer: An Introduction.” Neuroqueer, 2021, neuroqueer.com/­­neuroqueer-­​­­a n​­i ntroduction/. Yergeau, Remi. Authoring Autism: On Rhetoric and Neurological Queerness. Duke University Press, 2018. Zajonc, Arthur. Meditation as Contemplative Inquiry: When Knowing Becomes Love. Lindisfarne Books, 2009.

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20 TRANSGRESSIVE ENACTMENTS R ­ esearch-​­Creation as ­Anti-​­Colonial Praxis Kimberley White

I begin again, already holding my breath. My body knows. I return, this time with the intention to begin with a clear statement of the problem and a corresponding question that begins with how; an approach I learned from my academic training in the social sciences. As I write this, my heart sinks. I know that marking the beginning by naming the problem already renders it doomed. It is doomed because in naming the problem, the limits of possibility are also already drawn. It’s a comfort strategy. It’s a habit. It’s a prison. It’s how I learned. I begin again.

Primer ‘­Habits’ are a socially enforced and thereby ‘­legal’ type of addiction. They are cumulated toxins which by sheer uncreative repetition engendered forms of behaviour that can be socially accepted as ‘­normal’ or even ‘­natural.’ The undue credit that is granted to the accumulation of habits lend exaggerated authority to past experiences. (­Braidotti 9) In this chapter, I experiment with an enactment of what Ronald Pelias calls performative writing, exploring writing as a practice of r­ esearch-​­creation. In the process, I hope to learn something about the potential for a ­research-​­creational approach to disrupt, resist, transgress, and transform the disciplinary affects/­effects of colonial models of education within the university and academia more broadly (­Tuhiwai Smith, Tuck, and Yang). This experiment was in part provoked by Anne Harris’s performative text “­Learning is Such Sweet Sorrow,” in which she calls for us to return to our places of learning, not simply to remember how we learned in the past, but to recognize ourselves in the reverberations between past and present. What can be learned in the reverberating spaces between past and present encounters with education? With school?

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-23

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Harris’s prompt to return, to “­turn back to ourselves” (­­11–​­12) to learn, is in tune with Rosi Braidotti’s transformative ethics and the “­nomadic notion” of “­transposition” (­­7–​­9). Playing with its musical connotations, Braidotti describes a transposition as a “­creative leap” that generates “­an ­in-​­between space of zigzagging and of crossing: ­non-​­linear, but not chaotic; nomadic, yet accountable and committed; creative but also cognitively valid; discursive and also materially ­embedded—​­it is coherent without falling into instrumental rationality” (­­5–​­6). In many ways, r­ esearch-​­creation is already a creative leap. And when mobilized pedagogically, as a nomadic a­nti-​­colonial praxis within academic institutions (­Chapman; Loveless), ­research-​­creation can also generate new i­n-​­between spaces and encounters to encourage more creative leaping. As a pedagogical sensibility (­Rancière), ­research-​­creation works to upset and offset deeply embedded aesthetic orders (­forms) and disciplinary norms within the university. In doing so, it ushers in, at the level of the classroom, learning opportunities to engage and transcend the “­generational repetition of our mistakes” while also offering “­h ints towards [future] solutions …” (­Harris 11). The value of an ­anti-​­colonial, ­research-​­creational approach, therefore, has less to do with undoing or repairing the past, and more to do with facing the past, learning in the present, and working toward a better future. The following text is made from a series of memory fragments, notes, each belonging to a particular experience placed within school. In some encounters, I occupy the subject position of student, and in others, teacher. In all, I am learning. Inspired by Dylan Robinson’s treatment of resonant theory in his recent book, Hungry Listening, I play with the visual and sonic reference of wind chimes, to re/­sound the spaces i­n-​­between notes as encounters of “­­subject-​­subject relation” (­15). Each note appears on the page dislodged from chronological time and transposed into ­present-​­tense arrangements. In allowing the notes to chime up against each ­other—​­sometimes harmonious and whispering, and sometimes dissonant, riotous, repeating, and haunting (­Gordon)—​­they generate new encounters and new relational potentialities in the spaces between. As I return to these places of learning, writing, and listening carefully, I begin to recognize, or perhaps face, myself. An isolated and afraid self. A disciplined and silenced self. A courageous and hopeful self. I include a few questions and provisional observations that emerge at certain points of encounter. They are indicated in italics and serve to amplify some of the quieter echoes and mark certain moments of recognition. I otherwise resist closing off or re/­silencing these encounters with analysis or conclusion. Rather, I leave them hanging and in motion, creating new sounds and arrangements as conditions change.

Notes from School: Collected Institutional Encounters In a welcome note to students enrolled in my ­upper-​­year honors seminar in the Law and Society program, I sound a warning in the form of an invitation to think, do, and learn differently. Already there is anxiety. Different how? By the time students reach their final undergraduate year, they are well schooled in the habits needed to succeed at s­chool—​­how to get an A. According to standard institutional measures, they are strong students. I briefly introduce three critical orientations that will guide our work together: First, we will take seriously the principles and potential of an ­anti-​­colonial praxis (­theory + practice + pedagogy) to resist and transcend colonial logics within and beyond the University. Second, we will proceed according to an ethics and a politics of transgression to reveal and transcend disciplinary boundaries, research otherwise, and innovate toward new/­future ways of learning and knowing. Third, we will foreground the core tenets of a r­esearch-​­creational approach 166

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that is at once theoretically/­h istorically informed, situated, experimental, collaborative, ­process-​­based, ­curiosity-​­d riven, and geared toward social justice. *** Standing at a small easel, I can smell the warm, woody scent of newsprint. I am wearing my grandfather’s old grey/­g reen plaid flannel shirt to protect my school clothes underneath. It is soft, a little tattered at the collar and cuffs, and hangs below my knees. In the paint tray, I see blues I have never seen before! I am fumbling with a thick sticky paint brush, awkward in my hand, when I hear the instruction to paint an outdoor scene with trees. Excited and nervous I hesitate (­hold my breath) and then just begin. I paint a huge tree from both memory and imagination: bright yellow leaves and deep purple apples against a sky of pink, a flock of bright blue birds in the shape of little m’s unleashed across the entire painted surface. I startle when the teacher, an elderly white woman, reaches from behind me to tear my sloppy wet painting from the easel, leaving behind a clean beige page. I begin to race through my mind for the instructions. What did I do wrong? Her voice bursting, she scolds: “­T REES. ARE. GREEN! APPLES. ARE. RED! THE SKY. IS. BLUE! BIRDS. ARE. BLACK!” I tuck my face into the collar of my grandfather’s shirt, consumed by the orange heat of humiliation. *** In bold type at the end of the class welcome note, I assure students that absolutely zero artistic skill, knowledge, or experience is required for this course. Nevertheless, I soon receive several emails seeking reassurance that grades will not depend on artistic ability. Some students are suspicious and nervous to know exactly what will be expected of them. They wish to signal in advance that they have “­no creativity.” Others (­usually those less fixed on plans for law school) are piqued by curiosity. Without exception, every point of concern touches somewhere on the intersecting anxieties of artistic encounter and the feeling of not knowing. *** I learned that there is something at stake in violating the rules of prescribed aesthetic order. *** I very nearly fail my MFA defense. I speak passionately about my unconventional influences (­mostly books) but fail to demonstrate the influence of the right (­A rt) influences. I contextualize my work in the ­socio-​­political history of institutionalization and the politics of form but fail to demonstrate knowledge of canonical (­A rt) history. My exegesis is “­provocative” and “­a page turner,” but I fail to abide institutional customs for a properly formatted academic thesis. Was this a joke? Had I really failed to make my point? Did they read it? Surprised and disappointed by the level of conversation, after so much shit already, I hide in the storage room of the gallery and fail to hold back tears while they deliberate on the outcome. I return, hoping to clarify what I thought were obvious transgressive intentions. *** 167

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I became an academic by learning the rules ( ­first of science, then criminology, then law) and by doing mostly all the right things. The rules make it both easy and not easy. The w ­ ell-​­trodden pathway to success is laid out in the evaluation criteria of hiring practices and tenure and promotion procedures. Excellence in research, teaching, and service are validated, or not, by the lines on a properly formatted curriculum vitae (­proof of surface compliance and worth) and, ultimately, by the judgment of others. *** We sit ­cross-​­legged on individual mats arranged in a ­semi-​­circle formation on the classroom floor, arched around the teacher who sits up on a wooden chair. My turn is coming. I feel scared and confused about what I am supposed to do, and I can’t focus my eyes on the open book I’m holding on my lap. I feel a wave, pushed up from the storm churning in my stomach, barely held back by the dam in my throat. I can’t make a sound. The classroom shrinks and darkens. I feel the vibration of muffled voices and then the boom of a demand to “­SPEAK UP”! I am frozen in my body. My eyes lowered, fixed, and ­tear-​­filled. I am memorizing the details of my socks. *** I feel these episodes trace their movement through my body. *** While riding public transit, I carefully study the ­book-​­reading university students. I identify them by their tidy compact backpacks, filled with stitched compartments for easy organization. They can ­book-​­read while standing on the jostling train! I am curious how they do this without becoming nauseated. And I am curious about the protective magic of books to shield readers from the scrutiny of public s­ paces—​­to be simultaneously present and absent. *** I imagine what b­ ook-​­readers are reading based on the titles as they flash in and out of view. I try to glimpse a few lines of text by looking sideways or over a shoulder. I know these books, especially the thick and heavy books, are not written for me. I wonder where they got them. I feel the ­tell-​­tale swirl of embarrassment in my stomach as a seated woman catches my eyes trespassing. I apologize to her for violating her protected space. I want whatever she has in her backpack. *** I’m sent home with a note from school to inform my parents of my offense. But I know my punishment is mostly for the unwanted attention I brought to them. *** As I am packing teaching supplies into my backpack (­laptop, books, ­Post-​­it Notes, water, pens, AV cord and adaptors), a student approaches me to share that she felt very emotional during 168

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the p­ oem-​­reading. “­I could barely get my line out” she said, “­I actually felt like I was going to cry!” I share with her that I had a similar experience. Another student overhears our conversation and chimes in: “­Me too! It was weirdly powerful … I think because we were standing up? It made me nervous, but I just did it anyway.” I’m curious about how she learned to do that. *** I am directed to leave my class reading circle and go to the remedial reading room across the hall. The teacher calls it the “­­slow-​­reader’s room.” The kids call it the “­basic room.” I work out in my mind that I am being banished for causing a scene, and for being where I did not belong. *** The group in the s­low-​­reader’s room is much smaller, louder, and more rambunctious than the regulars. I recognize kids from different grade levels, some look to be as big as adults though the school only goes to sixth grade. I sit at the table near the back of the room and instinctively put my head down, resting it in the cradle of my folded arms. This is one of many pacifying postures practiced at school. I stare directly down into the surface of the table to avoid the risk of eye contact. I settle my feelings somewhere between shame and relief. *** There were no books in the various Northern Ontario houses I grew up in. How did I learn to read? I recall a small library of National Geographic and Reader’s Digest assembled on a single bottom shelf in my grandparents living room. I knew every glossy image and every joke from installments of “­L aughter is the Best Medicine.” *** I arrive to my class with a bunch of Ziploc bags filled with making materials: moulding clay, elastic bands, d­ ifferent-​­sized wooden sticks, rolls of toilet paper, and blank index cards. We are in the final weeks of the course, so students know to expect surprises. I note a mix of responses on this day: claps of excitement, ­eye-​­rolls, nervous smiles, and overlapping voices competing to be heard. The room feels filled with energy. Students gather around large tables in collaborative groups of three to five to experiment with “­m aterializing theorizations of monstrosity.” *** I come across a pale blue elementary school report card at the bottom of my mother’s keepsake drawer. I hesitate to open the report card because I fear what it will confirm. Why did she keep this one? Why have I never seen it before? My eyes go straight to the bottom of the report card, to the space for “­comments.” In tidy cursive words, the teacher summarized my diagnosis as a “­­slow-​­reader” brought on by laziness. I extrapolate the cause of my ailment from her notation of symptoms such as “­­shows-­​­­little-​­effort” and “­­needs-­​­­to-­​­­t ry-​­h arder”. *** 169

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My decision to leave art school (­the first time) and go to university to read books felt like an act of ­defiance—​­a creative leap. *** I run lopsided down the subway platform, trying to hoist my art portfolio high enough that it won’t bump along the b­ urnt-​­orange tiled surface. It is flapping and sputtering like a DIY kite on a ­too-​­short string. My shoulder hurts. I’m thirsty. I just spent my last TTC token and tried to push away knowing that I won’t have money to buy more until next week. I am exhausted from the grind of working a patchwork of jobs to pay for rent, food, transit, and the cost of art classes. I am tired of having to choose. *** Following a tumultuous term as Department Chair, I took leave from my university to return to art school and pursue an MFA. But more so, I was returning to the memory of a creative life. I felt brave and then terrified to be turning away from my established academic position. I wanted a ­do-​ ­over of a ­before-​­time when I was less ­disciplined–​­less schooled. *** I am scolded and called “­arrogant” by one member of my examination committee for resisting his characterization of my MFA thesis as “­d isrespectful.” Later, I am provided with a list of nine “­recommendations” to which I must comply if I want to be awarded the degree. Each recommendation is intended to bring me back in line with the customs of scholarly form. *** Working with theories on the concept of monstrosity, students observe that to classify someone as “­monster” or “­monstrous” is to put them outside of culture and therefore not worthy of community belonging and protection. Several of the collaborative works that emerge from our classroom ­research-​­creation experiment visually and materially reference practices and experiences of exile, colonialism, the abject, fear, containment, and violence. We reflect on our direct experiences of exile and n ­ ot-​­belonging. Everyone has stories to share. *** I am sitting in my office at the university with a prospective MA student. She likes my approach to teaching the graduate methods course in ­Socio-​­legal Studies and thinks because I am also an artist that I will appreciate and support her desire to explore a more creative approach to her research. She indicates she would like to write an autoethnographic piece about her experiences of cosmopolitanism. I immediately resist and begin firing questions at her. What would that even look like? You would be writing about your subjective experience? Your feelings? Your memories? Your personal life? I watch her deflate in the chair. I suggest, trying to be gentle, that she might be in the wrong academic program. *** 170

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The newsprint on my easel is flooded with an excess of color, mixing without permission, spilling over the edges, and streaming into psychedelic pools. In this splendid moment, I am unruly like my painted blue birds, zipping and buzzing and detached from what else is happening in the room. *** A student I have not seen in several weeks confessed to me that he has not been able to keep up with assigned schoolwork because he has a lot going on. He does not want me to think that he is just being lazy, or not trying. *** Through repeated and returning school encounters, I have formed a guiding sensibility and collection of strategies for moving through the world. My experience has taught me to value, seek out, and create moments of transformative potential, and how to enact creative techniques of trespassing, transgressing, and ­transposing–​­not to conceal or compensate for my ­short-​­comings and failings, but as productive and purposeful ways of learning. In the classroom, I endeavour to make spaces for shared belonging where the resonance sounded between our encounters can be both heard and felt. *** I bring our class to a close by inviting volunteers to share in the collective reading of a poem. Those who want to read, stand up. We will take turns and move around the room, each reader taking responsibility for one line. I offer to read the first and last lines to make up for a shortfall of volunteers. I can hear nervous shuffling and whispering in the air. I feel my stomach flip, my chest flutters, my throat tightens, my arms weaken, and my eyes sting. Standing and reading out loud, together we begin: This is our classroom. This is our power. Say your name. Say my name. Because we need to rebuild our publics, ­re-​­say our names. Return to the local, remember our histories, Reanimate our bodies By looking into my eyes, not into that screen. Can you see me? I can see you. And I can see love in the empire We must find love in this empire. Let me learn. Let me learn. Let us learn. (­Harris 11)

Prompts and Resources • •

Return to your own school stories to reflect on how you learned to learn. Write a detailed account of a few school stories, perhaps at different levels of education. Bringing attention to any embodied memories (­feelings, emotions, sensations) that emerge as you recall these early experiences. 171

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• • • •

Contemplate how your earlier school learning experiences resonate with your current teaching/­learning practices (­or habits). CoLAB: ­Research-​­Creation + Social Justice Colaboratory http://­w ww.researchcreation.ca/ SenseLab: A Laboratory for Thought in Motion http://­senselab.ca/­w p2/ WalkingLab: ­Research-​­Creation https://­walkinglab.org/­­research-​­creation/

Works Cited Braidotti, Rosi. Transpositions: On Nomadic Ethics. Polity Press, 2006. Chapman, Owen. “­Forward.” Knowings and Knots: Methodologies and Ecologies in ­Research-​­Creation. Edited by Natalie Loveless University of Alberta Press, 2020, pp. ­x v–​­xxvii. Gordon, Avery F. “­Some Thoughts on Haunting and Futurity.” Borderlands, vol. 10:2, 2011, ­pp. ­1–​­21. Harris, Anne M. “­L earning is Such Sweet Sorrow.” International Review of Qualitative Research, vol. 12:1, 2016, ­pp. ­5 –​­16. Loveless, Natalie. How to Make Art at the End of the World: A Manifesto for Research Creation. Duke University Press, 2019. Loveless, Natalie, editor. Knowings and Knots: Methodologies and Ecologies in ­Research-​­Creation. University of Alberta Press, 2020. Manning, Erin. “­A gainst Method.” ­Non-​­Representational Methodologies: ­Re-​­Envisioning Research. Edited by Phillip Vannini. Routledge, 2015. Pelias, Ronald J. The Creative Qualitative Researcher: Writing That Makes Readers Want to Read. Routledge, 2019. Rancière, Jacques. The Politics of Aesthetics: The Distribution of the Sensible. Translated by Gabriel Rockhill. 2004. Continuum, 2007. Robinson, Dylan. Hungry Listening: Resonant Theory for Indigenous Sound Studies. University of Minnesota Press, 2020. Tuhiwai Smith, Linda, Eve Tuck, and K. Wayne Yang, editors. Indigenous and Decolonizing Studies in Education: Mapping the Long View. Routledge, 2019.

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21 OUTSIDE THE CLASSROOM AND OUTSIDE THE BOOKS Extending the Classroom for “­Antiessentialist” Curriculum Rebecka A. Black and Thomas E. Keefe Since May 25, 2020, the United States has been ­re-​­engaging in a national discussion around systemic racism. The reverberations of George Floyd’s murder, including many other murders of Black Americans by police, have empowered students across the country to seek more diversity initiatives in their education (­Nguyen) and to become “­eager activists” for social justice (­Buller). When the national protests for racial justice spread to Denver on May 28, 2020, some Rocky Mountain College of Art + Design (­R MCAD) students participated in the protests at the Colorado State Capitol, voicing their desire for more socially responsive curricula. The Outside the Books (­OtB) series was a response to these cries and an effort to build community within the isolation of the C ­ OVID-­​­­19-​­induced virtual classroom. The authors partnered responsively to explore, collaboratively, “­critical, controversial, and complex” (­Subedi 621) histories connected to the visual culture of people often excluded from mainstream curricula. The goals for the OtB series were to (­a) create a space for “­productive dialogue regarding political and social issues,” (­b) build community at RMCAD, and (­c) give us a space in which we could help our students and the broader RMCAD community process events through the “­productive dialogue.” While the institution is committed to curricular revisions, OtB was able to support and respond to the emotions and lived experiences of students and colleagues of color more quickly. Both authors felt strongly the need to openly address their personal empathy and teaching ­skills—​­in the case of ­faculty— ​­with a keen eye towards avoiding the optics and pitfalls associated with the White savior complex. Overall, Outside the Books (­OtB), resulted in increased student engagement in… a stronger sense of community among…. and the new development of new pedagogies among the faculty involved.

Literature Review The collaborative, “­antiessentialist” (­Subedi 633) presentation series, OtB, is discussed here through the lenses of scholarly research regarding curriculum decolonization, online community building, and socially engaged art history. Specifically, literature regarding decolonizing curricula grounds the development and format of the OtB series. Scholarly literature concerning building online learning communities, meanwhile, is relevant for the sense of DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-24

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connectedness that was developed amongst ourselves, the authors, as well as both our students and the extended RMCAD community. OtB was also an avenue to be responsive to the needs of the students and the national discourse more quickly than the implementation of course revisions. Finally, OtB is explored through the lens of socially engaged art history because the catalyst, goals, and results of the series speak to the tenets of engaging students in important social discourse outside the classroom.

Decolonizing Curricula The need to decolonize curricula in higher education is not a new concept. However, as Subedi stated in 2013, “­Critical, controversial, and complex aspects of global knowledge quite often are absent in the school curriculum” (­621). Subedi notes that American educators are typically untrained in the facts but rather in media stereotypes of global cultures. As such, they are often hesitant to engage students in global topics as they can bring under “­scrutiny” (­Subedi 622) America’s involvement in controversies related to ­non-​­Western or global cultures. Subedi explores three approaches to curricular change: “­deficit, accommodation, and decolonization” (­623). The deficit approach relies on problematizing n ­ on-​­Western cultures and dichotomizing them with a Eurocentric narrative, which ultimately reinforces Western/­European culture as superior due to its deficit of problems and the ­non-​­Western cultures’ deficit of ­problem-​­solving. In the accommodation approach, the educator includes marginalized ­non-​­Western and global perspectives in their curricula and thereby “­seeks inclusion of global knowledge” (­Subedi 629). While this approach accomplishes inclusion via multiple perspectives, which perspectives are included and how remain an issue. Finally, the accommodation approach is defined by Subedi as “­a way to compensate for the lack of coverage of global issues” (­629) that “­emphasizes the value of appreciating the glories or achievements of a particular community,” (­629) but overlooks the full and complex context of those accomplishments. As such, Subedi argues for an “­a ntiessentialist” decolonized curriculum, wherein the scholarly dialogue and curricula “­critiques dichotomous perspectives on global issues” (­633) to support a holistic view of these cultures’ autonomy and complex individual identities. We extended the idea of decolonization to extracurricular activities in the OtB series and intentionally sought to teach not only historical and social conflicts as Graff argued but also the complications of the cultures that were explored. Additionally, by including students in content development for the OtB series, we were able to ensure that perspectives from varying cultural backgrounds were included.

Community Building Sharla Berry argues that the method of content delivery also influences students’ experiences of community building in an online environment. She argues that synchronous student learning experiences “­could increase students’ ‘­sense of intimacy’ with the instructor and their ‘­sense of community’” (­Berry 166) with others in the class/­session. Although much of the scholarship regarding community building in an online environment focuses on synchronous and asynchronous formal online classes, the OtB series was not a formal class. Rather, it was a synchronous extracurricular event that students, faculty, and staff could attend together either synchronously or watch asynchronously on their own time without the pressures of assessment or required participation. 174

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In seeking to build an online learning community around the OtB series, we also looked to scholarly literature from Etienne Wenger, who argues that “­participating in ‘­communities of practice’ is essential to our learning” (­229). Wenger (­2000) describes these communities as being built by the interaction of knowledge and “­mutual engagement” (­229) to collectively establish the expectations and norms of the community. In this case, the OtB series served as the community space wherein “­mutual engagement” (­229) could be established and built through safe, open dialogue between us, its facilitators, our students, other faculty, and staff about complicated and often controversial topics. Maryellen Weimer (­2013) suggests working with colleagues from across disciplines in addition to colleagues within your own field to build a community of knowledge about teaching practices. As such, other RMCAD faculty were invited to guest speak in several OtB sessions which served to model professional collaboration for our students while simultaneously introducing them to diverse teaching styles and expanding our teaching practices.

Socially Engaged Art History The OtB series also developed a stronger sense of collegiality among RMCAD faculty. The first presentation, held on June 30, 2020, entitled “­The Lasting Legacy of Jim Crow,” traced the history of systemic racism in America from 1619 through the Antebellum South to Jim Crow and into the present. We chose this topic as an intentional response to the growing national conversation surrounding the murder of George Floyd and its connection to broader conversations about culture and policing during the Jim Crow Era. The authors, a professor of art history and a professor of humanities, used a combination of history and visual culture to address the origins and representations of Jim Crow in American history. The reaction to the first presentation was positive and immediate. We ended with an invitation for students and other members of the community to participate or submit ideas for future presentations. One student suggested a presentation on the complicated racially charged history of Puerto Rico and offered to ­co-​­present with the authors. The student chose this topic because she felt her Puerto Rican culture had been largely ignored in both the art history and history curricula at RMCAD. The required textbook for RMCAD art history courses is Art History (­5th edition) by Stokstad and Cothren. While this text is a “­g lobal” text that includes multiple ­non-​­Western visual cultures, there is notably no discussion of Puerto Rico, and the academic culture of the institution has been limiting instructors’ personal agency to supplement this text with more diverse content. The presentation content, largely directed by the student, focused on the history, visual culture, and current state of education and statehood efforts of Puerto Rico. As a result of her involvement in presenting the OtB session, this student gained confidence in her presentation and scholarship skills and went on to present her research at a national academic conference in the Spring of 2021. The third OtB presentation focused on the Harlem Renaissance. In their feedback, one student noted that she thought someone of African American identity should also be part of the presentation. We were already planning a presentation on the legacy of the Harlem Renaissance and so asked the student if she, who identifies as a Black woman, would be interested in c­ o-​­presenting or speaking during part two of the Harlem Renaissance presentations. She agreed and the student opened the presentation by reading a poem by Langston Hughes. She later agreed to ­co-​­present with us again during Black History Month in February 2021 as well. For this latter community presentation, the authors, acknowledging their own identity and limitations as White academics, asked three students with whom they’d worked with before to share their thoughts on Black History Month, experiences at 175

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RMCAD as Black Americans, and their thoughts on the state of racial justice in America. As is noted in the feedback on the presentation, the presentation by these three young women was powerful, emotional, and necessary for the RMCAD community, and for the authors to hear and witness. The presenters shared appreciation for being given space to be heard within the RMCAD community. With the ongoing support of participating and attending students, faculty/­staff, and members of the general public, we continued the presentation series on a biweekly basis into the first Spring term of 2021. Ultimately, a total of 13 presentations took place, all of which were intended to address topics not typically covered in RMCAD curricula. The following section explores how we collected feedback related to participants’ experiences in the OtB series.

Methods In addition to informal anecdotal comments, we administered two Google Form® surveys in an effort to collect feedback from students participating in the OtB series. The first survey, comprising two Likert scale questions and an o ­ pen-​­ended question, was emailed to attendees in ­m id-​­July to gauge interest, gain preliminary feedback, and solicit ideas for possible presentation topics. Seventeen people responded out of 31 attendees. In December, a second survey, comprising the same questions, was sent to attendees. In both surveys, participants were given the opportunity to answer anonymously (­while still identifying themselves as students, staff, faculty, or guests), and we asked for consent or an opt out of responses being used in research and possible publication. These respondents were designated as Sample B.

Analysis and Connection to Scholarship Survey respondents unanimously found the presentations to be interesting and well prepared. Most respondents also found that the presentations were both impressive and informational (­91.7%) as well as relevant to current events and the attendees’ lives (­88.9%). Sample B respondents also unanimously indicated that the OtB presentations highlighted the history and visual culture of underrepresented communities. Ninety percent of respondents likewise felt that the OtB series was successful at fostering a sense of community between students, staff, faculty, and the broader community. For example, one student mentioned the “­stronger bonds amongst those who participated” and a faculty member noticed “­that there was a certain communal attitude that had been cultivated in these meetings.” An alumnus, meanwhile, said she “­met so many people I didn’t know of at the luncheons.” Survey results also indicated that the ­community-​­building fostered throughout the OtB sessions continued outside the meetings. Specifically, one staff member explicitly stated that “­conversations continue beyond.” Similarly, a student shared that conversations continued “­a fter attending these [OtB] discussion as well.” The most common description of the ­community-​­building aspect of the OtB sessions was “­open” and “­safe.” The OtB series occurred in an online environment due to the C ­ OVID-​­19 pandemic, and the authors were also aware of a need for community during the pandemic isolation. This goal was predicated upon a sense of openness, and safety is characteristic of the “­sense of intimacy” and “­sense of community” (­166) that Berry notes can be built into synchronous online learning environments. Attendees were described as “­peers and professors,” “­colleagues,” and “­all RMCAD stakeholders,” and the discussions were described as “­healthy.” Three attendees who have no prior relationship commented in their feedback that OtB has led to friendships and conversations outside of the lecture series. 176

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While it may seem unusual to refer to a presentation as a discussion, several survey respondents mentioned the Q&A session at the end of the presentations. Wenger’s discussion of “­mutual engagement” (­229) is also relevant in understanding participant survey data regarding the Q&A discussions during the OtB series. One guest noted that the Q&A allowed them to “­d ive deeper into more personal aspects of the attendees’ perspectives,” while a student said that they appreciated that “­the conversation gave everyone the ability to ask questions and further their understanding of the topics from multiple perspectives.” One faculty member observed that the “­students seemed very comfortable asking questions, and those questions were either answered in the chat or addressed directly in the presentation.” Another faculty member also complimented the authors for their “­strong effort to engage with students” as well as “­a strong effort to provide context.” A staff member further emphasized that “­students need to see that staff and faculty are engaged with the world and have similar interests in learning beyond what is in the textbooks.” According to one student, the presentations were “­educational” and included information “­not taught in the general curriculum.” Similarly, another student said, “­I feel that it [OtB] gave students who wanted to learn more [about….] a chance to learn things that were outside the usual curriculum.” Another student said that “­heavier themes of the topics discussed are handled tastefully,” and a guest also noted appreciating the “­speaking on sensitive topics.” They stated that: What I love the most is they aren’t afraid to take on introducing new studies or topics. They face it h­ ead-​­on and the community only benefits from it. One student called the presentations “­t ruth” and “­a reality check” on the dominant historical narratives. The authors intentionally chose to “­teach the conflicts” (­33) from history and art history, but in a manner guided by Subedi’s ideas on the antiessentialist curriculum. For example, in our t­ wo-​­part series on the Harlem Renaissance, we avoided “­fetishization” (­Graham 33) and emphasized only “­the glories or achievements of a particular community” (­Subedi 629) by exploring the controversial figures, like Marcus Garvey, within the movement. Likewise, during the Suffering for the Vote: Hidden Herstory presentation, we explored racism within the American Suffrage movement to present a more holistic, rather than a romanticized understanding of multiple perspectives. One student said that “­OtB makes the unseeable be seen” and that it was “­a nother perspective I never experienced and expected at RMCAD.” Another respondent appreciated “­learning something new” and another said that “­Honestly, anything you want to know about art history, history, politics, etc., and it [OtB] applies to current events… [and] the topics are always relevant.” The survey respondents also mentioned the authors’ passion for social justice, their knowledge, and their preparation. The banter between the authors was also mentioned too as was the “­casual, comfortable, and hilarious environment.” Perhaps what summed up the aims of OtB the most, however, was stated by one faculty member as follows “­I always leave knowing something new or gaining a new perspective to consider” and by an alumnus as “­These events foster a strong community.”

Challenges While the OtB series has received overwhelmingly positive feedback, the series, nonetheless, had some challenges. The presentation format in relation to the content was often perceived as out of balance. One guest stated that some presentations “­have too much information that 177

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you are trying to fit into a certain timeframe.” Depth vs. breadth was a constant struggle for us. An additional challenge was the schedule of presentations. When we began the OtB series, we were offering one lecture every two weeks over the course of several months. After a request from students to discuss specific topics, we were conducting weekly scholarly presentations on numerous unfamiliar topics that required significant research on our parts, all while continuing our regular institutional responsibilities. In several presentations, we included experts in the field to support the quality of the OtB series.

Conclusion Buller notes that students are looking for more opportunities to be activists in their communities. Here, we explored the rationale and results of our attempts to provide a space to help ground student activism in curricula reform. As a result of OtB, RMCAD has extended its support of curricular revisions within the Liberal Arts Department. In creating the OtB series, the authors sought to challenge “­m ainstream curriculum knowledge” (­Subedi 622) by engaging their art and design college community in n ­ on-​­essentialized discussions of underrepresented histories and visual culture. By structuring presentations meant to “­teach the conflicts” (­Graham 33), the authors ultimately created a safe space for students, faculty, staff, and the general public to engage in open “­critical, controversial, and complex” discussions (­Subedi 621), leading to the construction of an online community despite the isolation and ­socio-​­political angst of the climate around them.

Prompts and Resources • • • • • •

In decolonizing the curriculum, how do educators not become trapped by tokenism or what Chimamanda Adichie calls the “­Dangers of a Single Story”? What metrics do educators use in curricular reform to determine what elements of the Western curriculum are kept or removed in the process of decolonizing the curriculum? How do educators rethink the concept of “­g lobal” in their teaching? https://­engagedarthistory.org/ https://­arthistoryteachingresources.org/ https://­hybridpedagogy.org/

Works Cited Berry, Sherry. “­Teaching to Connect: ­Community-​­Building Strategies for the Virtual Classroom.” Online Learning, vol. 23, no. 1, 2019, ­pp. ­164–​­183. Buller, Rachel Epp. “­Activism, Art, and Design: Bringing Social Justice to Life in the Higher Education Curriculum.” Art Education, vol. 74, no. 1, 2021, ­pp. ­30–​­39. Graham, Michael. “­The Future of Art History and the Undoing of the Survey.” Art Journal, vol. 54, no. 3, 1995, ­pp. ­30–​­34. Graff, Gerald. Beyond the Culture Wars: How Teaching the Conflicts Can Revitalize American Education. W. W. Norton, 1992. Nguyen, Terry. “­Student Activists Want ­Change — ​­And They’re Starting in the Classroom.” Vox, July 29, 2020. https://­w ww.vox.com/­identities/­2020/­7/­29/­21345114/­­students-­​­­diversify-­​­­curriculum-­​­­change​­antiracist Palmer, Parker J. “­Good Talk about Good Teaching: Improving Teaching through Conversation and Community. Change, vol. 25, no. 6, 1993, ­pp. ­8 –​­13. RMCAD. “­ R MCAD Celebrates 50th Anniversary.” June 10, 2013. https://­ www.rmcad.edu/­­ rmcad-­​­­ celebrates-­​­­50th-​­anniversary/

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Outside the Classroom and Outside the Books Stokstad, Marilyn, et al. Art History. Pearson, 2014. https://­a rchive.org/­details/­m arilynstokstadmichaelw. cothrenarthistoryzlib/­page/­n1/­mode/­2up?q=table+of+contents Subedi, Binaya. “­Decolonizing the Curriculum for Global Perspectives.” Educational Theory, vol. 63, no. 6, 2013, ­pp. ­621–​­638. The Conversation. “­George Floyd’s Death Reflects the Racist Roots of American Policing,” 2020. https://­ theconversation.com/­­george-­​­­floyds-­​­­death-­​­­reflects-­​­­the-­​­­racist-­​­­roots-­​­­of-­​­­a merican-­​­­policing-​­139805 Weimer, Maryellen. ­L earner-​­Centered Teaching. ­Jossey-​­Bass, 2013. Wenger, Etienne. “­Communities of Practice and Social Learning Systems.” Organization Articles, vol. 55, no. 2, 2000, ­pp. ­225–​­246.

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22 EXPLORATIONS FOR DECOLONIZING THE CURRICULUM REGARDING TECHNOLOGY Michelle Tillander The pandemic, the move to the HyFlex and hybrid models of instructional delivery, the social and political unrest, and the knowledge crises (­e.g., fake news, alternative facts, privileging of interpretations, and fake science) sent me and my art education students through a variety of ­emotions—​­despair, fear, exhaustion, sadness, confusion, numbness, and bewilderment. Even with my 23 years in public education in a variety of settings from 3rd to 12th grade, and my robust knowledge of online education (­e.g., design and implementation of the UF MA in Art Education), I saw the struggles that arose within K ­ -​­12 education. My students are well versed in classroom management as well as fluent in technology. During the pandemic, we struggled daily within the interning environment to provide ­K-​­12 art students with an accessible and equitable education. Like many of my colleagues, my resilience became grounded in a renewed determination to confront the traditional methods of research, teaching, and service. How can I, as an art educator committed to social transformation, teach, research, and serve in ways that directly challenge this perfect storm of racial, social, ecological, technological, and economic inequities? Digital media and art are unique in that they further question our notions about decolonizing precisely because we can open perspectives, release our imagination, and raise consciousness about gaps in knowledge production. By enacting forms of participation that bring understanding and realization, digital media and art produce awareness and reveal limits within a creative and sociotechnical experience. As online art educational practices and digital media become both habits and collective projections taking shape in our local, global, and virtual sites, I have become aware of the stories of connectedness and narratives that distort or interrupt the places of our imagining and learning (­Tillander, “­Cities of Tomorrow” 42). Artificial intelligence (­A I) is another factor in the current stages of d­ evelopment—​­there are many social and material consequences in which AI can swiftly colonize social systems such as education, healthcare, labor, and communication, as well as our natural environment. As Crawford argues: [t]he underlying visions of the AI field do not come into being autonomously, but instead have been constructed from a particular set of beliefs and perspectives. The designers of the atlas of AI are a small homogenous group of people, based in a handful of cities, working in an industry that is currently the wealthiest in the world. (­13) 180

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-25

Explorations for Decolonizing the Curriculum Regarding Technology

AI and algorithmic literacies (­Long and Magerko; Rainie and Anderson) require urgent reviews in order to ensure ethical interactions. We need to develop a critical and creative approach to technologies (­e.g., data conception, production, and circulation) on our individual and collective lives towards retooling for social justice. If all the questions of what AI accomplishes come from the perspective of white or privileged wealthy people, how do educators like me know what questions to ask about these literacies? How do we take the lead in analyzing the circumstances of our own making as we design a curriculum? Through an examination of creative and critical scholarship and artistic praxis, this chapter exposes the (­lack of?) potential to engage in a cultural conversation about digital media and decoloniality, and instead mobilize ideas through: (­a) different modalities and sociotechnical foresight; (­b) a move towards decolonization of prescribed curriculum content; and (­c) interpretation of newer technologies in particular contexts of lived experiences. These mobilizing ideas provoke the relocation and reallocation of institutional power structures. How does the curriculum we advocate for reflect our current complicated, openly political, and diverse culture?

Different Modalities and Sociotechnical Foresight Critical emotional praxis, as argued by Bozalek et  al., recognizes the emotional ambivalence and ambiguity and creates pedagogical opportunities for critical inquiry and hope that can restore humanity and encourage healing as educators and students confront their own ­emotional-​­laden beliefs (­21). Ellsworth (1989) argues to move beyond critical pedagogy because it often “­strips discussions of classroom practice of historical context and political position” (­300) and frequently decontextualizes criteria for choosing one position over another. For Bozalek et al., critical hope is “­an ongoing process which requires constant ­re-​ ­evaluation and revision for renewal and sustained critique” (­2). As such, having the foresight to understand and anticipate how choices and actions are made in using various technologies can shape or create the future. This sustained critique includes identifying limitations of a given technology used in education and their prospective ethical and social harms as well as establishing ethical principles that center vulnerable peoples who continue to bear the brunt of negative impacts of technological innovation. A curriculum reset in art education requires practitioners and researchers to be grounded in a living relationship with the production of knowledge, the participatory process, as well as with theory, methods, and transformative activist action. Specifically, if we are to have meaningful expectations of our curriculum design, we must keep the tensions that happen between our living relationships with technology and the artworks that locate critical inquiry, emotions, and actions alive (­Tillander, “­Digital Visual Culture: The Paradox of the [In]Visible” 58). Digital activism is defined as the use of digital tools such as the internet, social media, email, and mobile phones (­which are used for mobilization) to enact political action and to provoke change. Digital activism in education is important because it offers a timely and expressive reaction, quickly assembles a collective response, and works toward more accessibility to underrepresented voices who bring up issues and documented events to the forefront such as the 2013 surfacing of the #BlackLivesMatter hashtag. Nygreen notes that, “­activist research is politically engaged: it assumes education is inherently p­ olitical—​­rooted in and shaped by political process and relations of p­ ower—​­and that education change is a political struggle” (­2). As such, to uncover the underlying cultural assumptions that dominate a field of study and the broader society, we must nurture participatory inquiry, problematize normativity, interrogate one’s world views, and move beyond 181

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an individualistic perspective to new paradigmatic relation networks as models for cultural conceptual connectedness. Cann and DeMeulenaere argue that “­epistemic equity” is about challenging the impact that educational institutions have on privilege (­132). Educational curriculum reproduces myths of cultural and cognitive deficiency, divisions of race, gender, class, and age that are often reproduced within collaborative groups, no matter how sincere the attempt to equalize power between teacher and students. We need to ask: Who and what digital media (­like AI) are participating in the production and consumption of knowledge? In the artwork titled Tender (­2020), Magid used the first public font Public Sans1 to laser engrave the phrase “­the body was already so fragile” on the edge of 120,000 newly minted ­pennies—​­the only part of the zinc and copper coin that is not covered with state information. The phrase provokes the physical body and/­or the fiscal one. The number of pennies is equivalent to $1,200.00, which is the figure on the stimulus checks issued under the CARES Act. Tender’s modality as a dispersed monument demonstrates a shift from object to performance engaging public participants in collaboration to distribution during the ­COVID-​­19 pandemic. Like Magid’s Tender, art and curriculum do not need to make a ­statement—​­they can rupture a statement through collaboration, multiple perspectives, and ambiguity, as well as share authority with participants. As we become more actively involved in the technological production of culture, these ideologies continue to evolve as the ubiquity of technology such as AI and algorithms invisibly enter our lives and spaces of learning. How does our engagement outside academia such as ­K-​­12 public education, local communities, and among current social and political undercurrents relocate and reallocate missing narratives within the curriculum?

Toward Decolonization of Prescribed Curriculum Content Instructional practices that engage critical and digital activism with digital literacies provide students with the skills to continue questioning multiple viewpoints and promoting social justice. Fatimah Tuggar’s installation Lives, Lies, and Learning (­2019) uses videos projected as holograms as a metaphor for critiquing the academy as a system of illusions and inherent exclusion. Tuggar states, “­I am focused on technology as a catalyst for the human condition. My position is that all rational making and knowledge is technological and collaborative across cultures and histories; we are all building on prior experience” (para. 4). Her artwork invokes conversation about power and access while promoting social justice by implicating everyone in these systems to impact local and global identities and realities in support of diverse voices and perspectives. Similarly, Knight and Spillane question assumptions made from continual centering of whiteness along with deficit thinking (­Bastos et al. 2) as norms act as an axis of rationale and disregard the students of color in our classrooms. Artist Fusco states, “­To ignore white ethnicity is to redouble its hegemony by naturalizing it” (­72). Curriculum is just the beginning of resetting the deficit narratives and actualizing the decentering of whiteness and positions of privilege. Art educators need to seize opportunities to explore in order to understand our own professional and personal identities that colonize the curriculum. Specifically, we should create spaces and resources to consider not only what is being taught, but how both the content and delivery often colonize past and present worlds. What questions are we asking of existing canonized pedagogies and art education curriculum history? 1 Public Sans: It’s official. The US government released its own free font https://­w ww.typeroom.eu/­a rticle/­­public­​­­sans-­​­­its-­​­­official-­​­­u s-­​­­government-­​­­released-­​­­its-­​­­own-­​­­f ree-​­font.

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In troubling digital media in art education, we need to be cognizant of the social and cultural context: Arts education reflects its context embedded within society and culture, including the use of various technologies. These technologies are a complex combination of discursive, material, social, and sensory performances. These performances influence pedagogy through their encoding of artistic, sociocultural habits and practices. (­Tillander in Spector 721) Engaging criticality with our emotional practices allows us to interrogate our own emotionally loaded belief systems and offers a powerful approach to both sustaining and or disrupting hegemonic discourses across systems of oneself, others, as well as knowledge, values, culture, and power at play between stakeholders and technological artifacts. For example, in her article “­W hiteness Is,” Buffington conducts a content analysis of the race and gender of the artists represented in commercial resources to demonstrate how available art teaching resources reify whiteness (­17). Research and practice in art education and digital media are not only about focusing and evaluating technologies but also about exposing the subliminal nuances within digital interfaces. Specifically, they are about unsettling the production of altered/­enhanced/­mediated visions to create and sustain erased space that can be colonized such as Hybrid/­HyFlex, through expedient commingling of the real and virtual spaces of art education curriculum. Thus, to create a practice that is ­anti-​­oppressive and anchored in critical action and hope, we must also be aware of the invisible forces of technology interfaces; interrogate curricular content, teaching practices, and classroom interactions; and take action to prioritize justice. Our question becomes: As the performances of technology become more ubiquitous and autonomous, how will they be represented in the curriculum? And how will technology influence pedagogy through their encoding?

Toward a Contact Zone2 of Asks, Relations, and Actions This chapter provides a perspective on the importance of imagining alternative realities/­ futures, to question who is developing technologies such as learning management systems, algorithms, digital archives, and AI, and how to examine the roles of culture and power embedded in educational technology systems. I use Pratt’s contact zones as “­social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other, often in contexts of highly asymmetrical relations of power, such as colonialism, slavery, or their aftermaths as they are lived out in many parts of the world today” (­34) but focus more on cultural production rather than a static perspective. Contact zones were originally built upon nine ­categories—­​­­auto-​ ­ethnography, transculturation, collaboration, hybridity, bilingualism, mediation, parody, imaginary dialogue, and vernacular expression. For me, the focus on classroom practices and digital practices are intercultural encounters that are situated as extensions of us and often unknowingly deepen racial hierarchies. How we as art educators set up and respond to our students’ encounters with each other and also with us (­teachers) and our technologies is imperative. In addition, considering concrete purposes and tangible actions, the curriculum must have contact zones of asks, new relations, and actions in recognizing the legitimacy of marginalized knowledge that colonize the curriculum. Art educators need to articulate how 2 Pratt, Mary Louise. “­A rts of the Contact Zone.” Profession, 1999, ­pp. ­33–​­4 0.

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the competing views of students are acknowledged, criticized, and negotiated, ultimately navigating the politics of t­eaching—​­about whose voices get heard and why. There is a need to understand how to maintain conflict as a strategy to value dissent to support intellectual, social, and political development. This includes how we situate ourselves within an active process of curriculum development because, as Kraehe argues, “­that the sociocultural influences, the distinctive frameworks, idioms, and practices that define us as a field may also function surreptitiously as hegemonic tools of domination and exclusion” (­208). In designing instruction, Amgott argues that educators should apply the four dimensions of critical literacy to digital literacy and activism: “­d isrupting the commonplace,” “­interrogating multiple viewpoints,” “­focusing on sociopolitical issues,” and “­taking action to promote social justice” (­329). Kraehe’s critique of tools and Amgott’s dimensions provide a framework to push the questions and conversation about technology and curriculum in art education front and center. In 2016, in the work Your Face Is/­I s Not Enough, artist Kevin Beasley transformed ­police-​ ­issue riot gear into a c­ arnival-​­like installation that is activated by the breadth of performers to trouble hegemonic tools of domination and exclusion often perpetuated by AI and algorithmic technologies. In “­A lgorithms of Oppression: How Search Engines Reinforce Racism,” Noble makes visible technological practical digital redlining that is on the upswing using algorithms that reinforce oppressive social and economic relations. Noble questions the values that are prioritized in automated d­ ecision-​­making and directs us to look at the v­ alue-​­laden propositions worthy of interrogation toward an “­a lgorithmic future” exploring power as mediated by intersectional identities (­171). She argues, and I agree, that “­a rtificial intelligence will become a major human rights issue in the ­t wenty-​­first century” (­1). Disrupting, interrogating, and focusing on sociocultural issues, with digital media in art education, and taking action to promote culturally responsive teaching with technology are critical and hopeful processes of questioning ourselves and assisting those around us to employ a form of ­interrogation—​­that is a personal process of hybrid literacies. I wonder, how are we problematizing our own creative making and our teaching?

Interpretation of Newer Technologies in Particular Contexts of Lived Experience and the ­Never-​­Ending Relocation and Reallocation of Institutional Power Structures Today, we are increasingly propelled into the technological production of culture. Social and technical coding of learning spaces will no longer be referred to as the “­decolonizing question”—​­coding can quickly become a reality today and for the next few years. Mimi Ọnụọha’s installation titled The Library of Missing Datasets (­2016) focuses on the social relationships and power dynamics behind data collection, and The Library of Missing Datasets 2.0 (­2018) focuses on ­blackness—​­both the ­over-​­collected and ­under-​­represented. “­The point of data collection is a unique site for unpacking change, abuse, unfairness, bias, and potential. We can’t talk about responsible data without talking about the moment when data becomes data” (­Ọnụọha 16). Ọnụọha’s art practice of responsible data shows us that critical inquiry and hope can be used to address our own bias and e­ motional-​­laden beliefs. More specifically, we need to be conscious of how we are all becoming complacent in a process that is often invisible or inscribed in narrow ways. Mohanty argues that many scholars of education and globalization are alarmed at the rush to technologize and commodify curricula on the part of large state universities as an example of a profound change in intellectual labor (­179). What we do now is what we need now. No 184

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matter what our intentions, everything we say and do in the pursuit of justice will one day be outdated, ineffective, and yes, probably wrong. That is the way progress works. There were many strategies that emerged for me and my students as we continually ask questions to decenter our practices with technology in and out of the art education classroom during the ­COVID-​­19 pandemic. The following are a few strategies that currently seem pressing: • •

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identifying the ongoing processes of racialization in digital tools and processes; acknowledging that there is not a single world or way of being within digital media but rather a proliferation of worlds, traditions, and forms of knowledge produced by technology (­m akers); recognizing how dynamics of colonization shape all the aspects of technology inside and outside of our art classrooms; envisioning new sets of practices that embrace the hybridity, plurality, contradiction, and tension that are necessary approaches for engaging with technology in art education; and foregrounding our technology practices and how they are received by our students.

As Oluo argues, “­W hat we do now is important and helpful so long as what we do now is what is needed now” (­187). Staying present beyond an increasingly persistent and pervasive automated world of machine vision is imperative. Berger observes that “­the way each sees the other confirms his[their] own view of himself [themself ]” (­96). Empowering through understanding is needed for encountering the now and seeing back at ourselves. Through a combination of challenges to knowledge production and enacted asks, multilevel system collaboration, and the relocation and reallocation of institutional power structures, we must decenter our ways of being and seeing. Undoing educational narratives and mythologies is critical for clarifying the meaning and ethics of dialogue, as well as the knowledge, attitudes, and conditions that are critical for building art educational change regarding technology and a more decolonized curriculum. However, we need to know what to ask of ourselves and our students as much as from where to ask the questions of the material content, process, and knowledge production of art education programs of study. “­W hat makes me hopeful is not the certainty of the find, but my movement in search” (­Freire 106). We cannot get closer to the answers we need unless we know what questions to ask, which requires us to refocus the embodiment of experience and encounter. I am critically hopeful that an active engagement with receptivity, listening, and drawing a focus on the tension, the differences, the convergence of technological knowledge construction, and the production within our curriculum will continue to inform our questions.

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From the normalization of digital visual technologies around the world through the Internet, cyberspace, and cyberculture, the results often mimic behaviors deemed desirable in Western culture. Discuss how you see digital visual technologies as a renewal, extension, or provocateur of colonialism and/­or Western culture? Tillander identifies five strategies to decenter colonizing practices of technology. What of these strategies resonate with you, and are there any additional strategies that you would consider using to decenter colonizing practices? While technology and digital media have facilitated effective and efficient learning in general, it can also have a negative impact. What positive and negative educational 185

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narratives and mythologies regarding technology and digital media have you realized in your education journey? Artist Tuggar and Ọnụọha explore systems of illusion, exclusion, and power dynamics. Explain other artists who also bring awareness to issues of colonization, knowledge construction, bias, and ­emotional-​­laden beliefs? Art and education are undergoing a dramatic transformation for artists, educators, and consumers as it continues to enmesh itself with technology. Discuss how technology and digital media are affecting your creative world and agency. A nti-​­ ­ Racist Art Teachers: Promoting Inclusive Thinking, Celebrating Diversity, and Inspiring Transformative Action through Arts Education: https://­ sites.google. com/­v iew/­a ntiracistartteachers/­home Artists exploring Artificial Intelligence: https://­a iartists.org/ Creative Resistance: A Showcase for Activist Artists: https://­creativeresistance.org/ NAEA Platform and Position Statements: https://­w ww.arteducators.org/­about/­­platform-­​­­ and-­​­­position-​­statements NAEA Position Statement on Use of Imagery, Cultural Appropriation and Socially Just Practices:   https://­w ww.arteducators.org/­­advocacy-​­policy/­a rticles/­­551-­​­­n aea-­​­­position-­​ ­­statement-­​­­on-­​­­use-­​­­of-­​­­i magery-­​­­cultural-­​­­appropriation-­​­­and-­​­­socially-­​­­just-​­practices

Works Cited Amgott, Natalie. “­Critical Literacy in #DigitalActivism: Collaborative Choice and Action.” International Journal of Information and Learning Technology, vol. 35, no. 5, 2018, p­ p. ­329–​­341, DOI:10.1108/ ­­I JILT-­​­­05–­​­­2018–​­0 060. Bastos, Flavia, M.C., Kimberly J. Cosier, and Karen Hutzel. “­Introduction.” Transforming City Schools through Art: Approaches to Meaning ful K ­ -​­12 Learning, edited by Flavia MC Bastos, Kimberly J. Cosier, and Karen Hutzel, Teachers College Press, 2012, ­pp. ­1–​­9. Your Face Is/­ Is Not Enough.” Tate Museum, 2016. https://­ w ww.tate.org. Beasley, Kevin. “­ uk/­a rt/­a rtworks/­­beasley-­​­­your-­​­­f ace-­​­­is-­​­­is-­​­­not-­​­­enough-​­t15632 Berger, John. Ways of Seeing. Pelican, 1972. Bozalek, Vivienne, Brenda Leibowitz, Ronelle Carolissen, and Megan Boler. Discerning Critical Hope in Educational Practices. Routledge, 2017. Buffington, Melanie. “­W hiteness Is.” Journal of Cultural Research in Art Education, vol. 36, no. 2, 2019, ­pp. ­10–​­27. Cann, Colette N., and Eric J. DeMeulenaere. The Activist Academic: Engaged Scholarship for Resistance, Hope and Social Change. Myers Education Press, 2020. Crawford, Kate. Atlas of AI. Yale University Press, 2020. Ellsworth, E. “Why doesn’t this feel empowering? working through the repressive myths of critical pedagogy.” Harvard Educational Review, vol. 59, no. 3, 1989, pp. 297–325. https://doi.org/10.17763/ haer.59.3.058342114k266250. Fusco, Coco. “­Fantasies of Oppositionality.” Art, Activism, and Oppositionality: Essays from Afterimage, edited by Grant Kestler, Duke University Press, 1998, ­pp. ­60–​­74. Knight, Wanda B. “­Culturally Responsive Teaching in Art Education.” International Journal of Arts Education, vol. 13, no. 1, 2015, ­pp. ­70–​­89. Kraehe, Amelia M. “­Sounds of Silence: Race and Emergent ­Counter-​­Narratives of Art Teacher Identity.” Studies in Art Education, vol. 56, no. 3, 2015, p­ p. ­199–​­213. DOI:10.1080/­0 0393541.2015.11518963. Long, Duri, and Brian Magerko. “­W hat Is AI Literacy? Competencies and Design Considerations: Proceedings of the 2020 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems.” What Is AI Literacy? Competencies and Design Considerations | Proceedings of the 2020 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems, AMC, 2020. dl.acm.org/­doi/­f ullHtml/­10.1145/­3313831.3376727. Magid, Jill. Tinder Project. 2020, collection of the artist. http://­w ww.jillmagid.com/­projects Mohanty, Chandra Talpade. Feminism without Borders: Decolonizing Theory, Practicing Solidarity. Duke University Press, 2003.

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Explorations for Decolonizing the Curriculum Regarding Technology Noble, Safiya Umoja. Algorithms of Oppression: How Search Engines Reinforce Racism. New York University Press, 2018. Nygreen, Kysa “­Reproducing or Challenging Power in the Questions We Ask and the Methods We Use: A Framework for Activist Research in Urban Education.” Urban Affairs Review, vol. 38, no. 1, 2006, ­pp. ­1–​­26., DOI:10.1007/­­s11256-­​­­0 06-­​­­0 026-​­6. Oluo, Ijeoma. So You Want to Talk about Race. Seal Press, 2020. Ọnụọha, Mimi. The Library of Missing Data Sets. 2016, collection of the artist. https://­m imionuoha. com/­­the-­​­­l ibrary-­​­­of-­​­­m issing- ​­d atasets —​­—​­—​­. The Library of Missing Data Sets 2.0. 2018, collection of the artist. https://­m imionuoha. com/­­the-­​­­l ibrary-­​­­of-­​­­m issing- ­​­­d atasets-­​­­v-​­20 —​­—​­—​­. “­The Point of Collection.” Medium, Data & Society: Points, 31 Oct. 2016. points.datasociety. net/­­the-­​­­point-­​­­of-­​­­collection-​­8ee44ad7c2fa#.y0xtfxi2p Pratt, M.L. Arts of the Contact Zones, Profession, 1991, ­p. 34. Rainie, Lee, and Janna Anderson. “­The Need for Algorithmic Literacy, Transparency and Oversight Grows.” Pew Research Center: Internet, Science & Tech, Pew Research Center, 31 Dec. 2019. www.pewresearch.org/­i nternet/­2 017/­02/­0 8/­­t heme-­​­­7-­​­­t he-­​­­need-­​­­g rows-­​­­for-­​­­a lgorithmic-­​­­l iteracy-­​ ­­t ransparency-­​­­a nd-​­oversight/ Spillane, Sunny. “­The Failure of Whiteness in Art Education: A Personal Narrative Informed by Critical Race Theory.” Journal of Social Theory in Art Education, vol. 35, 2015, ­pp. ­56–​­68. Tillander, Michelle. “­Cities of Tomorrow: A Synthesis of Virtual and Physical Communities.” Visual Arts Research, vol. 40, no. 2, 2014, p­ p. ­34–​­43. —​­—​­—​­. “­Digital Visual Culture: The Paradox of the [In]Visible.” Inter/­Actions/­Inter/­Sections: Art Education in a Digital Visual Culture, by Robert W. Sweeny, National Art Education Association, 2010, ­pp. ­1–​­12. —​­—​­—​­. “­Technologies in Arts Education.” The SAGE Encyclopedia of Educational Technology, by J. Michael Spector, SAGE Reference, 2015, ­pp.  ­721–​­722. https://­sk.sagepub.com/­reference/­­the-­​ ­­sage-­​­­encyclopedia-­​­­of-­​­­educational-​­technology/­i9400.xml Tuggar, Fatimah. Lives, Lies, and Learning. 2019, Commissioned for Spencer Museum’s 2 ­ 019–​­2020 Exhibition Knowledges. https://­w ww.spencerart.ku.edu/­­a rtists-​­respond/­­f atimah-​­t uggar#:~:text=Fatimah%20 Tuggar%20was%20a%20featured,at%20institutions%20of%20higher%20education.

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23 ACTIVATING CURIOSITY, HEART, AND ARTISTIC IDENTITY TO ENGAGE ECOJUSTICE Jonathan Silverman How do those of us working in university education programs instill a sense of wonder and critique that challenges colonial and Anthropocene paradigms (­Manathunga 6)? How might educators actively engage with curiosity, heart, and artistic identity as building blocks that lead to ecojustice (­Kearns 98)? I respond to these questions by sharing discoveries integrating the arts with critical pedagogy. I describe the sequencing of artistic, inquiry, and interpersonal skills that encourage educators to decolonize perceptions and address ecojustice (­Hayes 7). As Bower explained, ecojustice illuminates colonial exploitation on the environment and marginalized cultures and develops the consciousness and resilience that promote ecological and human rights (­1). I am inspired by Greene (­­19–​­22) and Sewall (­214) who challenged educators to move beyond our boundaries of knowing and reconcile the relationships we have with each other and with the environment. As societies confront the impact of technology, anthropocentrism, and consumerism, students need guidance and resources to reflect on traditions that include school culture “­w ith an eye toward a different world” (­Martusewicz et al. 21). By engaging in artistic activities and viewing images, students can examine the dominant contexts and interconnections of ecological and aesthetic issues as well as create and confidently articulate their own perspectives (­Finley 308). As Weintraub surmised, “… Art provides a powerful vehicle for transmitting ecological insights and asserting them as a force for social change” (­17). To decolonize learning, educators need ways to decode and encode information to revitalize the places and relationships that have been uncared for and exploited (­Battiste 14; Hayes 7). In short, a decolonizing approach to curriculum asks educators to think differently about what and how they teach, and what l­ong-​­term expectations they have for students (­Hayes 4). This reflection is based on the following courses I taught between 2013 and 2019 at Saint Michael’s College, Vermont, USA, and as a visiting professor at Doshisha University in Kyoto, Japan: Heroes, Art, and Social Justice (­for graduate students who are currently teachers), Teaching Social Studies and the Arts (­for elementary and art education licensure candidates), and Advance Lectures in Lifelong Education and Culture (­part of a graduate program in holistic learning). In these courses, students engaged in exercises that began with individual artistic interpretations and advanced to more collaborative work. I included articles, young adult novels, TED talks, poetry, and historic and contemporary images as inspirational texts. My goal was 188

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-26

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to provide an aesthetic, ethical, and holistic lens to understanding ecojustice. Although many students in my classes did not identify as artists, I wanted them to experience how the arts can challenge their paradigms and ignite their imaginations. The education licensure candidates had an additional major such as history, biology, art, English, and environmental studies. Students in Japan focused on holistic education, which deepens the connection among humans and the natural world through meditation, questioning, and contemplation (­Nakagawa). I was invited to Japan to integrate the arts throughout the curriculum with students whose professional intentions ranged from education to healthcare. To form insight on student learning, I used reflective papers, artwork, critiques, journal synthesis, and ­in-​­class observations. In this chapter, I interlace discoveries with literature references to illuminate patterns on how the arts decolonize perception. All students have pseudonyms. My teaching strategies are embodied in my analysis. I have organized my discoveries of how the arts decolonize learning and address ecojustice into three interrelating themes: cultivating curiosity and imagination, bringing heart into curriculum through empathy and community, and building artistic identities and aesthetic sensibility.

Cultivating Curiosity and Imagination “­Looking back now, I was so timid… I was fearful showing my opinion, not wanting to offend anyone” (­Barbara, an elementary licensure candidate). Barbara’s observation is common for many who enter a class assuming a didactic model where it is safe to be complacent. My aim was to awaken the imagination right off and create a safe and inclusive community where risk taking would be the norm, arts are central to learning, and relationships are supportive and nurturing. One way to decolonize a classroom, as Hayes suggested, is to address the elements that make a culture of learning (­9). Opening exercises spurred introspection on the expectations for communicating and engaging as a class. Filling up pages with a 2B pencil, making circles and taking lines on walks, and physically moving through space with different energies opened up the pores of exploration, curiosity, and risk taking. In Japan, I asked students to mindfully observe objects from nature. They transitioned from noting subtleties of their drawing to witnessing the drawing of others. Reflecting on these early experiences in class, my students commented on the commonality of stepping outside their comfort zone and challenging familiar paradigms. They observed how these beginnings serve as a foundation to support each other and begin the meaningful discourse. Marilyn, a current science teacher, stated, “­Our sense of community was established on the first day.” They experienced learning environments as safe places to struggle. Some students confronted their feelings of inferiority as artists. I also participated in these early assignments, sharing the risks and humility of critical artistic inquiry. An environment that acknowledges vulnerability and honesty fortifies students to confront privilege, superiority, and centric thinking (­Manathunga 15). As Marilyn noted, “­We slowly unlocked our shackles of conformity and facades.” For an early assignment, I asked students to arrive in class with a description of their sense of place. They exchanged stories of place with someone from class they did not know well and then artistically created their partner’s stories of place. Students questioned how they would represent someone else’s truth and struggled between their own aesthetic and the perceived aesthetic of their partner. As Hideko, a holistic education student noted, “­We learned that each of us has a unique perspective through artistic activities. I am curious 189

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­Figure 23.1 Silverman, Jonathan. “­M indfully observing and drawing from nature” October 15, 2019.

how our internal and external perspectives meet each other and then interact with another’s perspective on the world.” By sharing artistic interpretations, students witnessed the power of oral tradition bridging “­my” place to “­your” place. Steven, an English teacher, noted, “­This assignment bonded our group with a common understanding of each of our pasts, our histories, and our beliefs.” Students’ identities were enriched by imagining the different interpretations of the world (­Battiste 17). The sharing of one’s place through an artistic lens can awaken new paradigms on ecojustice. In each class, students viewed and responded to a range of environmental artists using language to describe subtleties in the artwork and to make connections to their ecological understanding. Provocative images sparked students’ imagination to witness the colonizing devastation of the earth. A student from Japan, Mia, compared consumption to a societal addiction expressing the need to slow down and recognize that we are nature and only hurting ourselves. Martha, a prospective elementary teacher, wondered how photographs showing human pillaging of nature were, “­Bewitchingly beautiful. Who would have thought that our destruction could cause such charm… we see ‘­progress’ and beauty, but are blind towards the obliteration.” Reading images took practice, commitment, and risks to move beyond generalities and objectification. Students reflected critically on their cultural and historic norms (­Manathunga 6). As Toshi, a holistic education student remarked, “­By opening our imagination, we imagine about people who are suffering or peoples we never met, or places we have never been. Art helps us become compassionate and mindful.” Contemporary artists who bring issues of ecological and social justice enlightened students to engage in social imagination. Diverse images of the environment incited wonder and empathy that helped connect “­me” to a larger biodiversity. They began to converse about the colonialization of 190

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land, both local issues (­sprawl in a nearby neighborhood or constructing wind farms) and global issues (­deforestation in the Amazon Rainforest). Students also used their curiosity to critically analyze TED talks and young adult novels. Chimanda Adiche reminded students of the danger of a single story, and by listening to many stories, “­truth” is conveyed (­Adiche). Katherine, a high school art teacher realized how the embrace of one story leads to prejudice and superiority. She saw art as an instrument to, “­Repair broken perceptions, to develop new stories that will empower and humanize us.” Amy reflected on how advertising images ignore the consequences of water scarcity, “­Sustainability can only happen when we are willing to make the right decisions about the products we use, and how we use them.” After drawing a ­still-​­life of food consumption depicting how our choices impact the environment, she reflected, “­Facts and statistics do not stick with someone more than an image. Images and artwork help people see the world and possibly change it for the better.” Opening exercises helped students see how art released the imagination to deconstruct the transference of knowledge (­Greene ­124–​­126). High school art teacher Diane noted, “­Our artistic renderings led to a more enhanced ability to be in relation, acknowledge our responsibilities, and transform how we envision education.” Society’s tendency to rely primarily on words diminishes the parameters of literacy and the extent by which we can imagine and feel the power of many stories. Language reflects cultural nuances and particular ways to organize thoughts, engage in interactions, and represent the world. Surely, the language of art can reinforce stereotypes, cultural bias, and a preconceived sense of beauty. The objectification of another’s culture and an unexamined interpretation of images can perpetuate a colonial and racist perspective of the status quo. However, the language of vision can nourish curiosity, empathy, and social imagination that ideally transform recognition and objectification to an ethical discourse on goodness as well as empower authentic relationships humans have with each other and the environment (­A nderson and Guyas 24; Battiste 17; Highwater 116).

Bringing Heart into Curriculum through Empathy and Community Artistically engaging with another’s story opened the pores of empathy to experience new images, beliefs, and habits. As Barbara reflected when creating her partner’s sense of place and observing the interpretations of peers, “­We learned to give up control and allow the process of learning about others to fill our minds with wonder.” For Nancy, an elementary licensure candidate, “­The poem I wrote just flowed out of me. I was possessed by Amy’s place and experience; it just had to come out.” Engaging in empathic exercises can shift students’ worldview from anthropocentrism to caring stewardship. I assigned such young adult novels as Counting on Grace (­Winthrop), Out of the Dust (­Hesse), and Heart of the Samurai (­Preus) to both help students examine the human condition and view environmental and social issues at different times in history and to model an interdisciplinary approach to learning. I had students embody characters in ­role-​­play and tableaux to empathize with the economic, social, and political considerations surrounding the depression, dust bowl, and whaling industry. Their capacity to decolonize and emotionally invest was sparked by critically analyzing the context in which their character lived (­A nderson and Guyas 234; Hayes 8). Miriam, for example, felt the struggle and agony of being in the role of Grace, a child laborer. After this portrayal, she expressed how thankful she was that Lewis Hines’ photography in the early twentieth century unveiled the story of unjust child labor and unsustainable working conditions that eventually helped change public perception 191

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(­Winthrop). These young adult novels helped students encounter the complexity of how human and biosystems are mutually interdependent and deliberate on such contrasts as progress vs. conservation and consumerism vs. sustainability. In all my classes, students engaged in a collaborative project, developed through a democratic process. My parameters were simply that students had to choose an issue such as racism or sustainability and engage in artistic inquiry. Leaving part of the syllabus open was intimidating for students expecting a ­teacher-​­centered classroom and a risk for me letting go of control and predictability. I reconstructed the culture of learning empowering them with d­ ecision-​­making. My role was facilitator; they decided on essential questions, learning objectives, assessment, sequence of activities, and the culminating experience. I had no idea how their projects would turn out. I resisted temptations to intervene. These ­student-​­based projects decolonized classroom paradigms as students moved from focus on self to self in relation to others and learning presented as expansive (­Hayes 9). Students witnessed the power in pedagogical choices that promoted diversity and compassion when considering different perspectives. C ­ o-​­developing an ­a rts-​­oriented curriculum compelled students to seek creative solutions to social and ecological problems (­Finley 310). As Nancy noted, “­compassion is more sense than thought. Art expresses compassion through imagination. Imagination cultivates the ability to ‘­imagine’ other people as well as myself.” A “­just” community built on compassion, openness, and mutual dependence decolonizes learning environments to help students empathize in making connections between human rights, ­socio-​­ecological issues, and one’s own evolving narrative. Collaborative experiences such as artistic interpretations of local seniors’ memories of place offered students a context to transform thinking about community in the present to thinking about community with a sustainable perspective.

Building Artistic Identity and Aesthetic Sensibility All my classes started with essential questions such as what are three ways you use your imagination, what influences your sense of place, how do interpretations of beauty influence ecological practice, and what are possible links between mindfulness and art. Such questions offered a framework for students to examine how imagery and perception form social and environmental expectations. Discovering and painting a partner’s sense of place, enacting a fisherman living in nineteenth century Japan, and ­co-​­authoring an integrated arts curriculum on ecological perception enabled students to become conscious of unexamined cultural beliefs (­Manathunga 17). For Marilyn, art brought home, “­The importance of scale and composition,” helping her notice the link between details and big picture. Martha expressed how “­a rt helps us confront the unpredictability and ambiguity of life.” Karen noted that a change in perspective occurs when dogma is challenged. The arts widened and slowed down the reflective process where students were able to contemplate society’s mistreatment of life’s biodiversity (­Battiste 14; Manathunga 15). By observing, discussing, and creating art, students linked past exploitation with the consideration of future generations. In the Fall of 2016, students from one of my graduate courses and students from two universities in Taiwan collaborated to examine the “­beloved” sense of places. Students were asked to think about place as physical, metaphorical, spiritual, and ritualistic. From Facebook and email conversations, students shared versions of beauty, identity, and culture. To Jane, a future elementary teacher, “­This was the first time in schooling that my boundaries were put to the test breaking the comfort zone mold I was very much stuck in.” F ­ irst-​­person accounts 192

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of how the Taiwanese rebounded after a destructive typhoon gave my students new visions of how an event elsewhere could stir ecological responsibilities. For Meghan, what formerly would seem insignificant now had an emotional impact, “­Through art we shared the stories of the world.” The language of vision helped students cross boundaries between cultural differences and one’s own provincialism (­A nderson and Guyas 241; Highwater 120). Mary, an elementary teacher remarked, “­Direct access to meeting people from other cultures is not always convenient.” By sharing stories of place, she experienced, “­The importance of stepping outside one’s comfort zone to be more perspective and empathic.” For Jane, Meghan, and Mary, engaging in the arts helped them expand their critical view of the human condition by witnessing how misperception can lead to colonization, and stories of others lead to new insight. By reviewing historic and contemporary artwork and creating their own artistic interpretations, students encountered the complexity in how beauty is defined. Jerel, a high school educator, found himself, “­Looking at the beauty of people, pieces of art, and nature in ways I never had before.” Diane surmised, “­we live in a time in society where everything is uncertain, our social norms seem to be changing daily.” Dialoguing about who and how we define beauty can ignite critical analysis of issues related to ecojustice. Learning through the arts, according to Martha is, “­Messy, raw, and sometimes confusing, pushing the boundaries of what we thought we knew.” She connected our various art making with the relationships we have with each other and with the environment: We simply have to dig in if we want to get anywhere. This is what life is l­ike—​­we have to work with, collaborate, and embrace a variety of people with different backgrounds, socioeconomic statuses, values, interests, social clout, and opinions. Art projects allowed me to recognize the qualities of classmates and admire them as human beings… Art has the ability to ignite, represent, and propel social change. Art has the power to create ripples, to create waves, to create tsunamis. (­Martha) At the end of the semester, students synthesized their learning through art. Kacey, an Environment Studies major, chose to create a s­elf-​­portrait of Mother Earth. Her intent was to integrate sustainability, diversity, and the arts and show the vulnerability of both women and the Earth. Kacey’s experience exemplifies a decolonizing approach to learning through the telling of new or perhaps forgotten stories about interdependent relationships between humans and nature that include voices from women and indigenous cultures (­Battiste 17; Manathunga 12). In her artist statement, Kacey hoped that the viewer would be inspired to use their imagination in reflecting on the choices we make as humans. As Weintraub noted, “­W hen artists are also environmentalists, they guide, originate, manage, and monitor policies that advance sustainable alternatives” (­17).

Conclusion By cultivating curiosity and imagination, bringing heart into curriculum through empathy and community, and building artistic identities and aesthetic sensibility, educators can reverse decades of exploiting the environment. As Finley noted, “­A rt…can transform the dominant cultural politics of neoconservatism and ubiquitous capitalistic growth that threatens the capacity of the world’s environments to nurture human life” (­312). According to Marilyn, the classroom science teacher, “­Empowerment of art deteriorates ­boundaries—​ ­whether they are cultural, religious, physical, or political.” 193

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Through immersion in various art activities, my students extended their understanding of learning paradigms. They encountered perspectives different from their own and engaged in their own creative process to communicate ideas on social and environmental justice. Whether seeing a peer’s familiar place in an unfamiliar way or exchanging cultural differences using common media, students developed empathy and witnessed how social imagination can lead to transformation. Alice, a prospective elementary teacher admitted that “­over the years I have buried my head in the sand, deeper and deeper to get away from reality; I did not fully realize that I was becoming numb.” By viewing and creating works of art, she concluded that the arts offer students a language to make memorable connections with others and regain a sense of belonging to the natural world. As she concluded, “­we are intertwined in a system around ­ourselves—​­we can affect it just as it can affect us.” Alice reminds us that to achieve ecological and social responsibility, we need to experience the awe that has disappeared. Much of our current education practice has strangled that sense of awe and power to use our social imagination. As Martusewicz et al. suggested, “… It is always possible to shift how we think and thus how we behave or relate to one another by using different ways of describing or representing the world” (­68). It is my contention that the arts effectively decolonize knowledge offering a viable way to encounter and embrace the diversity and interdependency of nature. Ideally, the interplay of curiosity, heart, and artistic identity will inspire educators into a world of ecojustice.

Prompts and Resources • •

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How might the arts challenge images of perception and beauty that would contribute to decolonization and ecojustice? How might artistic inquiry cultivate imagination and empathy, promote c­ross-​ ­d isciplinary boundaries, and transform pedagogy that leads to an examination of our relationship to the natural world? Holistic Education Review, Vol. 2 No. 1 (­2022): Ecopedagogy and ­Place-​­based Education: https://­her.journals.publicknowledgeproject.org/­index.php/­her/­issue/­v iew/­140 InSEA ART Education Visual Journal, IMAG #13: Climate Literacy for Art Educators: https://­w ww.insea.org/­i mag/

Works Cited Adichie, Chimamanda. “­The Danger of a Single Story.” TED Talk. Anderson, Tom and Guyas, Anniina Suominen. “­E Art H Education, Interbeing, and Deep Ecology.” Studies in Art Education, vol. 53, no. 3, 2012, ­pp. ­223–​­245. Battiste, Marie. “­Nourishing the Learning Spirit.” Education Canada, vol. 50, no. 1, 2010, ­pp. ­14–​­18. Bowers, C.A (­Chet). “­Rethinking Social Justice Issues within an ­Eco-​­Justice Conceptual and Moral Framework.” Journal of Educational Controversy, vol. 4, no. 1, 2009, https://­cedar.wwu.edu/­cgi/­ viewcontent.cgi?article=1085&context=jec Finley, Susan. “­Ecoaesthetics: Green Arts at the Intersection of Education and Social Transformation.” Cultural Studies? Critical Methodologies, vol. 11, no. 3, 2011, ­pp. ­306–​­313. Greene, Maxine. Releasing the Imagination: Essays on Education, the Arts, and Social Change. ­Jossey-​­Bass, 1995. Hayes, Celeste C. “­How to Decolonize a Classroom.” 2016, https://­d igitalcollections.sit.edu/­capstones/­ 2900 Hesse, Karen. Out of the Dust. Scholastic, 2009. Highwater, Jamake. The Language of Vision: Meditations on Myth and Metaphor. Grove Press, 1994.

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Activating Curiosity, Heart, and Artistic Identity Kearns, L ­ aura-​­Lee. “­Subjects of Wonder: Toward an Aesthetics, Ethics, and Pedagogy of Wonder.” Journal of Aesthetic Education, vol. 49, no. 1, 2015, p­ p. ­98–​­119. Manathunga, Catherine. “­Decolonising Higher Education: Creating Space for Southern Knowledge Systems.” Scholarship of Teaching and Learning in the South, vol. 4, no. 1, 2020, ­pp. ­4 –​­25. Martusewicz, Rebecca A. et al. Ecojustice Education: Toward Diverse, Democratic, and Sustainable Communities. Routledge, 2014. Nakagawa, Yoshiharu. Education for Awakening: An Eastern Approach to Holistic Education. Resource Center for Redesigning, 2000. Preus, Margi. Heart of a Samurai. Abrams, 2010. Sewall, Laura. “­The Skill of Ecological Perception.” Ecopsychology: Restoring the Earth, Healing the Mind. Edited by Theodore Roszak, et al. Sierra Club Books, 1995, ­pp. ­201–​­215. Weintraub, Linda. Environmentalities: ­Twenty-​­Two Approaches to ­Eco-​­Art. ArtNow Publications, 2007. Winthrop, Elizabeth. Counting on Grace. Yearling, 2007.

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24 IMAGINING OUR NEIGHBORHOOD OF NONHUMAN RESIDENTS Sensorial Attunement as Ecological Aesthetic Inquiry Cala Coats, Shagun Singha, Steven Zuiker and Amanda K. Riske It is how we listen…. Drawing from the materiality of lived conditions. (­Bhattacharya 181)1

­Figure 24.1 Student journal drawings of the anticipated garden and fish pond and written entry: “­I want to focus on the place where the fishies will be because to know the thought that there will be fishes in there.”1 1 All images used with consent of participants.

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­Figure 24.2 Students reacting to seeing the water for the first time.

After weeks of anticipation, the future pond that might hold 50 or more fish was finally visible. During the previous visits, students had sketched what they imagined the fish habitat in the school garden would look like in their notebooks (­see ­Figure 24.1). The planned garden design included five radiating, elevated garden beds, a fishpond in the center, and an attached chicken coop. Most of the garden design was still under construction, and students had been anticipating what it would become from a set of design layouts. On the day of our visit, a large silver basin sat between the wooden beds, where the pond would be. The water was finally present, but unlike the lively environment pictured in their drawings, the metal basin was filled with the muddy runoff from the garden beds. Several students could not resist putting their hands in the water, as the novelty of the metal basin drew them in: “­Oooohhh! When you touch it, your hand comes out dirty!” exclaimed Julio.2 “­The pond is like brownish light and when you put your hand in the water it makes it dirty, and it smells like poop for some reason” responded Gregory. “­I’m wondering how it’s going to be useful for the fish because, well the fish will die in the pond because it doesn’t have fresh water” Tatiana speculated.

2 All participants have been assigned pseudonyms for confidentiality.

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The residue from the dirty water that clung to students’ hands and arms connected them to the future fish through the smell and grit. The murky brown water and metal tub called out to them, but its smell and texture were a shock to the idealistic expectations pictured in their journal drawings. The foul smell caused concern for the fish’s viability in this environment, as students’ initial visual interest evolved into an embodied relationship with the water that created a pedagogy of care for other living beings (­Nxumalo et al. 441).

Ecological Aesthetic Attunement as ­More-­​­­than-​­Human Interconnectedness This chapter explores one part of a ­multi-​­week curriculum that used embodied inquiry to consider how we might listen differently with the world through aesthetic experience in an emerging school garden (­Springgay and Rotas 557). As we observed through a series of encounters and discussions, pedagogically orienting students to the garden through their bodies activated a biophysical rhythm with the environment (­Latta and Baer 101). Students learned directly with the land through embodied inquiry activities that validated each learner’s intuitive capacity, a way of learning that has been undervalued, diminished, and even erased in Western education (­Rotas 68). Utilizing the full body as a learning apparatus created relational connections rooted in affect, care, and kinship (­Haraway 127). These learning encounters encouraged slowing down and dwelling with the environment (­Ingold 42), with a willingness to delay identification and to create a new kind of sociality with other life forms (­Castro 26). Moreover, this project examined how learning through aesthetic attunement with an ecological orientation (­G aroian 255; Graham 11) might affect students’ ability to imagine and connect to the ­more-­​­­t han-​­human environment ( ­­Pendleton-​­Jullian and Brown 457). Ecological attunement is the art of noticing more than what is visible, where we pay attention to the material vitality of the world through a kind of listening that exceeds hearing (­Bubandt G137). Aesthetic inquiry (­Dewey 169) also emphasized learning through locality, “ ­being ­f rom-­​­­t he-​­l and and ­k nowing-­​­­f rom-­​­­t he-​­l and…. [where] being, meaning, and knowing are part of the land” (­Burkhart xiv). Merging locality with embodiment created something unknowable by Western colonial educational terms, generating connections of kinship to ­more-­​­­than-​­human life, and a capacity to imagine another kind of world. The curriculum was guided by the question: What Can a Garden Do? This question illu­ uman-​­centered ontology through a belief in the minates how our orientation exceeded a h mutual agency of ecological actants. We embraced Indigenous ways of listening, exploring the animism of and a kinship with all living beings (­K immerer 55; Tsing 24). Animist beliefs are foundational to many Indigenous ontologies, where personhood is shared by humans and nonhumans alike. This project was organized by an interdisciplinary research team with backgrounds in art, science, and math education called Green STEAM (­Science, Technology, Engineering, Art, Mathematics) Studios. We designed ­inquiry-​­based learning experiences organized around sensorial attunement, considering how art in the STEAM acronym might take form as aesthetic experience as well as visual expression. Over the course of the project, data were collected through students’ weekly drawings and field notes, photography, and audio and video recordings that often exceeded linguistic and representational forms. Students’ drawings and affective responses expressed moments of disgust, curiosity, surprise, and concern through images, movements, and gestures (­see ­Figures 24.1 and 24.2). The project was

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planned for a ­ten-​­week implementation with weekly visits to a ­third-​­grade science class, where the teacher and 26 students (­aged ­9 –​­10 years) at Paideia Academy participated in this study. Paideia Academy3 is a charter school in Phoenix, Arizona, serving approximately 800 ­K-​­8 students.

Drawing the World Swelling around Us: Body as Spatial Apparatus Along with the excitement over the anticipated fishpond, there was a general frenzied energy in the garden during the third visit. In the two weeks prior, students had worked both in the classroom and outdoors to identify a point of interest within the garden, about which they created research questions and speculative drawings that evolved each week. On this third visit, students were to individually photograph their focal point as a way of framing it, which might, in turn, strengthen their connection to it. Since many students had changed their focus to the pond as soon as they saw the water, most of the images looked alike: a vat of dirty water shot from a similar angle, distance, and height. While the pond water had captured other students’ imagination about the fish, Mateo maintained his focus on the future chicken coop, envisioning its significance in the developing garden ecology. When it was his turn to photograph a focus area, he moved toward an empty plot of sand that was intended to be the site of the chicken coop: “­Someone else can go, I’m going to draw something real quick,” Mateo commented. Ms. Smith suggested, “­Maybe you could use a stick or something.” As another student exclaimed, “­W hy don’t you draw it with a pencil!” Mateo, then, outlined the shape of the large chicken coop on the ground using his foot to mark the space in the dirt. “­I think it will look like this,” Mateo said (­see ­Figure 24.3). Mateo resisted the assignment to document an undeveloped space where the chicken coop would go, choosing to mark it with his body instead (­see ­Figure 24.3). Photography was inadequate for Mateo as a tool to document his interest, as it would have denied the materiality of his body to take form with the space. In our desire (­a s educators) to see from the learners’ perspective, photography seemed like a logical choice, but Mateo intuitively decided to frame the space by marking the land as a form of creation rather than representation. Western education has asked us to stand outside of what we study, creating a sense of disinterested separations from the world as a form of objectivity (­Gray et al. 59). Mateo’s visceral connection with the land operated through a kind of ­localism—​­knowing with the ­land—​­which exceeded representation by creating direct physical contact as a way of speculatively imagining the future space (­Burkhart xiv). His body became a vital spatial apparatus as he framed the space of the future coop with his foot. In the two previous weeks, Mateo had drawn the anticipated coop with chickens in his journal. In ­Figure 24.4, two chickens animate the landscape, proportionally larger than reality and illuminating Mateo’s perspective of their importance to him. The chickens’ disproportionate scale illuminates Mateo’s vision of the life of the space that had only been pictured in the contractor’s architectural design plans. Drawings became a way of relation building 3 Paideia’s administration and participants agreed to publish the school’s name.

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­Figure 24.3 Mateo drawing the outline of the chicken coop with his foot.

through speculative imagination. Like ­Figure 24.4, the students’ drawings of the life of the garden tell a different story than the ­human-​­oriented design plans. Just as drawing on paper enlivens the dormant potential of a blank page, responding to the empty ground in the garden confirms the spectral possibility of a world that has been and is yet to come. It begs the question of what lingers and what can be imagined? Perhaps by giving up ways of making and unmaking with the natural environment, we have lost the ability to discern our destructive effects and perceive possible worlds in the making. Bubandt described how spectral moments, “­moments of undecidability” (­128), such as Mateo deciding whether he will use his body or photography to mark space, must be valued. These moments remind us that in telling these entanglements and discomforts apart, we are participating in different ways of knowing (­K immerer 57).

Listening to the Dirt: Animacy, Stories, and Kinship Marks in the dirt became an opportunity for the ground to respond to human activity. Mud, like the wet dirt on the school grounds, has its own story to tell us. It has a metaphysical and political significance, carrying both spirits and future lives in Indigenous cosmologies (­K immerer 55). Embracing Indigenous epistemologies and ontologies is critical to engaging in an ecological pedagogy of attunement. Acknowledging that we inhabit and walk over the same mud and dirt as the chickens, the fish, and those before us, the moment was both spectral and speculative, noticing the magic of forces, human and nonhuman, that shape the spaces around us. By listening, noticing, and inhabiting the mud we can recognize what has been lost (­Singh 140). 200

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­Figure 24.4 Mateo’s speculative journal drawing from week 1.  “­I think it will look like this.”

Kimmerer, an Indigenous scholar and biologist, recounts the story of Skywoman, a cosmological narrative among many P ­ an-​­American Indigenous Tribes about the first seeds carried from the sky to be spread on Earth (­3). In the story, Skywoman is carried to land by geese, turtles, fish, and other animals. A muskrat loses its life to gather fertile mud for her from the bottom of the water. She spreads the mud onto the back of a turtle who is supporting her, and in recognition of the animals’ generosity, she dances her thanks as she scatters the seeds and branches carried from the sky. The cosmological story of Skywoman creates the world as mutually shared with a vital ecological interconnectedness across all life forms. Indigenous storytelling is derived from a ­more-­​­­than-​­human orientation to the world. It is not a world waiting to be composed or designed by human ingenuity, but instead, a world teeming with life, where the human is but one element. Education of all kinds is rooted in narratives, but ­human-​­centered Western ontologies create a cut between humans and the world. Kimmerer suggested: As the land becomes impoverished, so too does the scope of [students’] vision.... I realized that they could not even imagine what beneficial relations between their species and others might look like. How can we begin to move toward ecological and cultural sustainability if we cannot even imagine what the path feels like? If we can’t imagine the generosity of geese? (­6) Kimmerer’s quote illuminates the capacity to imagine the world otherwise. Stories inform and expand our imaginations. Just as the third graders speculated about the fish’s ability to breathe because of stories they had learned about littered oceans, Skywoman invites us to realize the mutual generosity of all life forms. The Skyworld cosmology is one place to 201

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consider different origins and to consider the personhood of our nonhuman neighbors. To acknowledge shared space and vitality with the ­nonhuman—​­chicken coup, fishpond, and the g­ arden—​­is to reject the assumption that to be human is the opposite of the animal.

Thinking as Fish, Thinking as Chicken: Speculative Imagining as Gestures of Care We returned to the classroom to discuss the day’s experiences. Our closing discussion (­evidenced below) illuminated students’ growing concern for the plight of the future fish in the dirty water as they thought with the fish’s gills as their own lungs. The day came full circle as students realized the connection between the residue left on their hands and the plight of the fish and chickens, recognizing their ecological kinship: “­How do the fish live? When the dirty water is what they’re basically in, and it’s hard for them to breathe? And how will they keep the dirty water out?” asked Jennifer. Andrea, who repeatedly expressed her desire to be a scientist, responded, “­They breathe because they have their gills, and they live in the dirty water because they’re already used to it when they live in the ocean. Cause a lot of people already littered, and it’s so they kind of have to get used to everybody littering it. So it’s dirty water.” “…but the ocean isn’t that small and all the trash just goes down. I’m seeing open dirt. If there’s too much dirt inside, I’m seeing that they can’t breathe because all that will happen is with their gills, all the dirt will just go right inside your body when they’re not supposed to. It’s all bunched up,” replied Ruby. “­I know that fish can live in dirty water because one time I went to this very dirty pond, and I could just see a lot of movement, like a whole bunch of minnows, and it was a tiny pond, and they’re all like they’re swimming around,” argued Miranda. “­So the question is how are the people that are working on the garden going to actually clean the pond? Because even though the pond is dirty and people also live in the ocean, there is no way that fish can live that long because when people litter in the ocean. So the fish can actually die,” Andrea concluded. The discussion took another turn, as the last student asked, “­I want to know how the fish in the pond react to the chickens.” Students’ realizations align with Singh’s argument to “­open ourselves to reimagining ways of relating to each ­other—​­to others human, nonhuman, and inhuman to which (­even when disavowed) we are mutually bound” (­8). As the children felt the precarious conditions of the future pond, one remembered previously seeing how life was sustained by minnows in similar murky water, while another expressed concern about how to make the environment in this situation healthier for the fish. The experience created a relational understanding of their interconnected vitality with broader global conditions and a growing kinship with their nonhuman neighbors: the fish, chickens, plants, and soil. Starting with the learner’s body as a node encourages us to rethink what is valued: prioritizing affect and ethics over production and innovation. Moreover, their curiosity about the interdependency between the various life forms that would inhabit the garden transported them beyond the school grounds to connect the contamination of the small metal tub to that of the ocean. Dwelling with the developing garden space created ­more-­​­­than-​­human connections with the living elements of the garden, expressed through drawings, discussions, caring questions, and attentive speculation. Activating an aesthetic orientation rooted in experiential 202

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interconnectedness is not about learning via categorization and mastery, but instead, as a continual state of expansive unknowing through wonder and sincere interest. Vulnerable listening as a form of aesthetic attunement informed and necessitated a whole new sense of being with/­a s animals. The experiences were driven by a deep sense of localism, where knowledge emerges with and through the land. By giving students permission to listen with their bodies as part of the rest of the environmental ecology, creating a connection with the other lives in the garden was rooted in care. This became an ­onto-​­epistemological rupture that decentered the human as the primary actant in the learning ecology. Ontologically, the project embraced Indigenous cosmologies, recognizing the land’s spectral and speculative forces. As students listened differently, using their full bodies to attune to the developing garden, Western epistemological norms rooted in language and identification were ­de-​­emphasized to activate new and unknowable connections (­Rotas 11). By dwelling with speculative designs through embodied inquiry, the experiences created an unexpected opportunity to witness learners’ capacity to care for other life forms without the common drive to anthropomorphize. Rather than making the animals into humans, which has been a common mode for developing empathy for nonhuman life, aesthetic attunement connected the rhythms of interconnected animacy through a shared and mutual kinship and endangered vitality. They became entangled with nonhuman and material forces at play, affirming ­Trafi-​­Prats’ assertion that “­we need pedagogical practices centered on forming sustainable caring relations with multiple m ­ ore-­​­­than-​­human others” (­326). The students were not only thinking about the fish and chickens as other species, but thinking from the perspective of the fish and chickens, oriented toward a mutual kinship of all life. Dwelling and sensing became ways of decolonizing the disembodied and overdetermined experience of schooling, as the dirt stuck to learners who were driven by an intuitive and embodied cognition. Ecological aesthetic attunement did not create new worlds, but it paid attention and valued the connection around us all the time.

Prompts and Resources • •

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How can we embrace embodied learning approaches that value intuition as a primary form of cognition in educational institutions? Describe a moment where you felt attuned to your environment. What did you learn or realize through the experience? How did it connect to the information you might learn in a classroom? How was it different from learning through a textbook? What common school activities might we d­ e-​­emphasize or remove to make time for slower and more nuanced embodied learning processes? Tomas Saraceno: https://­studiotomassaraceno.org Tania Willard & Bush Gallery: https://­w ww.taniawillard.ca/­g allery/­­bush-​­g allery Carolina Caycedo (­website currently down) Useful video of a discussion with Caycedo: https://­youtu.be/­­K k5gLwAc2T0—​­The World Around in Focus: Land Lindsey French: https://­l indseyfrench.com/­doc/­about.html

Works Cited Bhattacharya, Kakali. “(­ Un)­ Settling Imagined Lands: A Par/­ Des(­ i) Approach to De/­ Colonizing Methodologies.” The Oxford Handbook of Methods for Public Scholarship, edited by Patricia Leavy, Oxford University Press, 2019, ­pp. ­175–​­208.

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25 ROOT A/­R /­TOGRAPHY FROM NATIVE SEEDS Jun Hu, Xueyin Li, Lipeng Jin, Qianyu Wang and Yuehua Ding

Rather than inert matter, a seed is actually representative of nature’s intelligence and creativity. Encoded with the memory of land, weather, climate, local culture, and history, living seeds are “­­self-​­organized complex systems” (­Shiva xiv), constantly responding and adapting to the changes of the surrounding environment. Local farmers’ freedom to conserve, breed, and exchange seeds to develop ­site-​­specific and ­weather-​­resilient crops is a critical part of indigenous culture and local knowledge systems, as well as the sense of belonging to Mother Earth. However, industrial monoculture propelled by global corporations has reduced hundreds of thousands of varieties into a handful of globally traded commodities (­Shiva ix), displacing diversity in the biological and cultural world while colonizing local knowledge and making it invisible (­Shiva 3), which violates the freedom of seeds and farmers. For instance, Monsanto Company controls the world seed market by 26% (­靖飞 & 李成贵, 2010). Returning seeds from industrial monopolies back into people’s hands to keep, breed, and grow is key to challenging this monoculture. In order to raise public awareness on this threat imposed by industrial monopolies on the freedom of seeds and farmers and to consequently preserve agricultural biodiversity and cultural diversity, the Art Festival of Winter Preservation: Seeds and Symbiosis (­冬藏·有种·共 生) took place in the ­Ba-​­Yu1 Farming Museum (­重庆巴渝农耕文化陈列馆) in Chongqing, China, from December 20 to 21, 2019 (­Tencent News). The festival was an a/­r/­tographic (­Irwin and De Cosson) project started by five a­ rtist-­​­­researcher-​­teachers from four universities in China, who, together with their 25 university students and 18 local organic farmers, turned the Farming Museum into an educational theater and the festival into a c­ arnival-​­like event, where visitors, mostly school children and local families, played active roles and had a dramatic experience. The festival focused on the freedom of native seeds and the identity of the indigenous community that counts on its symbiosis with native seeds. Winter Preservation (­冬藏) is one of the four major agricultural sequential yearly activities following Spring Ploughing, Summer Weeding, and Autumn Harvesting (­春耕、夏耘、秋收) that have defined the lifestyle of an agricultural society. In the winter, it is the farmers’ duty to preserve seeds to prepare for 1 Ba and Yu are the two ancient names of the area that are, respectively, Chongqing municipality and Sichuan ­province—​­the historically most prosperous area in Southwest China.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-28

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sowing in the coming spring, and it is the farmers’ joy that seed preservation contributes to food ­preparation—​­most seeds are food as well. However, due to industrialization and urbanization, this relatedness between labor and indigenous culture, seed and food, has been conveniently erased from daily experience. The festival is a t­ rans-​­disciplinary effort of ­a rtist-­​ ­­researcher-​­teachers, or a/­r/­tographers, who feel the responsibility to raise public awareness on this relatedness through artistic intervention. We, the authors, view “­preservation” as both preservation of seeds and that of the symbiotic system between labor and culture, seed and food, which both the biodiversity of native seeds and the cultural diversity of native communities depend on. Exploring the aesthetic potentialities in the life of the seeds, ­artist-­​­­researcher-​­teachers resort to a/­r/­tographic wisdom for communication and adaptation among varied participants to raise awareness on human symbiosis with the native seeds. The festival celebration consisted of two parts. One was the We: Seeds Library, an installation that exhibited almost 400 native seeds of crops in a region of Southwest China; the other was Changing the World Starts from Eating Well, a piece of relational art and an intersubjective encounter between a/­r/­tographers and other participants including 120 school children and 40 local families. These children and families were served with free meals of organic food grown and cooked by local organic farmers, out of which a sense of relatedness, conviviality, and generosity emerged. The installation We: Seeds Library exhibits the diversity of seeds and tells a visual story of how seeds become us through a process of sowing, harvesting, preparing, and, in the end, eating. It illustrates how we are seeds and seeds are us in this symbiosis through the farmers’ interaction with nature. The ­Ba-​­Yu Farming Museum was the perfect setting for this visual story. The installation was set up and tended by a peasant family on their own farmland, and it was a heroic icon of local farmers holding on to traditional values and resisting colonization by monopolies. Surrounded by skyscrapers, the museum is a compound of bungalows and ­t wo-​­story farmhouses that stand alone like an unyielding hero who refuses to surrender to commodification (­see ­Figure 25.1). In contrast to the newly built modern architecture, the museum is in shabby condition, almost falling apart, and is a monument in itself to how this family has rejected the temptation of huge sums of demolition compensation. They have withstood the hardship of running this museum for two generations on the family’s depressive and inconsistent income. As a private museum that relies on its limited funding, it is an amazing achievement to have earned a proud collection of thousands of traditional farm tools, the most comprehensive exhibition of agricultural heritage in the region (­see ­Figure 25.2). Moreover, the museum has proudly collected over a thousand poems encompassing narratives of the farmers’ labour and culture related to those tools curated by its founder, Yingsheng Liu (­刘映升, 1­ 942–​­2018).2 The collection of farm tools and related poems tells a moving story of the symbiosis between labour and culture along the cycling process from seeds to food. Humbled by the family’s resilience and to fulfill our commitment to the power of art, we ­a rtist-­​­­researcher-​­teachers felt the obligation to support the museum with our professional knowledge within our capacity. We: Seeds Library comprised two installations, the Tree of Seeds (­see ­Figure 25.3) and the ­Seed-​­shelf, which distributed knowledge and shared stories about 400 native seeds in Southwest China. On the Tree of Seeds, seeds were exhibited in glass containers, hanging down from the branches of a dead Osmanthus tree that had been cut down during the ongoing demolition of farmland for construction around the museum. On ­Seed-​­shelf, glass containers 2 See Peihong Ye. (­2 020). In Memory of Yingsheng Liu. ­2 020-­​­­06-​­04, Retrieved from the blog of the Farming Museum, https://­mp.weixin.qq.com/­s/­L emEZNQtNMHyvIJDRXI94Q.

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­Figure 25.1 Aerial photograph of The Chongqing ­Ba-​­Yu Farming Museum, photographed by Liu Gang, 2021.

­Figure 25.2 An exhibition hall of The Chongqing B ­ a-​­Yu Farming Museum, photographed by Liu Gang, 2017.

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­Figure 25.3 Tree of Seeds, photographed by Maoxi Wang, 2019.

of seeds were lined up like books on a recycled bookshelf and were backlit by LED lights. The two installations offered a dialogue between farmers and scholars. The tree recycled from destroyed farmland served as metaphor for farmers and the bookshelf for scholars. Visitors could either sit under the Tree of Seeds, like at the entrance of a village where there is usually a huge and prosperous tree, or in front of the ­Seed-​­shelf, like in front of a bookshelf in a studio. They could chat with volunteer farmers and scholars who were there to share their life stories and knowledge regarding native seeds. We: Seeds Library became a collaboration between farmers and scholars in an effort to reestablish the bond between the indigenous community and the native seeds, and to imagine the possibilities of sustainable development based on this bond. As the installation We: Seeds Library feasted the eyes and minds of visitors, the relational art Changing the World Starts from Eating Well feasted their appetites and senses with a free meal cooked of organic food grown from native seeds(­see ­Figure 25.4). At the satisfaction of eating well, the awareness of native seeds is literally embodied, which evolved from knowing and sensation to action; 18 local organic farmers donated food and cooked for several dozen volunteers, and 120 local school children and 40 local families participated. There was a ­carnival-​­like atmosphere, similar to the traditional street feast served in the open air that used to be common in villages to celebrate weddings, completion of house buildings, and seasonal festivals. Relatives, neighbors, friends, and whoever passed by were invited for free. Tasting rice grown out of native seeds by local organic farmers and feeling the sweetness on the tongue and the fulfillment in the stomach is an unspeakable experience that reactivates the eaters’ dormant memory of their shared identity on this piece of land. By the nuanced texture of native rice and the familiar flavor on the tongue, Changing the World Starts from 208

Root A/r/tography from Native Seeds

­Figure 25.4 Changing the World Starts from Eating Well, photographed by Liu Gang, 2019.

Eating Well awakened the local community’s awareness of their symbiosis with native seeds, for one knew by taste that we were literally what we ate. Since eating revitalized the liminal space ­in-​­between seed and food, knowing and tasting, fulfillment and fullness, eating well became an activist gesture to highlight the community’s bond around native seeds. As everyone played an active role, either cooking, eating or serving, a sense of community was built. In an air of joy, organizers, volunteers, and visitors passed food between them, empowering each other in reverberation (­Springgay, Irwin, and Sylvia, ­906–​­907)—​­the reciprocal exchange between the scholars, farmers, students, and local families, as well as the reciprocal interaction among art, research, and education. Delicious in the literal sense, the taste of food raised the indigenous community’s awareness of the biodiversity of native crops and their consequent cultural diversity rooted in native seeds. Free of charge, eating well was a demonstration of their sovereignty over native seeds and their freedom to defend it against colonization by industrial corporations. Changing the World Starts from Eating Well turned the Festival of Winter Preservation into an educational immersion participated by all. In retrospect, the festival, in support of the Farming Museum, was an a/­r/­tographic endeavor to incorporate artistic creativity into decolonizing activism to empower the indigenous community. It was by reimagining the aesthetic and pedagogic potentialities that ­artist-­​­­researcher-​­teachers succeeded in advocating the indigenous community’s rights and values that are rooted in the native seeds. A ­fourth-​­grade pupil commented, “­I didn’t realize that seeds are as wise as humans, which is an amazing fact of nature.” Another commented, “­This is the best meal I have ever had.” Addressing biological and cultural diversity rooted in native seeds, a local farmer commented, “­The reproduction of human beings is a mysterious relatedness between human life and seeds in ­inter-​­action, a symbiosis that is sustainable and ­open-​­ended.” Global warming is essentially a crisis of humans disenfranchising ourselves from nature, and the biodiversity crisis triggered by the rapid disappearance of native seeds is just a microcosm of the larger crisis. How we artists reshape nature in a public sense and especially 209

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for our ­children—​­a symbiotic nature closely linked to our bodies, a fragile nature under the impact of human ­activities—​­will be of particular importance. By creating situations in which children participate and cooperate with one another, and farmers work with and exchange roles with academics, the authors hope to develop a/­r/­tographic wisdom to restore ­human-​­nature relationality in defense of industrial colonization. This is the way forward to maneuver the crisis together, which will become a beginning of sowing toward the future!

Prompts • • •

How is local value rooted in local seeds? What is the negative effect of the globalization of seeds industry? What role can arts play in protecting local seeds?

Works Cited Irwin, R. L.,  & De Cosson, A. (­Eds.). (­2004). A/­r/­tography: Rendering Self through ­Arts-​­Based Living Inquiry. Pacific Educational Press. Shiva, V. (­1993). Monocultures of the mind. Trumpeter. ISSN: ­0832-​­6193. Accessed ­2021-­​­­04-​­10. trumpeter.athabascau.ca/­i ndex.php/­t rumpet/­a rticle/­download/­358/­563/­0 Shiva, V. (­2016). Seed Sovereignty, Food Security: Women in the Vanguard of the Fight against GMOs and Corporate Agriculture. Berkeley: North Atlantic Books. Springgay, S., Irwin, R. L., & Sylvia, W. K. (­2005). A/­r/­tography as living inquiry through art and text. Qualitative Inquiry, 11(­6), ­897–​­912. Tencent news ­on-​­l ine (­腾讯大渝网 [微博]; ­2020-­​­­01-​­09 14:47). 爱故乡 传农耕 冬藏节 种子·生命之 始艺游学展教活动回顾. ­2020-­​­­0 8-​­22, retrieved from: https://­cq.qq.com/­a/­20200109/­061296.htm 靖飞, & 李成贵. (­2010). 跨国种子企业在中国种子市场的扩张及启示. 农业经济问题, (­12), ­85–​­89.

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PART III

Ruminative Research

Ruminative research consists of more traditional length essays that present research, studies, or theoretical stances in decolonizing work in art, craft, and visual culture education. Authors in this section unpack nuances in social and cultural theory in considering their relevance across disciplinary striations. While some essays adopt more normative formats as used in Arts and Humanities scholarship, others infuse poetic writing. Other research methodologies represented in this section include phenomenology, historiography, arts-based cartography, and visual testimonios.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-29

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26 ARTISTIC PRACTICE AS LAND ACKNOWLEDGEMENT Prashast Kachru

Current Work and Its Contexts Growing up in India, my initial training in art was in both Indian and Western traditions. My postgraduate studies in Europe challenged my interest in abstract art, as I was told that abstraction is originally a Western art concept. Fundamentally disagreeing with this caused me to question how I might claim abstraction authentically, as an Indian artist, and that question of authenticity led me not only to deeper investigations of abstraction in my work but also to question what it means to be Indian and an “­Indian artist” in the contemporary moment. Eventually, this quest led me to study people, objects, and their mark makings more closely to consider how these marks are perceived when removed from the contexts they are normally seen. Valuing objects and artifacts outside of their given role and function through dialogic processes and interventions made me realize that the core question of my work was about value. Thus, I question: How do contemporary societies value objects and ­artifacts—​­and through them, people, their histories, and their labor? The overarching question driving this, and the larger body of my work, remains: What is the nature and function of value in the contemporary world? Territories and their thresholds, and the planes of immanence within them, may be ideological or physical in the sociocultural and geographical world. The idea and act of walking or moving deliberately across territories, and the privilege and f­ reedom—​­as well as the pains and ­compulsions—​­to do so have been a point of focus for me for a while now. Moving from India to the United States for graduate studies was a deliberate dis/­replacement of both me and my art. My gaze, a product of South Asian and European influences, encounters familiar forms in North American contexts, rendering them slightly different and slightly unfamiliar (­see ­Figure 26.1). As an artist, I transpose the familiar with the unfamiliar and comfort with discomfort. I do this with the intention of studying the inherent nature and quality of value imbued in objects and in labor. Layers of cultural connotation are often used to control, differentiate, and exclude, in human societies, based on external values ascribed by dominant systemic thinking, and I aim to see the value in objects and places beyond these. While previous bodies of my work focused on material explorations of sociocultural marginalization and toxicity as conditions of postcolonialism (­w ww.prashastkachru.com), my more recent work added on the complicity of technology in exploiting land, and the role of mythology/­ history in constructions of colonization and decolonization. 212

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-30

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­Figure 26.1 Work portrait, ­self-​­portrait. Prashast Kachru. 2021.

Housebound by the ­COVID-​­19 pandemic almost immediately after I moved to the USA, as an MFA student in southern Arizona, I saw in a new light everyday artifacts of urban architecture rendered invisible by the nature of their pervasiveness in human life. Since my life and knowledge of this new culture were mediated by ZoomTM and textbooks, studying my surroundings became an exercise in observing the interior and exterior of my rental house. 213

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I noted that the mechanical and electrical objects (­M EOs) in my new home were also present in the cityscape back home in India carrying out the same functions and being globally relevant; they now took on new meaning for me aesthetically. Not five minutes away from my new home and its recognizable functional objects was the vast Sonoran Desert landscape. This was visually as unfamiliar to me as the institutional and sociocultural norms I had entered for my graduate studies. In this new milieu, the objects, landscape, and I all became strange and unfamiliar to myself, and I sought to understand their relationships with each other. I began thinking of the relationship between land and technology. I ventured into this new landscape between 2019 and 2022 in academic and personal journeys trying to make sense of my own replacement ­geo-​­culturally. I understood that although the landscape of the Southwest carries its own geographically distinct histories, it also attests to global truths of displacement caused by colonial hegemonies and violence caused by relentless capitalism. These attestations made the strange a bit familiar; this landscape was now resonant not only of my own community’s experience of ethnic cleansing and exile back in India but also of the nationalistic and capitalist/­­anti-­​­­capitalist-​­d riven violence burgeoning there. Thus, my artistic explorations evolved into relationalities of land, technology, and the human quest for belonging and dominance, a.k.a empowerment. In my voluntary displacement/­replacement from India to the United States, the shifts in my relationship with the English language and its contexts of accent, g­ eography-​­specific cultural references, etc., also changed for me, further complicating my relationship between the habitual and the unaccustomed. My curiosity to learn as a student, and to bring in my own experiences from a different culture, ran up against sociocultural rules and fears of what questions I could or shouldn’t ask, as a foreign, male person of color. For instance, my relationship with the term “­Indian” changed over the course of my questioning of North American land and its colonial occupation. My artistic explorations over the past three years have come to mirror my struggle to recontextualize my presence in the United States without entirely abandoning the sense of self I carried here with me, even as I welcome change. It is in these circumstances that I began to review and juxtapose disused technological objects of everyday use against the natural and mythical spaces around me in different media and materials. I explored the materiality of digital technologies in my artwork in contexts of using electronic media and the ten digits of my own hand in mark making. My question as I contemplated these objects in reference to my artistic investigation was: How does one value something taken out of its original context and replaced, as potential, in a new landscape? This question led to my 2022 MFA thesis research and exhibition titled, “­The Path Emerges While Walking,” an artistic engagement with contemplating my own complicity with colonization and understandings of decolonization through the omnipresence of technology. The project of capitalism, the race for technological domination, and colonialism are intertwined. The human struggle of choice in assigning value to their material and the intangible nature is at the heart of this splicing. This body of work is a study of human understanding and engagement with technology and the transformational value of objects in material forms across time and space, and it’s an exploration of moving towards margins, beyond comfort zones, to intangible transformations of the self. In the following section, I unpack the theories entangling land, technology, and capitalism into colonizing thought and action as well as the propositions of choice to resist them. Following this conceptual framing, I present my artist statement and methodology and conclude with my framing of the digital in this process of decolonizing thinking through art making.

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Admit/­Deny Displacement and replacement are a fact of contemporary life, be it through privilege or oppression. We humans move across the land, creating and using technology to constantly take from it, and make our marks in it while erasing the marks of others that came before us. This is a fundamental understanding in the description of technoscapes proposed by postcolonial cultural theorist Arjun Appadurai. In explaining globalization as flows of ideas, objects, and peoples across national boundaries, he defines technoscapes as flows of technology across borders and their impact on human and natural environments as (­technology) is commodified (­Appadurai). Heidegger too inquires into the nature and role of technology in the world and of human relationship to technology. He does this by decentering expertise in a way, by taking technology into the realm of philosophy, which one would not normally see as being or belonging. He focuses on the ways of thinking that lie “­behind” technology, proposing that by coming to understand these ways of thinking, humans can enter into a “­free relationship” with technology. He discusses the nature of being (­including our nature of technology and our relationship to it) as revealing hitherto unknown “­truths” and defines “­technology” as a combination of technique and knowledge, stating that, “­Everywhere we remain unfree and chained to technology, whether we passionately affirm or deny it” (­Heidegger). To synopsize, Heidegger proposes that if technology is a byproduct of human thinking, then the essence of technology is the essence of humans and our being itself. Thus, technology has the power to activate the potential held in reserve in all beings, making us more evolved and conscious. However, he warns us that it also poses the danger of reducing us into nonbeings since the current worldview at large is that everything is one large resource waiting to be consumed/­used to be profited. Heidegger cautions the fact that we view this form of ­hyper-​­productivity as normal as a warning on the myopic hypnosis that technology has indulged us into. Since everything is abstracted and objectified to their use value, technology is dangerous and threatens our existence as Beings as it is itself unscrupulous. Heidegger concludes that modern technology is the biggest existential danger we face, that technology is not neutral but is a means of domination of all resources including ­humans—​­that it threatens to make us into Nonbeings. On the contrary, he claims that the inception of the modern age is borne from Western metaphysics and from logic based on the empirical sciences of European Enlightenment. This indicates a fundamental flaw in Western Enlightenment and the institutional systems that stem from it, which becomes a significant statement for decolonizing work. The project of colonialism and the race for technological domination goes hand in hand. Marketed and sold in the name of nationalism and nation building, the highest costs are systemically paid for by the land, by the environment, and by the invisible labor that builds and maintains it. Critiques of technological development are thus critiques of systemic violence (­Achuthan). They play out as a politics of injury (­K hanna), where injury is sustained to the land from and on which technology is drawn from as well as to the labor force and Indigenous peoples it sidelines, exploits, and displaces (­Visvanathan, “­Cultural Encounters and the Orient”; Visvanathan, “­A Celebration of Difference”). This is exemplified by planned obsolescence, monoculturalism, museumization of tribes who do not buy into a capitalist idea of progress, displacement of people in the interest of development, etc. This is a global phenomenon that repeats, with difference, over time and geographies although science and market forces tend to encourage amnesiac communities by building obsolescence into the very nature of their systems. If the path to progress is inevitable, where lies our free will, our consciousness? Perhaps it lies in our consciousness of our complicity in what is being created, 215

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erased, and forgotten as we walk along the path of progress predetermined for us as social, nationalized beings.

Material/­Immaterial Speaking of erasure and amnesia, it fascinates me how the presentation of Marx in contemporary discourse, especially in the United States, is as an ­a nti-​­capitalist. While both Marx and Heidegger critiqued capitalism for its growing inhumanity and machinic drive, they were not revolutionaries. Both Marx and Heidegger proposed reforms within the paradigms of that system and its institutions. I have already spoken of Heidegger in the previous section. Marx states that the economic structure of capitalist society grew out of the economic structure of feudal society. That the dissolution of the latter set frees the elements of the former in the form of a primitive accumulation (­M arx and Mandel). He argues that conquest, enslavement, robbery, murder, and force play a great part in capitalism and that the methods of primitive accumulation are anything but idyllic. He emphasizes that labor is the actual capital, since everything ­else—​­money, commodities, and ­land—​­need to be transformed into capital. Thus, while he argues for more focus on the labor force rather than the object itself, he does not suggest an alternative to capitalism. Marx and Heidegger’s positions/­warnings were to save or preserve these institutions by identifying their failings. They were not a­ nti-​­institution or ­a nti-​­capitalist, but they were reformers. At the heart of it, their critique of capitalism is not just about the value of money but about power and who holds it. What does this have to do with art? A lot of the critical discourse on ethics around seeing, making, production, and consumption of art is articulated on the premise of power and ­politics—​­of having and not having power and the politics around that. This tends to make it a conversation about binaries where one must relinquish power for another to gain it. One might question, as many have, an interplay of “­power” and “­politics” in a Foucauldian framework by looking at who and what falls inside and outside of the art world and the art market. This reveals and maintains an “­us” and “­them” binary and makes the art world and the art market two distinct realities. There is much value in this revelation and perspective as a means to decenter a hegemonic dominance while widening the net of who and what is included in disciplinary belongings and value. Renowned linguist Braj B Kachru illustrated this in his success in ­re-​­articulating Global English as “­World Englishes” (­K achru). I am interested in exploring and unseating the dominance of “­power” itself, as a central goal and desire in how we see and what we value (­or don’t). By identifying our obsession with “­power” as central to all discourses, as an ideological blind spot, we can shift focus to meditate who and what may be revealed as actors in the creation, maintenance, and disruption of a vast, ­inter-​­and ­intra-​­connected network. From my perspective as an artist, this means examining the fetishization of both artist and object as commodity and deliberately receding my individuality in wielding technology in the artistic process. Instead, I am to make contemplation, recognition, and acknowledgement of engagement with p­ otential-​­being the visible aspects of my presence in the work as it emerges.

Land Acknowledgment and the Reciprocal Gaze As an artist, walking has been integral to my process of investigation and observation. I have valued the anonymity in being a walker and the detached reflective space that it offers to look

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from within, outside, and above. It is this critical deconstructive and reflective gaze in the act of walking that I have valued most as an artist. As Karl Ove Knausgård said: What is a work of art if not the gaze of another person? Not directed above us, nor beneath us, but at the same height as our own gaze. Art cannot be experienced collectively, nothing can, art is something you are alone with. You meet its gaze alone. (­562) While I was housebound and occasionally hiking in the Sonoran Desert during the ­COVID-​ ­19 pandemic, I saw coverage in India of thousands of migrant workers, mostly daily laborers forced to walk, some over 800 miles, back to their homes across state lines from the metropolitan cities where work had come to a halt due to the pandemic. Witnessing their forced, often violent, trek across the country brought home the privilege of walking as pleasure, as an experiment. It made me consider the land I walked on differently. The political voice in my artistic endeavors now clamors for transparency in terms of a radical acknowledgement of complicity in the status quo. I strongly feel that as artists and citizens, it is not enough to recognize and make visible but also to acknowledge the passive and active roles we play in our acceptance of lived reality. In that sense, walking has remained my antenna to the ­socio-­​­­geo-­​­­politico-­​­­economic-­​­­technologic-­​­­h istoric-​­cultural awareness that compels me to confront what has become visible. My feet felt frozen in negotiating the normalized and rote act of walking as a conceptual and artistic process with the ethical dilemma of transparently acknowledging my complicity in participating in a system that disallows others to walk freely and force others to walk in desperation. Concurrently, I was trying to learn more about the southwest United States and its native inhabitants. Studying the map of the Navajo ­nation—​­I was struck that its circumference is about 800 m ­ iles—​­the same distance the migrant workers in India covered. I learned that the map is essentially conceptual. It traverses four US states, most of the land of which is governed by the US government, rather than the Diné people. Much like the migrant workers and city dwellers, the native inhabitants’ and settlers’ occupation and ownership of the land were a gray area. However, when my questions got too troubling, I was advised that as an outsider I didn’t have a right to raise questions about Native Americans, especially in my artwork since I wasn’t American and I wasn’t (­A merican) Indian. I tried to puzzle this out in my mind as a feeling of connection and solidarity came over me, and I disagree based on the following reason: Neither the Indigenous peoples of the Americas nor the Indies called themselves Indians. We were named that by the colonizers. That alone gives us solidarity. While white discomfort might make some questions difficult to ask, it is my very naming as Indian that gives me the confidence to reach out to understand the experience of those named Indian in the Americas. There is a recognition of displacement I feel here: of land, name, language, ideology, forms of making, and our relationship with these within hegemonic value systems. While this separation between us as people of color with violent colonized histories disturbed and unsettled me, I knew I would need more time and contact to engage in dialogue with people and their traditions. However, I could focus on the land and its materiality and develop my relationship with it in connection to my own cultural mythologies and references, so that’s what I did. These collocations of the familiar and the unfamiliar are a risky undertaking, a process of being and making vulnerable. There is a risk of uncertainty and outright failure, erasure, and accusations of impurity, messiness, and questioning of clearly allocated relevance in a ­pre-​­systematized world order. But in this risk and vulnerability lies the possibility of something beautiful, moving, and emerging,

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something that causes us to rethink what and how we value people/­objects/­­risk-​­taking/­the unknown/­the ­d isplaced—​­a ll of the ­be-­​­­ings—​­anthropocenic and ­beyond—​­that are held in reserve and are purely potential, or as Heidegger would put in, held in reserve. Traveling through Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona across the mapped Navajo nation across two summers, I was struck by the evidence of how capitalism and technology sustained the colonizing mentality and my own complicity in the status quo. The mining of land is endless, and I participate even as I protest. From my tourism in “­protected” national parks, to the metals, minerals, and oil gouged out from the land, which show up in every piece of technology, I take and take and take. With this acknowledgement, I gaze at the land and the objects that come from it for our relentless use. I gaze upon the objects we make through the extraction of land and labor, for our use, then discard them as useless. I wonder how the land and these objects gaze back at me. I am not a religious man although I was born into a Hindu household. Raised in a postcolonial, globalized, ­poly-​­aestheticized world, I developed a philosophical hybridity. Sanathan Dharma, some of the followers of which identify as Hindu, is an ontology that suggests systems and institutions that include philosophy, spirituality and religion, politics and economics, and social and cultural rules. Mukti or liberation/­transcendence from the human condition is the goal of this system. I see this goal for transcendence somewhat akin to Heidegger’s description of ­potential-​­being, a seeking of that which is held in reserve in every atom of life, material and immaterial. The concept of darshan in Sanatan Dharma points to contemplation, vision, experience, intention, and appearance (­a mong other interpretations of the term). It is the art of observation of reality, both of self and that which surrounds us. A key idea of darshan or contemplation takes into account the readiness of ourselves to perceive the nuances of reality. It posits that that which we gaze/­meditate upon gazes back upon us, gauging our readiness to see it and recognize it. It is only when we are in such a state of readiness that it reveals itself and its truth. This act of reciprocal seeing is the achievement of darshan. This is how I envision and describe my quest to understand the technological, capitalist, colonial system I inhabit and to see what a decolonized existence might look like. Being an artist involves a recognition of the toxicity of our existing systems, an acknowledgement of the land we inhabit and exploit, and a seeking of darshan of materiality, of that land and all we take from it.

The Path Emerges While Walking The human dilemma of choice in assigning value to material and its intangible multiplicities is at the heart of complex systems that underpin our ways of being, knowing, and determining. Through my artwork, I study human understanding and engagement with technology and the transformational potential of objects in material forms across time and space. I explore movement towards margins, beyond comfort zones, and toward intangible transformations of self. Displacement and replacement are a part of contemporary life, be it through privilege or oppression. We move across the land creating and using technology to constantly take from it. We make our marks in it while erasing remainders of others that came before us. In solidarity with the marginalized, I walk and cross lines of difference to explore con­ odernity—​­and thus ­belonging—​­through conquest/­ flicting narratives of indigeneity and m migration and transcendence into the spiritual. I traverse this terrain to contemplate the consequences of our personal and communal choices. Through literal acts of walking as 218

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meditating on land whose histories resonate with me, but where I cannot claim belonging, I question the consequence of each step we take on exploited land and the backs of exploited people and of the surrounding social and natural environment. As a South Asian Indian relocated to the United States for my studies, I explore the connections between the Indians of North America and the Indians of the Indian subcontinent as colonized peoples. The artworks created on this journey propose that the path of our actions emerges as a choice when we walk it with consciousness and awareness of that which has been erased, and with humility in owning our complicity in what is created, transformed, and destroyed, in the cycle of time. This body of work represents my exploration of the politics of injury performed within technoscapes. My explorations are thus an ­arts-​­based social engagement with: • • •

practices of extraction of materials from the earth, exploitation and marginalization of labor forces as well as peoples inhabiting exploited regions (­in the project of colonialism through a nationalist and corporate agenda), and the aesthetics of invisibility and erasure of these injuries by ignoring or marginalizing their existence.

Through this process, I seek to make visible as well as demonstrate the aesthetics, politics, and locations of the transformation of materiality as proof of our complicity in this project and the terror of technology. In exploring how the violence of technology and ­a nti-​­technology can be aestheticized, I keep the focus on the land and materials being manipulated and exploited, rather than on people who enable them since human complicity is implicit in this discourse. I examine how, as materials transform in form and function, do they inform our values, priorities, and honest ownership of the part each of us play in this politics of injury. Using processes of visual prototyping, ceramics, neon, video, and photography, I juxtapose traditional, industrial, and contemporary technologies and materials of art making to embody darshan: a seeking of a reciprocal gaze as an intentional expansion of our awareness of that which we worship/­scorn. In this body of work, I explore the transformational value of the objects across material forms by applying the following methods: • • •

casting everyday objects that have lost their value into ceramic objects to introspect on the relationality between form and function (­see ­Figure 26.2), visualizing how the technology of scanning objects reveals a scan of our own fascination with machinic living as p­ roduction-​­oriented beings (­see ­Figure 26.3), and investigating how land acts as a record of human value systems and their consequent exploitative and reverential intentions by reflecting my artistic lens on its own testimony as a site of culture and industry, colonialism, and capitalism (­see ­Figures 26.4 and 26.5).

I gain a fuller understanding and acknowledgement of the path I walk on by considering my own surroundings and politics of injury. For me, the path emerges as: •

•

I walk along the interiority and exteriority of my own home; I recognize the aesthetics of the invisibility of everyday mechanical engineered objects (­M EOs) that enable me to live a life of comfort in an increasingly grim environment, even as they are relegated to the hidden exteriority of the house they help run. I walk across state lines, unceded occupied territories, seized territories, and natural/­ cultural spaces like state parks, all of which yield the raw materials of my present 219

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­Figure 26.2  Machines of loving grace. Ceramics. Prashast Kachru. 2022.

­Figure 26.3 Reciprocal seeing. Video, sound. Prashast Kachru. 2022.

•

comfort, and I recognize the politics of transformation of materiality whose aesthetics anesthetizes our capacity to perceive both the violence of technology and the violence of ­a nti-​­technology in service of capitalism. I walk myself through artistic processes of transforming the contexts and forms of objects I consume. I acknowledge that as materials transform, in form and function, they inform and reveal human values, priorities, and honest ownership of the part each of us play in this politics of injury.

As I scan objects using technology, ­they—​­objects and ­technology—​­scan me back in an act of reciprocal seeing of my value and complicity. This path reveals the struggle and consequence of each step taken on exploited land and the backs of exploited people and of the surrounding 220

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­Figure 26.4  I don’t trust nobody but the land. Neon, photography. Prashast Kachru. 2022.

­Figure 26.5 Ozymandias’ nightmare. Ceramics, photography. Prashast Kachru. 2022.

social and natural environment. The path emerges as a choice when I walk it with consciousness and awareness of that which has been erased, and with humility in owning my complicity in what is created and that which is destroyed. I find myself on this path of crossing boundaries led by the compass of my elders’ wisdom and experience, which I embody as a new generation. This journey is an echo of my grandparents’ explorations of heritage and modernity in face of violent and forced displacement and in their endeavors to maintain connections between individuality and community when threatened with the erasure of land, culture, and language. Their paths of struggle were consistently threaded through with critical introspection and examination of their lived environment. It is to them and my elders with whose journeys I seek to dialogue with, to whom I dedicate this body of work. 221

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­Figure 26.6 The essence of all science. Ceramic technoscape. Prashast Kachru. 2022.

Regarding the Digital While I have focused on the inextricable connections between technology, capitalism, and colonialism, I have yet to address my contemplation of the digital in my work. Initially, my experimentations with transforming the (­non)­functional household objects into a different materiality were d­ igital—​­through visual prototyping processes. This is where the video capture of the scanning process in F ­ igure 26.3 came from. After my travels into the desert, specifically in Arizona and Utah, I decided to reflect on the emergence of their materiality from the mining of the earth by transforming them into ceramic objects. In the same spirit, I used the MEOs as underlying forms arranged to mimic the southwestern landscape in ceramic sculptures using both vacuum forming and slip cast molds. However, using this process resulted in smooth forms that were entirely too reflective of the erasures of labor that capitalist systems employ. Therefore, to emphasize upon the presence of labor, albeit hidden, I used my fingers to create residues of labor in the absence of the underlying objects which, in an act of reciprocity, formed the sculptural forms (­see ­Figure 26.6). This pun of the digital in my ­a rtwork—​­the labor of invested human and indifferent technological ­labor—​­is a reminder of the remainders of labor and its transformative potential and an acknowledgment of the land upon which we make indelible impressions.

Prompts and Resources • •

Giuseppe Penone, “­To Reverse One’s Eyes.” Artwork. Tania Bruguera, Tatlin’s Whisper. Artwork. As an example of aesthetics: The role of ethics in the process of art making. 222

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•

•

How can we think about the real in terms of the object or the artist’s body and the site? Is the real site the artist and their body, the object that is being made, or the multiple objects being ­m ade—​­or is it time and space/­location where it’s being made? How does power shift because of perception, possibility, and breakdown of borders, existing vs ­non-​­existing? Then, how can we think of what is real? What is real work? What is the real site? What is the real media?

Works Cited Achuthan, Asha. “­Postcolonial Hybridity and the ‘­Terrors of Technology’ Argument.” The Centre for Internet and Society, 15 Apr. 2009, https://­­cis-​­i ndia.org/­raw/­­h istories-­​­­of-­​­­the-​­i nternet/­blogs/­­rewiring-​ ­bodies/­­postcolonial-­​­­hybridity-­​­­a nd-­​­­the-­​­­2018terrors-­​­­of-­​­­technology2019-​­a rgument. Appadurai, Arjun. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. 1st ed., University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Heidegger, Martin. The Question Concerning Technology, and Other Essays. 12.2.1976 edition, Harper Torchbooks, 1977. Kachru, Braj B. World Englishes and Culture Wars. Edited by Cecil L. Nelson, Zoya G. Proshina, and Daniel R. Davis. Wiley, 2019. https://­onlinelibrary.wiley.com/­doi/­abs/­10.1002/­9781119147282. ch25 Khanna, Ranjana. “­Unbelonging: In Motion.” Differences, vol. 21, no. 1, May 2010, ­pp. ­109–​­23. Silverchair, https://­doi.org/­10.1215/­­10407391-­​­­2009- ​­020. Knausgaard, Karl Ove. My Struggle: Book 2: A Man in Love. Translated by Don Bartlett, Translation edition, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014. Marx, Karl, and Ernest Mandel. Capital: Volume 1: A Critique of Political Economy. Translated by Ben Fowkes, Reprint edition, Penguin Classics, 1992. Visvanathan, Shiv. “­A Celebration of Difference: Science and Democracy in India.” Science, vol. 280, no. 5360, 1998, ­pp. ­42–​­43. JSTOR, http://­w ww.jstor.org/­stable/­2895217. —​­—​­—​­. “­Cultural Encounters and the Orient: A Study in the Politics of Knowledge.” Diogenes, vol. 50, no. 4, Nov. 2003, ­pp. ­69–​­81. SAGE Journals, https://­doi.org/­10.1177/­03921921030504009.

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27 BEYOND THE VENEER OF MODERNISM Aesthetics, ­Post-​­Africanity, and the “­Multiversum” Narrative Frank AO Ugiomoh

Aesthetics, a term coined by Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten in 1753, concerns sensuous knowledge that appertains to objects and connected responses distinguished from the philosophy of art. The latter discourses in the art provide an expansive focus on perception and cultural transactions within institutional frames of artistic relevance. The term aesthetics is derived from the Greek word aistheta meaning “­to perceive.” Baumgarten’s initiative allowed Immanuel Kant’s (­­1724–​­1804) framing of art and aesthetics in the Critique of Judgment (­1790). For Kant, fine art constitutes sculpture and architecture as the art of sensible truth, and painting is the art of sensible illusion (­189). These cultural engagements comprise objects whose “­purposiveness” is “­w ithout purpose”; hence, “[b]eautiful is what without a concept is cognized as the object of a necessary liking” (­90). ­Self-​ ­sufficiency, therefore, became the definition of “­beauty” (­K ant 220; Oger 1999: ­29–​­40). Art developed into purposeless and purposeful items, where ­purpose-​­laden objects constitute the merely “­agreeable or good” and lacked the aesthetic quality “­beauty” (­­44–​­45). Kant’s categorization initiative proposed ­far-​­reaching consequences for art and aesthetics. In The Philosophy of Fine Art (­Osmaston 1975), Hegel agreed with Kant on art’s definition and constitution but differed on other grounds. Hegel positioned art above nature, unlike Kant. In Hegel, the “­Spirit and its creations stand higher than Nature and its creations, including art’s concept of beauty” (­vol. 1, 2). Art for Hegel manifests as “­Absolute Spirit” on a teleological journey subjected to dialectical refinements that create a metaphysics of sheer ongoing beauties in opposition to its previous creations. Art as Absolute Spirit began a journey from Asia as a ­pre-​­symbolic spirit, passed to Egypt as a symbolic spirit, and then to Greece, manifesting as a classical spirit. It ended its journey in Europe as a romantic spirit and the refinement of civilizations. Hegel’s dialectical categorization of Fine Art begins with architecture, sculpture, and romantic art, representing painting, poetry, and music. Western art and historical aesthetics adopted the above sequence of the spirit’s manifestation as its narrative timeline. In The Philosophy of History (­1956), Hegel also privileged Western Europe against other cultures and referred to Africa as the “­unhistorical, undeveloped spirit, still involved in the condition of mere nature” (­99). Western art and aesthetics thus assumed universal status symbols of cultural advancements. 224

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-31

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For Herbert (­1999), Western aesthetics aptly defines “­colonialism’s epistemic project,” that is, colonialism’s operative contradiction between “­aesthetics, the science of shared sensibilities [and] ethnography, the science of racial difference” (­167). The above flaws refute the artwork’s potential to narrate the past without documented histories (­Ugiomoh, Frank Willett 2008; ­A nn-​­Holy 1999; Wyss, 135). Jacques Derrida views Kant’s and Hegel’s assumptions as “­manifestations of a metaphysical structure of concepts that is closely related to the principle of domination” (­Zima 1). The reconceptualization by Kant and Hegel about the “­agreeable and goodness” of things ­vis-­​­­à-​­vis beauty also contains inherent fallacies as Letter of His Holiness (­April 1999) notes that “[t]he link between good, and beautiful stirs fruitful reflection. In a certain sense, beauty is the visible form of the good, just as the good is the metaphysical condition of beauty” while referencing Plato’s thoughts that “[t]he power of the Good has taken refuge in the nature of the beautiful” (­9). Thus, Kant’s and Hegel’s restricted canon around art’s frame remains problematic for postmodern thoughts (­Ugiomoh, Crisis of Modernity ­299–​­300). Derrida (­1987) notes that “­an analytic of concepts on a process without concepts” in a Kantian supposition remains aporetic (­75) and presents an aesthetics of exclusion. Literature and prevalent academic discourses on African art and its cultures lacked history, the notion of art, and, consequently, aesthetics. Western anthropologists narrated African art within mere utilitarian categories. Leuzinger (­1967), Gillon (­1984), and Visiona et al. (­2001), among others, exemplify this ahistorical gaze. Narratives couched in the e­thnographic-​ ­present and posthistorical reductionism captured in synchronous discourses through social spaces from one location to another marked the style (­Ugiomoh, (­A n)­other Perspective par. 8). Whereas “­g lyptic art” or paintings account for the earliest African artworks, which remain unspoken (­Willett 2002: 17), modern African art equally met Western condescension in the exhibitions entitled “­Magiciens de la Terre” from May 18 to August 14, 1989, and “­A frica Explores: Twentieth Century African Art” held between May 05 and September 18, 1991, including Susan Vogel’s book of the same title (­Vogel 1991). Modernism’s inherent aporia and a priori aesthetics negate an apparent cultural multiversum. Heinz Kimmerle (­1996) discourses “­multiversum” or pluriformity of cultures in contradistinction to the doctrine of universalism or universum as a Western accomplishment. Multiversum returns knowledge to the reality of multiple universes of the global cultural sphere. His emphasis undergirds the equality of cultures, including their chronological uniformity. Thus, he discountenances the colonization enterprise and its tool of cultural i­ mperialism—​­universum (­15). Achebe (­2000) also contends with globalization and African literature and condemns the rhetorical underpinning of universum as a unilateral cultural action of the West. The enlightenment philosopher, J. G. Herder in Podro (­1989: ­1–​­4), thinking multiversum, cautioned that human engagements respond to specific cultural needs so that each culture’s knowledge foundation and cultural settings shape them. For instance, he notes that “­the notion of art was in some way constant, but no one art could be a standard for all art” (­2). In other words, the production of culture remains relative to its time and ­self-​­contained within its universe of meanings. A cultural multiversum acknowledges epicenters of culture within globalization rhetoric. Conversely, anthropological interlocutors about Africa invalidate the embeddedness of Africa and Africans in their worldliness and insist on the otherness discourse or discourse of difference (­Said ­293–​­316). Such embeddedness includes dealings and relationships with other cultures within ­intra-​­and interculturality. Here, Leopold Sedar Senghor’s (­1957) thoughts in “­We are All Cultural ­Half-​­Castes” remain succinct: I think all the great civilizations were civilizations that resulted from an inbreeding, objectively speaking […] Indeed, either the external situation has changed and cultural 225

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borrowing enables us to adapt ourselves to the new situation, or the external situation has not changed, and a cultural borrowing enables us to make a better adaptation to the situation. (­76) ­Post-​­Africanity takes its cue from the above position of Senghor and acknowledges the position taken by Bassey Wei Andah regarding reflexivity in “­selective delinking.” The cultural habit inherent in selective delinking occurs when a culture or subject engages in intercultural negotiations, dialogue, or purchases. Its consciousness calls for critically evaluating (­an)­other and simultaneously engaging inward reflexivity (­Ugiomoh, Professor Bassey Andah ­338–​­346). The overall objective of p­ ost-​­Africanity is “­in making incursions into the discursive space” with “­either the intention of ‘­­position-​­taking’ or of constructing a spatial identity alongside others” (­Ugiomoh, Crisis of Modernity 94). Invariably, the truth of cultures recognizes appropriations, adaptations, adoptions, even refusals, and denunciations in its matrix. According to Ekpo (­1995): The p­ ost-​­Africanist mind can retrieve all its power and creative potentials by repossessing himself of the Western Logos and using it as a power tool rather than being and bewitched by it and forced into either a romantic search for an impossible Afrocentricity or the depressive rhetoric of perpetual accusation of the West. (­134) The ­post-​­Africanity agenda synchronizes with the cultural multiversum narrative in a decolonized aesthetics. It locates cultures on the same pedestal while acknowledging interculturality’s inherent dynamics. It goes beyond bewailing the past of the colonized history, which, considered appropriately, remains an accident of history (­Sidogi in Ekpo and Sidogi ­i x-​­xviii). As Hassan (­2002) notes, the global postcolonial ferment seethes with unimaginable and welcomed cultural productiveness that presents as innovations (­255). In the above regard, the “­post” in p­ ost-​­Africanity calls for a push beyond blame games and s­ elf-​­pity narratives replete in postcolonial narratives by setting them right through deliberate genealogical recalls in African art history. The cultural multiversum also aims to reconceptualize Africa’s famed cultural exclusivity by Africans. Golden and Toohey (­3) regard such mindset as “­cultural aphasia” or “­aphasiac exclusion” as it reifies an assumed exclusion from a supposed “­centrist discourse” framed around Europe’s grand narratives even with contemptuous provenances about Africa. From the tropological perspective, an inclusive Africa and its place in the pluriformity of cultures requires restating, especially the conceptual grounds on which aesthetics in Africa comes to theoretical knowledge. Alagoa (­1979), extrapolated by Ugiomoh (­2012), provides the conceptual framework for this essay. In “­The Python’s Eye: The Past in the Living Present,” Alagoa presents time as a cluster of multiple temporalities concurrent in any contemporaneous time, like a python’s coil spiral. In Alagoa, sequestered linearity of happenings does not appropriately represent temporal and transcendent realities. Instead of engaging diachrony in a long, tedious line, the python’s eye becomes the point of departure in a coiled time loop where directional trajectories emanate to trace correspondences in time across the loop. The “­python’s eye” provides the convenience of establishing when similar or ­sought-​­for cultural identities occurred in time, including congruent historical regimes, their origins, and relevance (­­Figure 27.1).

Early Attempts Aimed at Cultural Decolonization Afrocentrism and Afropolitanism constitute previous efforts at the decolonization agenda within the postcolonial rhetoric. The mythic categories about Africa and the African 226

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­Figure 27.1 The Python’s Eye: The Past in the Living Present.

personality of Western construct consequent upon its colonization agenda engross Afrocentrism. Championing Afrocentrism, coined by Molefi Asante in the 1980s, were scholars like George Padmore, Jean Pierre Mars, Marcus Garvey, and W. E. B. Du Bois (­Soyinka 80). Its underlying values locate Egypt at the core of African history and culture, the search for exclusively African ideals, and an appreciation of its tradition (­A sante 2011). On the contrary, Afropolitanism emerged as a brand of black critical consciousness, which Achille Mbembe defines as “­a name for undertaking a critical reflection on the many ways in which, in fact, there is no world without Africa and there is no Africa that is not part of it” (­Balakrishnan 2020). A ­self-​­limiting notion of Afrocentrism and Afropolitanism arises from epistemic hubris and a foundational flaw related to “­aphasiac exclusion.” Such s­ elf-​­inflicted exclusions account for the closure and limitation of Africa’s cultural and political orbits to Egypt and narcissistic gloating about African consciousness. Contrary to ethnography’s intervening views, the need to transgress the aporia inherent in colonialism’s project about the conceptual frames and pragmatics of aesthetics in Africa comes aptly in Nuttall’s edited text entitled Beautiful Ugly (­2006): […] so much of what Africans have thought remained for so long outside of writing and within the rich epistemologies of the spoken, but because the hermeneutic machine of the West has long relied on Africa’s otherness to stage its grandest and most exclusive theatres of the self. Africans have often come to rely on, while also disavowing aspects of this potent Western tradition. If part of what we need to do, in order to understand our subject properly, is to revisit these dominant positions, both then and now, it is also 227

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[…] to carefully unpick metropolitan debates and breathe new life into their moments of silence or repression, in so doing contribute to the emergence of a properly global epistemology of beauty and ugliness. (­8) The pertinence of Nuttall’s stimulating idea calls for theoretical action that has remained unattended for too long. Nuttall’s agenda aims to bridge the above lacuna and other articulated registers. Nuttall’s introduction to the text “­Rethinking Beauty” quickly discountenances related disciplines that theorise beauty, such as art history, aesthetic theory, and anthropology, as bearing any relevance to her edited work on contemporary African art (­1). Nuttall’s work, inadvertently steeped in ethnography’s residues, hardly recognizes the idea of art, art history, and aesthetics for Africa as it appears. Hence, her work declines broaching these theoretical discourses. But, Adorno’s Aesthetic Theory (­1997), especially its thoughts on “­beauty and ugliness” (­­ 63–​­84), frames Nuttall’s title and theoretical suppositions. A certain presumptuousness in the text inflicts ugliness on African art. Nevertheless, Adorno’s “­Negative Aesthetics” theorizes “­ugliness and blackness” as liberating signposts of modern European art that now repudiates mimesis. Hence, such seeming negative concepts within African art come as a superficial reading of Adorno and not the baggage of any particular culture or ethnos. Nuttall agrees with the contemptuous and excoriating provenance about Africa replete in the West’s otherness discourse. Nuttall also mentions Simon Gikand’s claim that “­beauty in the West is said to be ‘­mediated through the figure of blackness’.” Nuttall dared to assert, “[t]hus when Pablo Picasso, master of European modernism began to draw inspiration from African art in a movement later known as primitivism, it was the terror and the ­disgust—​­African objects made him feel that inspired him” (­my emphasis) (­9). The idea inherent in Nuttall of a negative reconciliation of African aesthetics with the West reads as a fatal reconciliation. Murrel (­2000) narrates how Pablo Picasso embraced the new metaphysics of vision that modern art owned while interacting with African art: The African sculptures […] had helped him to understand his purpose as a painter, which was not to entertain with decorative images, but to mediate between perceived reality and the creativity of the human m ­ ind—​­to be free or ‘­exorcised’ from fear of the unknown by giving form to it. Steinberg (­292) commenting on the novelty of French artist Henri Matisse’s style notes that mimetic art was “­a fatal sidestepping of the artistic purpose.” For Huhn (­1988), the “­ugly” African art counts positively: The depiction of the human figure could no longer produce beauty, or be beautiful. The success and continuation of figuration could be achieved only with the deformation and deconstruction of the figure itself. The human figure could be beautiful if it were depicted as ugly. Subjectivity could recognize itself in the revelation of its ugliness, which is what I mean by ambivalent beauty: beauty that occurs only with the ugly as dominating element. Successful modern art contains a preponderance of the ugly in an attempt to return some semblance of harmony to a world dominated by the exclusionist and ­autonomy-​­mongering species of subjectivity. (­140) From Adorno, the ugly in art relates to the negation of nature. This antithesis of nature governs African art, authorizing modern European art. 228

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Preceding Nuttall, some scholars situate aesthetic thoughts and conventions in Africa within the domain of morality. Abiodun (­1983; 2019) addresses the Yoruba aesthetic concept of ­Iwa— ​­character, focusing on its ethical implications and contingent functionality in the concept of beauty. His thoughts resonate with divinity and art’s metaphysical origins. His sources come from the Yoruba Ifa corpus and their crypto mythologies. The concept of Iwa, one of the personalities of Orisanla (­a lso known as Obatala and Orisa), derives from Olodumare, the first and most important offspring of the creator. Iwa and Ewa—​­beauty constitutes Orisanla’s attributes and character (­­134–​­137). Likewise, the Igbo in southeastern Nigeria name children Agwa bu mma, meaning “­character is beauty.” Paetzold (­1999) acknowledges and extols the aesthetic worldview of the Africans, which intertwines morality and art, often resulting in mutually shared cultural ideals. Hence, appropriateness constitutes virtue in human acts and engagements as well as ­human-​­made objects.

A History of the Development of Form in African Art Three epochs marked by idealism underlie the development of form in African art. The ­ochre-​ ­colored Blombos Stone provisionally features the first regime and dates between 140,000 BC and 70,000 BC (­Henshilwood et al. ­115–​­118). The Blombos Stone presents geometric shapes on an ­ochre-​­colored stone and evidence of human intervention on a natural object. Later,

­Figure 27.2 Copy of The White Lady of Brandberg by Ibim Cookey, Courtesy of the Artist. For original, see: https://­w ww.bradshawfoundation.com/­a frica/­namibia/­white_lady/­ index.php.

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paintings of humans, animals, and objects attributed to the San, who occupied the Kalahari Desert in Southern Africa around the Brand Berg and Drakensberg mountains, dates to about 28,000 BC. The previously named Warrior by the German explorer and topographer Reinhard Maack in the Brand Berg Dâures National Heritage Site, Namibia, later renamed White Lady of Brand Berg (­­Figure 27.2) by the French anthropologist Henri Breuil, exemplifies this regime (­Kelanda 2019; Muensterman n.d.). The adult humanoid defines its proportion. The humanoid adult figure comes in fractional representation by combining a profile face with a single frontal eye, while a frontally oriented shoulder pair with a profile waist and legs in a complex idealization. The style emerged in the Jebel Uweinat, northern Africa, about 10,000 to 7,000 BC, among other sites (­Zboray 2009). Likewise, by 3,500 BC, Janson (­­20–​­21) confirmed this style for Egypt at Hierakonpolis, and the Palette of Narmer (­2 ,900 BC) followed, signaling the Pharaohs’ official court art style. It endured into the ­28–​­30 late Period Dynasties, about 320 BC (­A ldred 1980). However, by 675 BC and 560 BC, Greek Amphora Pots and Kouros from Attica in Greece adopted the Egyptian style. The practice of rock art trended up to 1900 AD in Southern Africa (­van Schalkwyk and Smith 2004; 2002). The second style or regime emerged about 500 BC. The Bwari terracotta figure from the Nok region in Nigeria, Lydenburg terracotta heads (­500 AD) in the Limpopo region, and

­Figure 27.3 Copy of Senufo, Ivory Coast Equestrian Figure (wood) from the British Museum image by Ibim Cookey, Courtesy of the Artist. For original, see: https://­w ww. britishmuseum.org/­collection/­object/­­E _Af1948- ­​­­02- ​­4.

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some  rock shelter drawings in the Maghabeng Plateau in South Africa constitute its early ­examples. Figure 27.3 Equestrian Figure,represents the style and it adopts the child’s proportion for representing humans irrespective of age. Hence, African sculptures feature exaggerated heads (­Ugiomoh, On African Art ­3 0–​­31). Other representations in this regime include an overall schematization of form as representational identities For example, the heart shape stands for the facial format, and simple cylindrical forms represent the torso, limbs, and arms in lucid transitions that convey “­a jaunty and staccato flavour” (­Rogers 62) to the artworks. Anatomical features such as the face, breasts, navel, and genitals receive clear delineations and complement other noteworthy forms of a sculptural piece, while ­two-​­dimensional arts present crowded scenes. A quotation by Steinberg (­1972) of Plotinus relates to the above schematizations and the adoption of the child’s proportion in African sculptures. “­Bodies live in the species, and the individual in the whole class; from them they derive their life and maintenance, for life here is a thing of change, but in the prior realm it is unmoving” (­­298–​­299). Likewise, exaggerated breasts feature in fecundity figures, when a breast size, the cup of a fist performs the same biological function. In the arts of the royal convention or the Court art of the Pharaonic Egypt, I­ le-​­Ife and Benin, for example, witness static representations in portraiture. One unique identity of a royal figure absorbed subsequent personalities in a series of royal lineage portraitures, resulting in undistinguishable likeness. Equally, artists adopted a social perspective, for example, where the Pharaoh assumes an unusual height among his subjects or traducers, as shown in the Palette of Narmer. The idealistic representations in the first and second formal regimes shunned mimesis for the incorporeal adopting canonical typologies (­Ugiomoh, Novelty and Art 240).

Colonization agenda and an unprecedented interculturality ushered in a third optic regime. The reality in cultural practice witnessed African art providing a template for the West, while the West’s discredited c­anon-​­mimesis became appropriated by some African artists. Global cultural productions now manifest eclectic values and fusions of styles. Qana Sambata, a modern Ethiopian painter in National Day (­1990) (­­Figure 27.4), presents a crowded pictorial space with the child’s proportion in layered registers entwined in the Ethiopian National Flag. The composition presents uniform chromatic saturation, outlines a unique perspective of crowded scenes, and outlines the depth of space that portrays eclectic dispositions contrary to such earlier conventions in African art (­cf. Ugiomoh, Onobrakpeya 5­ 6–​­57; Brucke 1­ 95–​­205). Are there historical and theoretical explanations for these formal and stylistic consistencies? How does one explain African art’s noticed consistencies that privilege canonical typologies, incorporeal forms, and representative idealism across space and time? The rhetoric about the art form and skill in the philosophy of fine art leading to aesthetics requires a recall briefly. For Plato and Aristotle, art depends on skill and manipulative dexterity of material essences and literary conveyances grounded in mimesis. However, the good superintends over art’s idea. Both philosophers disagreed on how goodness characterizes art considering its imitative character. According to Plato, art’s fake image does not represent their like in the prior realm or noumena where forms remain unmoving. But Aristotle’s notion of the “­good,” addressed in The Nicomachean Ethics, identifies two strands. The first concerns the display of competence in skill or “­artistic goodness,” and the second concerns the suitability 231

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­Figure 27.4 National Day, painted by Qana Sambata, a modern Ethiopian painter.

of form or fitness to purpose, which entails beauty. Aristotle’s thoughts about art and what the artist makes remain “­either as they were or are or as they are said or thought to be, or have been, or as they ought to be” (­54). In Neoplatonist philosophy of art before modernism, especially in the analytical strand, “­goodness” guaranteed “­beauty,” and it extended to morality while also covering perception, taste, and auditory sense (­Beardsley 1975: ­156–​­157). Modernist aesthetics or speculative idealism specific to Kant and Hegel introduced distinctions between the utilitarian object and the ­non-​­utilitarian object of culture. While the former embodied beauty, the latter earned the attribute of goodness, exacerbating the aesthetics of exclusion; for example, like those of other cultures, African artworks serve domains such as rituals, cults, environmental, and other cultural purposes. For example, in Western historical aesthetics, the Catholic Baroque period ordered artworks for purposes of worship and veneration, which receive lively discussion in Western historical aesthetics. Andrea Pozzo’s painting, The Glory of St. Ignatius (­1702) in the Church of St Ignatius in Rome, executed to provoke pious yearning for the Roman Catholic ­Counter-​­Reformation agenda. Yet, African art could be excluded from aesthetic discourse based on their utilitarian values in culture. The above viewpoint by the West vitiates the location of art in culture. Referencing Jay on Adorno’s “­negative aesthetics” in the context of purposiveness in art, Ugiomoh (­Crisis of Modernity) ­ on-​ surmises that an object of culture, such as the artwork, accommodates utilitarian and n ­utilitarian dimensions and objectives. However, in ­non-​­utilitarian objects, design outweighs purpose, while purpose outweighs ­non-​­utilitarian intentions in utilitarian objects. Thus, the 232

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idea of artistic s­elf-​­sufficiency ceases to trend in contemporary aesthetics. Also, notions of beauty transcend objective appearance and address derivable and inherent virtues in a work of art (­­299–​­300). Hence contemporary aesthetics witnesses a variety of formal typologies in art. Indeed, the art form always ranges from mimetic, representational, idealistic, and n ­ on-​ ­significative (­Ugiomoh, Crisis of Modernity 302; Lyotard ­11–​­34).

Beyond the Veneer of Modernism Aesthetics emphasizes a perception of objects or understanding of the literary text. Joughin and Malpas (­2) “­say that aesthetics is the theoretical discourse that attempts to comprehend the literary” [or the visual]. Preziosi (­­7–​­11) relates art history as “­m aking the visible legible.” Axiology undergirds art’s h ­ uman-​­centeredness. With art, cultures sum up their ­self-​­understanding concerning another culture (­K immerle 15). As Plotinus notes, spiritual dimensions foreground art’s origins that the idealistic representation in art emanates from “­w isdom which is in charge of their making.” In other words, “­the true wisdom, then, is substance, and the true substance is wisdom; and the worth of substance comes from wisdom, and it is because it comes from wisdom that it is true substance” (­Ennead V, ­325–​­357). With modernism and its speculative space of idealism, Hegel conceives art as a manifestation of the “­Absolute Spirit,” and Heidegger comprehends it as a detailed disclosure of truth in Alethea (­Nwodo 1979). With such reconceptualization, the West appropriated an occult reality that always defined practice in African art (­Harris ­9 –​­27). Now, modern designates a break between the habitual and historical in culture. Time’s fate becomes comprehensible within space in ­human-​­made objects. All cultures manifest novelties that attest to their accelerations and not stasis. In confronting Western modernism, Latour (­10) notes that the word “‘­modern’ … defines, by contrast, an archaic and stable past” usually “­thrown into the middle of a fight, in a quarrel where there are winners and losers, Ancients and Moderns,” whereas modern defines every now. Alagoa’s recognition of the past that shares time with the modern in contemporary reality tames undue assumptions about the modern. A modern cultural identity may have made previous entries in time considering the allegory of the “­python’s eye” in tracking historical occurrences and objects.

Conclusion Art concedes to a metaphysical representation of reality or a symbol that implies the unity of form and content. A specific parameter about art remains the content component, uniqueness, and embodied significations. Accordingly, art and aesthetics propose explicit parameters for different cultures. The appreciation of the past in the living present accessible with the python’s eye and not linear teleology opens such understanding. Our postcolonial condition and the decolonization agenda, which frames ­post-​­Africanity, reaffirm the equality of cultures. They stand for discourse rationality, where cultures take their space or engage in incursions into discursive space that operates in recognition of cultural multiversum. *This chapter received funding from the Omooba Yemisi Adedoyin Shyllon Foundation (­OYASAF).

Works Cited Abiodun, R. “­Identity and the Artistic Process in Yoruba Aesthetic Concept of Iwa.” Critical Interventions: Journal of African Art History and Visual Culture. vol. 13: nos. 2 & 3, 2019, ­131–​­147.

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Frank AO Ugiomoh Abiodun, Rowland. “­Identity and the Artistic Process in Yoruba Aesthetic Concept of Iwa.” Journal of Culture and Ideas. vol. 1, no. 1, 1983, ­13–​­30. Achebe, C. Home and Exile. Oxford University Press, 2000. Adorno, T. W. Aesthetic Theory. Bloomsbury, 1997. Alagoa, E. J. “­The Python’s Eye: The Past in the Living Present.” University of Port Harcourt Inaugural Lecture. No. 1, 1979. Aldred, Cyril. Egyptian Art. Thames and Hudson, 1980. Aristotle. The Nichomachean Ethics of Aristotle. Penguin Classics, 1st ed. by Adam Berensford, 2004. Balakrishnan, S. and A. Mbembe. 2016. “­­Pan-​­African Legacies, Afropolitan Futures.” Transition 120 (“­You Are Next”): ­28–​­37. Beardsley, C. M. Aesthetics: From Classical Greece to Present. The University of Alabama Press, 1975. Derrida, J. The Truth of Painting. Translated by G. Bennington and I McLeod, University of Chicago Press, 1987. Ekpo, D. “­Towards a P ­ oet-​­Africanism: Contemporary African Thoughts and Postmodernism.” Textual Practice, vol., 9, 1995, ­121–​­135. ­ e-​­Africanization of African Art: Towards P ­ ost-​­African Aesthetics. Routledge, Ekpo, D. and P. Sidogi, Eds. The D 2022. Gillon, W. A Short History of African Art. Facts on File, 1984. Golden, M. and P. Toohey. Inventing Ancient Culture: Historicism, Periodization and the Ancient World. Routledge, 1997. Harris, J. “­Introduction: Curatorial Imperialism?” In Identity Theft: The Cultural Colonization of Contemporary Art, edited by J. Harris. Liverpool University Press, 2008, p­ p. ­9 –​­28. Hassan, I. “­Queries for Postcolonial Studies.” In Third Text Reader on Art, Culture and Theory, edited by R. Araeen, et al. Continuum Press, 2002, ­pp. ­232–​­243. Hegel W. G. F. The Philosophy of History. Translated by J. Sibree. Dover Publications, 1956. Hegel, W. G. F. The Philosophy of Fine Art (­4. vols). Trans. With notes by P. P. B. Osmatson. Hacker Books, 1975. Henshilwood, C. S., F. d’Errico, K. L. van Niekerk, et al. “­A n Abstract Drawing from the 73,­0 00-­​ Year-​­ Old Levels at Blombos Cave, South Africa.” Nature. Vol. 562, 2018, ­115–​­118. https://­doi. ­­ org/­10.1038/­­s41586-­​­­018-­​­­0514-​­3. Retrieved 19/­11/­2021. Holly, M. A. “­Patterns in the Shadow.” ­In-​­Visible Culture: An Electronic Journal of Visual Studies, no. I, 1999, 12 Feb. 2003, http://­w ww.rochester.edu./­in_visible culture. Huhn, T. “­Diligence and Industry: Adorno and the Ugly.” Canadian Journal of Political and Social Theory//­Revue canadienne de theorie politique et sociale, vol. 12, no. 3 (­Fall), 1988, 1­ 38–​­146. Janson, H W. with Samuel Cauman. A Basic History of Art. Harry N. Abrams, 1971. Joughin, J. J. and S. Malpas (­Eds). The New Aestheticism. Eds. Manchester University Press, 2003. Kalenda, E. “­Eternal Blackness: Considering Afropolitanism as a Radical Possibility.” Africa Today. vol. 65, no. 4, Arts of Survival/­A rt World City, Summer 2019, 1­ –​­17. https://­w ww.jstor.org/­stable/­ 10.2979/­a fricatoday.65.4.02 This content was downloaded from 129.205.113.213 on Mon, 07 Jun. 2021, 16:31:46 UTC. Kant, I. The Critique of Judgment. Translated by Werner S. Pluhar. Hackett P C. 1987. Kimmerle, H. “­Western Philosophy and Other Cultures,” Issues in Contemporary Culture and Aesthetics, no. 3, April 1996, ­15–​­26. Latour, B. We Have Never been Modern. Translated by C. Porter. Harvard University Press, 1993. Letter of His Holiness Pope John Paul II to Artists. Vatican City, 04 Apr. 1999. Leuzinger, E. The Art of Black Africa. Studio Vista, 1972. Lyotard, J.-​­F. “­Presence,” trans. Marian Hobson and Tom Cochran, in The Language of Art History: Your Gaze Hits the Side of my Face, edited by S Kemal and I Gaskell. Cambridge University Press, 1991, ­pp. ­11–​­34. Munsterman, U. “­The White Lady of Brand Berg Rock Painting, Brand Berg Dâures National Heritage Site.” Namibia. https://­w ww.flickr.com/­photos/­u lrichmunstermann/. Accessed 10/­07/­2021 Murrell, D. “­A frican Influences in Modern Art.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2000. http://­w ww.metmuseum.org/­toah/­hd/­a ima/­hd_aima.htm (­retrieved 02 Apr. 2021). Nuttall, S. (­Ed.) ‘­Rethinking Beauty.’ In Beautiful Ugly: African and Diaspora Aesthetics. Duke University Press, 2006, pp. 7–29.

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28 EXORCISING THE COLONIALIST The Cuna Figures of the San Blas Islands and Other Forms of Mimesis and Mimicry Alice Wexler

The ability to mime, and mime well, in other words, is the capacity to Other. (­Taussig 19)

Mimesis, which Homi Bhaba calls camouflaged mockery, Walter Benjamin calls the compulsion to become the Other, and Michael Taussig calls sympathetic magic, generally means the observed Other observing the White anthropologist. The magic of replicating the “­real” is meant to either share in or take power from what is represented. The Cuna (­a lso spelled Kuna and Guna) figures of the Indigenous people on the San Blas islands off Panama were made for this ­semi-​­magical purpose: to exorcise the “­W hite man” by c­o-​­opting him in wooden figures and thus reclaiming power and protection from the colonial gaze. With their carved figures, sharp instincts, and other abilities, the Cuna people are among a rare group of Indigenous people who managed to outwit European traders and colonists since the early twentieth century. Their geographic isolation also helped them to maintain their culture, identity, and relative autonomy. Additionally, a law established in 1953 gave total power to the Cuna General Congress with the participation of community members, which allows them to control tourism and other incursions. Many struggles occurred, however, with dubious North American projects that have at times turned violent (­Howe). In this chapter, I explore how the ­copy—​­the Cuna people’s ­semi-​­magical wooden representation of the “­W hite man”—​­affects the original so that it shares or acquires its power, not in the sense of restoring a lost art, but revived with the aid of modern technology in the contemporary collision between colonizer and the colonized.1 Taussig conceives the memetic faculty as a chain that increases in complexity over time and geographic locations. Since European colonialist expansion in the sixteenth century, the notion of representation and mimesis has also increased in complexity “­between the collective bodies in contact with one another” (­Taussig 73). Since Darwin landed on the beach at Tierra del Fuego in 1832, reverse appropriation has been upsetting the Western imperial balance, which continues today in other contemporary

1 Here, I specifically refer to Walter Benjamin’s theory of the camera as effecting a relationship between science and art and the viewer and the viewed in a return to mimesis and magic.

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Indigenous art forms.2 In his diary, Darwin wrote about his first contact with the Fuegian inhabitants: They are excellent mimics: as often as we coughed or yawned or made any odd motion they immediately imitated us….They could repeat with perfect correctness each word in any sentence we addressed them, and they remembered such words for some time. (­cited in Taussig ­74–​­75) Implicit in this passage is the delight of the European man watching the mirroring of himself through the “­Other,” which Taussig calls the space between mimesis and alterity, the ambiguity of the imitated and the imitator. Similarly, mimesis occupies the same space of same and different, “­of being like, and of being Other” (­Taussig 129). Staying same and different at the same time was the trick that the Cuna learned in order to maintain autonomy amid four centuries of European and U.S. colonial ­encroachment—​­unlike so many other societies lost to cultural ­destruction—​­from ­land-​­grabbing to junk food (­Taussig). The Cuna figures, and similar r­e-​­appropriations, unravel the colonial anthropological experience by subjecting the “­W hite man” to the study of “­h imself ” through the eyes of the subaltern, making him an “­a lter” to himself (­Taussig). First, I examine Stephen Muecke’s highly critiqued fictocriticism as a way to leap into the future, imagining a different kind of coexistence with the Indigene through art, economics, literature, and language. Or, is it more likely that fictocriticism, as Muecke’s critics suggest, is merely a contemporary reproduction of mimesis and mimicry? I then discuss Master of the Ghost Dreaming, Mundrooroo Narogin’s 3 parody of colonial “­research” and mimicry. Finally, I further explore the history of the colonial gaze and the contemporary problem of researching “­Others” through the unique gaze of the San Blas Island people and their first White researchers.

Fictocriticism Dennis Mischke illustrates as an antidote to monovocal scholarship Stephen Muecke’s Reading the Country: Introduction to Nomadology, and other works Muecke calls fictocriticism: the exemplary dialogic cosmopolitanism of c­o-​­mingling Indigenous voices with Muecke’s own ­non-​­Indigenous voice. Mischke places Muecke’s fictocriticism at the intersection of creative writing, anthropology, and scholarship, challenging academic convention and the boundaries of his discipline with “­a performative response to the reigning paradox of alterity” (­M ischke 327). According to Heather Karr’s definition, fictocritism “­is a ‘­­ re-​­contextualisation’ of the postmodern struggle to escape the trinity of e­ uro-​­, ­phallo-​­, and logocentrism in a postcolonial world,” which was established in the new humanities and postcolonial studies in the 1980s and 1990s in Australia and Canada as a poststructuralist feminist escape from the Western imperialistic academic paradigm (­K arr, as cited in Mischke 327). As a White North American, my interest in Muecke, a White ­Euro-​ ­Australian researcher of Indigenous studies, lies in the question whether or not, in this 2 For example, Artist Brook Andrew’s 1994 series Reconstructing More Whiteman’s Kitsch: 1 ­ 788-​­?, a tea towel for every year since the invasion, reclaims the tea towel as a signifier of kitsch. The tea towel, and other such items, is a popular way of misrepresenting Indigenous culture, replacing it with a sanitized identity that will fit well within the home décor. 3 Munderooro Narogin’s identity as an Indigenous man is disputed by a member of the Noongar community. He was born Colin Thomas Johnson claiming to have ties to the Noongar Kickett family, which formally rejected him.

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context, ethical research is achievable. I am a cultural outsider writing about Indigeneity. I have found that c­ o-​­authorship with Indigenous scholars makes possible the relinquishing of the single voice that reinforces colonialism and its architectures, and the authority that is typically European, North American, and Australian. For Indigenous scholars, the problem of representing Indigeneity while resisting colonization is complex, since they are required to use the language of the colonizer. Can we even think outside it? asks Torres Strait Islander educator Martin Nakata. If Indigenous writers conform to a structure that condones ­non-​­threatening representations of Indigeneity (­Kurtzer), can one conform and resist simultaneously? Hegemonic language and structures have been used to invent Indigenous identities and stories while excluding Indigenous intelligence and simultaneously appropriating Indigenous knowledge (­­Tuhiwai-​­Smith; Tuck & Yang). Tuck and Yang suggest that many ­non-​­Indigenous scholars position their work as decolonization. Yet undeniably, White scholars have power in the academy and, their research needs to be scrutinized as complicit with academic power. What limits need to be placed on the access of Indigenous knowledge for academic gain that cause acts of symbolic violence? Returning to fictocriticism, critiques from both Indigenous and ­non-​­Indigenous scholars ask whether or not the intentional ­non-​­seriousness of Muecke’s work can be taken seriously as research. But this is the paradox that Muecke exploits in his purposefully s­ elf-​­contradictory style as a n ­ on-​­Indigenous scholar. “­How could he possibly not write in a s­elf-​­contradictory way?” (­M ischke ­330–​­31): Muecke construes his fictocriticism as a spatial and materialist approach to writing that focuses on the interstices of multiple global modernities. In this way, fictocriticism circumvents the always problematic thinking in temporal dimensions of achievement, development or advancement.  …In other words, Muecke’s writing and reading are an attempt to learn from Indigenous Australian cultures instead of merely studying them. (­M ischke 331) Is fictocriticism merely mimesis and mimicry, as Muecke’s critic Graham Huggan suggests? Is fictocriticism a performative contradiction? Or does Muecke’s exploitation of the inevitability of linguistic contradiction and his positive use of language’s limitations and bias serve to level the playing field in cultural studies? In a w ­ ell-​­known slight, Huggan asks if Muecke’s primary goal in Reading the Country, a collaboration with Australian Indigenous storyteller Paddy Roe that borrows Deleuze and Guattari’s notion of nomadology, “­effectively mimics Aborigines mimicking Deleuze and Guattari mimicking nomads” (­99). In his critique of Reading the Country, Paul Carter accuses the author of an “­infinite regress of mimicry” and guilty of “­ethnocentric bias” and “­imitative fallacy” (­Carter, as cited in Huggan 99). In Writing from the Fringe, Narogin accuses Muecke of staging an “­Aboriginal s­ ide-​­show.” Most glaring is that: there is an absence of critical and political comment on the part of the subject…. The fringe soul of the Aborigine peers out of his prison and reminds me of a shuffling Beckett character uttering parables into the recording apparatus of white dominance” (­Narogin, Writing 151). In his Indigenous ethnographic novel Master of the Ghost Dreaming, Narogin parodies the cultural relativism of a Western anthropologist/­m issionary (­Fada) who inscribes his own reflection on Indigenous culture, struggling between his Christian duty and his anthropologist 238

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soul. At a corroboree in the opening scene, which Huggan calls a cross between Clifford Gertz and Roland Barthes, the tribespeople paint on their bodies an elaborate version of European Victorian formal and military wear. Fada sleeps while his wife Mada listens to a ritual led by Jangamuttuk, cursing her husband who has taken her from civilization to a remote island with “­an almost extinct tribe of savages” (­Narogin, Master 9). She wakes up her husband demanding that he stop the ceremony, which he does. Although beguiled by the sight of the ritual, he is finally moved to command the “­natives” to stop after hearing Jangamuttuk mimicking “­an awful travesty of his better half ’s voice” (­Narogin, Master 16). Standing at the site after the “­natives” are gone, he dreams of his next article that will bring to fruition his academic goals. He titles it, “­Deserted Ceremonial Ground,” with hopes of joining “­the learned men” of the Journal of the Royal Anthropological Society (­Narogin, Master 18). As Huggan teases apart mimesis and mimicry, he says that Narogin’s ceremony is an example of Indigenous mimesis, which does not act as a subversive act through mimicry, but rather creates its own signifiers by assimilating European semiotics for ­self-​­empowering representations. By adapting the symbols of the oppressor to their own systems and frames of knowledge, the “­natives” resist the dominant culture, “­refusing to see itself as a s­ econd-​­order cultural product and rejecting the imagined priority of cultures other than its own” (­Huggan 102). In the following sections, I examine further the symbolic exchange of cultural symbols and mimicry as camouflaged mockery (­Bhabha) from the subaltern perspective of resistance through the lens of the San Blas Island people.

Mimicry, Mimesis, and Alterity I call it the mimetic faculty, the nature that culture uses to create second nature, the faculty to copy, imitate, make models, explore difference, yield into and become Other. (­Taussig xii) The desire to imitate implies that the original has power, and through replication, that power is distributed to its copies, albeit less powerfully. Taussig argues that mimesis is not ­ uro-​­American colonialist civilizing process. In only a faculty but also a history of the E Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses, Michael Taussig finds himself as a White ­Euro-​­Australian anthropologist in an unsettling “­­two-​­way street” situation of appropriation: This somersaults me forward from First Contact time with Darwin on the beach, through the invention of mimetic machines, to late ­t wentieth-​­century Reverse Contact ­now-​­time, when the Western study of the Third and Fourth World Other gives way to the unsettling confrontation of the West with itself as portrayed in the eyes and handiwork of its Others. Such an encounter disorients the earlier occidental sympathies which kept the magical economy of mimesis and alterity in some sort of imperial balance. (­Taussig ­x iv–​­x v) What interests him is not the ability of the modern technology of the camera to reproduce “­the savage,” but rather the reverse, the unsettling moment in which the “­savage” uses “­sympathetic magic” to mimic the “­W hite man.” This moment disorients Taussig leading him to such questions as, where do essentialism and constructionism, or nature and culture, begin and end? How do we get on with life if we live in what appears to be fiction, a socially constructed universe, “­in between the real and the really ­m ade-​­up?” (­x vii). Finally, he wonders if it is the mimetic faculty that calms and appeases us into believing we are living in a 239

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factual reality while at the same time concluding that reality is socially constructed. We live in a crossroads between yearning to reinvent the world with new fictitious constructions, representations, and other devices, and at the same time, we yearn for the “­t rue real”: We act and have to act as if mischief were not afoot in the kingdom of the real and that all around the ground lay firm. That is what the public secret, the facticity of the social fact, being a social being is all about. (­Taussig xvii) Moving forward in history, Taussig follows the first Swedish sailors arriving at the shores of the Darién peninsula, the land of the Cunas, between the Panama Canal and Columbia. Taussig’s fascination with the copies of reality called the Cuna figures is responsible for his musings about reality, particularly the m ­ ade-​­up reality of colonialists. In 1927, two years after the Cuna’s successful revolt against Panama, Swedish Baron Erland Nordenskiold met a Cuna shaman and invited his secretary, Rubén Pérez Kantule, back to Sweden to write a book. An Historical and Ethnological Survey of the Cuna Indians, published in 1938, is, among many things, about Cuna traditions. What captured Taussig’s imagination is the mention of the Cuna wooden figures dressed in e­ ighteenth-​­century European clothing. The date of these figures is speculated but unknown, but what was clear to Nordenskiold was that these protective and curative spirit figures looked neither like themselves nor demons, “­but like white people” (­Taussig 6) that in some way protected them from evil by replicating evil and thus acquiring its power. As a “­European type” himself, Taussig wonders how to analyze these figures, as “­the whole anthropological trip starts to eviscerate. And about time too” (­Taussig 8). If he takes these figures seriously, then he must acknowledge the mimicry of himself. “­The very mimicry corrodes the alterity by which my science is nourished. For now I too am part of the object of study. The Indians have made me alter to my self ” (­Taussig 8). The Cuna trick was to absorb outside differences in order to maintain their identity. Baron Nordenskiold called this trick the “­Cuna paradox” that Taussig attempts to unravel. Nordenskiold noted that the Cuna, although conservative people, were impressed by novelty. For example, the Cuna kingdom of the dead is “­stuffed with Western consumer goods,” which changes over time as the Cunas interact with others and have new experiences of the world (­Nordenskiold, as cited in Taussig). A horse and carriage in the early twentieth century will become a motorized vehicle a decade later. According to Rubén Pérez, who dictated to Nordenskiold, all these commodities of White men will change hands and belong to the Cunas in the other world. Taussig interprets this exchange of commodities as another way the Cuna people “­stay the same by adapting to the white man’s world, or to a crucial aspect of it” (­Taussig 132). Ironically, the women wear the mola, their iconic traditional embroidered and appliqued blouses known throughout the world, while the men wear Western jackets and trousers. Yet, the molas change too as the women are acquainted with new technology. Western imagery such as baseball, Kools cigarettes, and Pokémon finds its way into their embroideries and appliques. This adaptation, says Taussig, should not be confused with acculturation, but rather the constant way that Cuna life transforms “­the new into the old, incorporating rather than rejecting….woven from mimesis and alterity within colonial fields of representation. Everything hinges on appearance” (­Taussig 133). The power of mimesis is in its ability to disrupt the binary opposites of appearance and essence and therefore performs the mastery of magical transformability. Appearance, writes Taussig, is so malleable and transformable that it is able to have a density and substance of its own. Thus, we are seduced by the illusion of appearance in all its apparent realness. 240

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The Cuna’s mastery of the power appearance is not unlike the power of religious imagery or social media. But such unexpected mastery given a location in the remote jungles of Central America caught the United States and the Cuna’s potential opponents o ­ ff-​­guard. The Cuna also knew how to maneuver the sexual desires of the colonists, particularly one colonist in the search for the “­W hite (­female) Indian,” described later in the chapter. Not for nothing are the women dressed in h ­ and-​­made traditional attire while the men wear Western clothing and, on important occasions, a jacket and tie. The appearance of these opposing images takes on powerfully real and symbolic messages. “­It is they [the women] who provide the shimmering appearance of Indianness…What is so fascinating is the way this male/­female division of mimetic labor fuses with the sexual dynamism of the colonizing imagination” (­Taussig 177). But playing one ­side—​­the female “­Indian” either as a mother or a sexual ­partner—​­against the male colonist has been going on since the Spanish conquest. The exception is that the Cuna men protect their access to their women, apparently by keeping them busy sewing molas.

Reflections on the Cuna Figures Like Narogin’s painted bodies, the Cuna figures ­co-​­opt the “­W hite man” in an effort to reclaim power by exorcising “­W hite” demons through “­W hite” visual culture. The figures are meant to protect oneself from the colonial ghost spirits by portraying them and thus taking power from their representations. Taussig calls this sympathetic magic, the “­ape aping humanity’s aping” (­x viii). He conjures Walter Benjamin’s mourning for the sacred replaced by the capitalist fetishized object, Benjamin’s fascination with mimesis in alterity, primitivism’s reappearance in modernism, and our compulsion to become the Other. Notions that in ­pre-​­industrialization were natural impulses are now silenced and repressed by “­objective” sciences. Mimesis is hiding, writes Taussig, in the complex network of identity and representation, which he compares to Benjamin’s ­well-​­known theories of the camera as the blending of science and art that introduces a new world of relationships between self and other, and a ­re-​­enchantment of magic in mimesis as two tiered: the copy and the union of the viewer and the viewed. Benjamin’s notion of the “­physiognomic aspect of visual worlds” endowed the camera with optical unconsciousness (­Benjamin, as cited in Taussig 24). In the early twentieth century, the faithful copy of reality is amplified into a shifting ground of weirdness and complexity by such unexpected imitation of the Cuna figures. And for the Cuna, these figures are part of a life and death struggle in the face of colonial aggression (­­Figure 28.1). Taussig asks “­W hat magic lie in this, my wooden self, sung to power in a language I cannot understand?” (­8). Something unsettling happens when you catch your reflection in the observed observing you: the enterprise of anthropology is compromised, captured by Narogin as a narrator who can inhabit black and white, men and women. Taussig enters into this complex, magical phenomenon of representation and replication in an infinite mirror of reflections, which includes the ethnographer’s writing of text, 4 “­modeling in words an ethnography of a shaman’s magical modeling of ourselves!” (­Narogin 16). Another paradox of the Cuna figures that Taussig explores is that they are not faithful copies, but nevertheless, they embody the power of mimesis or sympathetic magic. Taussig investigates the figures’ effectiveness as imitation based on George Frazer’s definition of like producing like. Frazer’s second principle resolves this paradox explaining, “­that things which 4 This is in the sense of Derrida’s (­1978) theory of text as the double, always referring to what has preceded it, and as Taussig writes: “­I like to think of writing itself as a mimetic exchange with the world…” (­Derrida ix).

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­Figure 28.1 Nuchu figure, Kuna People, San Blas Island, Panama. 7.5” × 1.25”, twentieth century. © Zena Kruzick, Zena Kruzick Tribal Art, San Francisco, CA, 2020.  “­A nuchu figure used in the homes of the Kuna people to ward off evil spirits. This one has a black top hat and yellow pigment on the upper body. #6637.  http://­zenakruzick.com/­­a mericas-­​­­t ribal-​ ­a rt/­­a mericas-​­figure_panama6637.htm.

have once been in contact with each other continue to act on each other at a distance after the physical contact has been severed” (­Frazer, as cited in Taussig 47). Frazer calls this the Law of Contact or Contagion, which has new validity with the scientific theory of Spooky Action at a Distance.5 In sympathetic magic, however, severed contact must have a material connection, something from the original such as fragments of hair, nails, or clothing. Thus, magic by duplication or copy implies that the original is affected in such a way that “­the representation shares in or acquires the properties of the represented” (­Taussig ­47–​­48). So, superficial likeness of the original does not seem to be needed in order to be effective. Instead, the emphasis is on the ­non-​­visual power that the image has on the body, in which Frazer’s Law of Contact is replaced by the physiognomic effect of imagery, or Benjamin’s notion of optical unconscious. Taussig compares the phenomenon of the imperfect copy to a Navajo sand painting in which the body is healed by placing it on the painting. Another example of how the Cuna use the ­non-​­materiality of mimesis, explained to Nordenskiold via Pérez, was a medicine man burning illustrations from trade catalogs and periodicals to release the soul, or fetish power of the commodity, and thus distracting evil spirits from doing harm while consuming material goods. The Western presence is invoked through their ashes without the need of the original or material object, ash6 being the 5 In magical terms, Taussig gives examples that can be found in rituals requiring body parts, clothing, hair, nails, etc. 6 Taussig calls ash: “­Just matter itself! The uttermost matter of matter. The end of form” (­Taussig 135).

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­ on-​­materiality of the copy of the commodity. In the Cuna figures, the outer form is not as n important as the spirit of the wood. But then the question arises, why turn matter into form and images, if only to unmake and disembody? I will return to this question at the end of the chapter. I turn now to the building of the Panama Canal and its impact on Latin America.

The Panama Canal and a Hierarchy of Alters The Cuna Islands existed as part of Columbia until 1903 when Theodore Roosevelt maneuvered the isthmus into its own nation state (­f unctionally a U.S. colony) that now belongs to Panama. Fifty miles away from the Cuna Islands, construction soon began on the Canal. Soon also was the inevitable manipulation of the inhabitants. The decision was made, albeit with internal as well as external disagreement during the first few years of construction, to uproot the Zone around the Canal, a once highly populated and thriving culture. For expediency, the United States characterized the mostly Black citizens of the Zone as “­primitives” living in a tropical jungle. All U.S. employees, agreed that the tropics were “backwards” and that the United States would bring progress and modernity to the jungle. Whatever modernity the Spanish brought to Central America in the nineteenth century was scorned, including their democratic autonomy (­Lasso): The mocking of republican institutions in tropical spaces culminated with the coining of the term “­banana republic” in O. Henry’s novel Cabbages and Kings; this was a powerful and enduring term that, more than any other, has influenced how we continue to view tropical republics. (­Lasso 13) The problem, according to Marixa Lasso, a historian who as a child lived near the Zone in the 1970s, was that modern technology was not perceived by the West as belonging to Latin America, but as an import from Europe that could not substantially change the “­backward” nature of these southern countries. The building of the Canal coincided with the new concept of the “­civilized West,” which included the United States and Western Europe, and worked “­hand in hand with the scientific racism of the early twentieth century” (­Lasso 16). The Panama Canal was useful in solidifying these ideologies.7 But the Cuna used their natural gifts of setting racist countries against each other and, through manipulation, secured the protection of the United States based in Panama and Washington D.C. against the “­Black Panamanians” who they purported to be abusing their women. In 1925, the success of the Cuna’s unlikely uprising was secured by the USS Cleveland led by R. O. Marsh disguised in an “­Indian costume.” His love of the Cunas was traced to his search for the “­W hite Indians” of Darién while employed by Henry Ford and Harvey Firestone to search for land suitable for rubber plantations. The United States served the purpose of the Cuna in warding off the infringement by the Panamanian government to dismantle their “­most visible signs of difference, notably the clothes and adornments of the women” (­Taussig 139). Alliances between First Peoples and a super power, such as the United States against a sovereign state in the global south, are not new, but unfortunately part of the history of colonial manipulation. One example is the use of the Miskito people of Nicaragua by President Regan and the C.I.A. against the Sandinistas. Taussig calls this scheme 7 Lasso shows how the notion of Western civilization was “­to erase humanity’s common heritage and common contribution to historical change. For example, the fact that the Muslim Mediterranean world was as much an heir to classical Greece as Western Europe and the United States…” (­L asso 16).

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the “­good savage/­bad savage” tactic whereby the good savage is used to purge the bad one (­Taussig 142). The good savage is representative of unsullied Origin, a sort of Eden before the Fall when harmony prevailed, while the bad savage is the sign of the permanent wound inflicted by history, the sign of waste, degeneracy, and thwarted narrative. The Cuna friendship with the United States and Europe is sociologically complex, and although the Cuna’s distaste for their Black neighbors has some basis in restricted resources, there are more historically complex reasons for their racism. The Cuna were attracted to the rich resources of the United States, but they were also affected by the deep ­a nti-​­Black caste system in the construction of the Panama Canal, first by France in 1881, and then by the same U.S. policy in 1904. The bureaucracy and organization of the Canal Zone in the early twentieth century until the 1970s was so profoundly racist that it was characterized by recent studies as a South African enclave of the United States (­Donoghue; Lasso). According to Fredric Haskin in The Panama Canal, Black workers were paid the least and died at a rate three times more than Whites. The Apartheid system that ironically designated workers as either gold or silver infected every area of life at the Canal, from separate post offices to railroad travel.

The “­W hite Indian” Obsolescence is where the future meets the past in the dying body of commodity. (­Taussig ­232–​­233) Returning to R.O. Marsh, who was appointed U.S. chargé d’affaires in Panama in 1910, and his search for the “­W hite Indians” of Darién, his prosperous corporate funders afforded him8 a romantic fantasy adventure “­that is as much within his being as within the modern mythology of sex, race, and capitalism that the Darién magnifies” (­Taussig 151). In his book, White Indians of Darién, Marsh recounts his own eugenic dreams against the backdrop of the complicity of the United States and the ideology of the Cuna men who protected their women from miscegenation. It is “­the story of an amazing episode in the life and dream histories of the New World. It is all the more valuable for being clichéd and ­sensationalistic-​ ­tropical, colonial, hysteria” (­Taussig 152). His persistence was driven by the fantasy of the pure “­native” untouched by capitalism and the intrusion of Black slaves in Central America. But as geographically remote as Darién is, 9 it also has a history of European interaction. So, when Marsh finds the “­­mountain-​­Cuna Indians,” he is greeted by the chief who learned English in New York City and whose work on boats took him around the world. The Cunas supported ludicrous research requests from United States and European anthropologists as the means to protect themselves against the intrusions of the Panamanian government. Finally, Marsh was led to the tribe that would grant him access to ­l ight-​­skinned women, as many as he wanted. His first glimpse was of a 1­ 4-­​­­year-​­old boy: He certainly made a strange appearance among his ­d ark-​­skinned countrymen. His hair was light golden yellow. His skin was as white as a Swede’s….And his whole body was covered with a fine downy white hair. I looked at him in amazement. Here was my white Indian at last….But whatever he was, the scientists [back in the U.S.] would have a grand time explaining him. (­Marsh 199) 8 Marsh was backed by the Smithsonian in his 1924 and 1925 expeditions. 9 Taussig describes Darién as “­one of the most remote parts of the globe” (­Taussig 158).

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A more iconic example of mimesis and alterity could not be imagined. The “­W hite Indian” is the ultimate oxymoron, and a colonial fantasy comes true in the midst of one of the most racially stratified U.S. expeditions in its colonial history. Here, writes Taussig, alterity and mimesis energize each other, so that the more “­like us” the “­W hite Indian” becomes, the more alter she becomes (­the “­W hite Indian” is always female). Marsh dressing as an “­Indian,” and later searching for the “­W hite Indian,” defines what Taussig describes as the full effect of mimesis: When the impossible is obtained, and mimesis and alterity become two sides of the same coin. “­Then and only then can spirit and matter, history and nature, flow into each others’ otherness” (­Taussig 192). To help the flow of intercultural otherness on his expedition, Marsh brought along with him a ­370-​­pound box of gifts, among which was the first massed produced phonograph, the Victrola made by the Victor Talking Machine company (­eventually RCA Victor, “­H is Master’s Voice”), and records, which began the Cuna fascination with White popular music. Part of the company’s success over its competitors was its distinctive and valuable trademark of a talking machine and a dog called Nipper, borrowed from a painting by Francis Barruad. The logo was so seductive that it became a popular applique for Cuna molas (­see ­Figure  28.2). Taussig calls the logo a “­m imetic superpower in action,” with the image of a dog trying to distinguish the copy from the original, and its suggestion of “­m iming of miming” (­Taussig 213). In their book, Molas: Folk Art of the Cuna Indians, Ann Parker and Avon Neal call the molas “­the great contemporary copy art” (­Parker & Neal 43) of which the copies of advertisements are most enjoyed by collectors. The Cuna women replace the lost aura of objects as a result of their mechanical reproduction (­Benjamin), the women’s “­undefinable power” (­Taussig 231).

­Figure 28.2 Kuna Mola blouse fragment, Panama, Comarca de San Blas, c. 1960.  Cotton. 16 1/­8 × 20 1/­16 in. Museum of International Folk Art. Gift of the Girard Foundation Collection.

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Conclusion Mastery is mocked as First World and Other Worlds now mirror, interlock, and rupture each other’s alterity to such a degree that all that is left is the excess. (­Taussig 237) Whether in its original state or through mimetic technology, Taussig argues that mimesis is the capacity that affords us our primary contact with reality, or imagining and thinking, and therefore, we cannot conceive of reality, or history (­a s a philosophy of picturing), without this faculty. The mimetic faculty, he suggests, must also be responsible for Western imperial expansion: “­it was above all that auratic moment of ‘­fi rst contact’ with the primitive that gave Europeans their first image of the mimetic treasure which lay, if not within, then between the collective bodies in contact with one another” (­Taussig 73). Since Frantz Fanon wrote The Wretched of the Earth, mimicry and mimesis have been central in anticolonial thought (­Ladwig & Roque). Fanon, however, delimited imitation as an obsequious gesture to Europe, urging the colonized to imagine new ideologies and symbols. Later, Bhabha (­2004) recast the notion of colonial mimicry, employing the term “­hybridity” or the hybrid object, to describe how the colonized disrupts the cultural authority of the colonizer by maintaining the authoritative symbol but changing its signifier. “­The display of ­hybridity—​­its peculiar ‘­replication’—​­terrorizes authority with the ruse of recognition, its mimicry, its mockery” (­Loc 3079). Such forms of Indigenous resistance and disruption encapsulate “­the appropriation of the power of the other; the tensions between original and copy, as well as between similarity and difference” (­Ladwig  & Roque 2). Huggan distinguishes mimicry (­a s disruptive) from mimesis (­as symbolic): mimicry being a parody or a camouflaged performative resistance through replication and “­simulated obedience” (­Huggan 96). The Cuna figures and the corroborees in Narogin’s Master of the Ghost Dreaming are examples of such disruptive mimicry and simulated obedience. When our gaze rests on the mirroring of the West by its Others, the West loses its power, stability, and mastery, “­because the interpreting self is itself grafted onto the object of study” (­Taussig 237). But to what extent are these s­imulacrum drained of their power to disrupt, resist, and heal, particularly when they are c­ ounter-​­appropriated through the observation and ethnography or the unexpected visit by Fada, the aspiring anthropologist parodied by Narogin, in yet another layer of ­re-​­appropriation? Taussig creates an endless hall of mirrors in which his own identity as a Western ethnographer is changed in the act of ethnographic observation. Does he, like Muecke, create an “­infinite regress of mimicry” and guilty of “­ethnocentric bias” and “­imitative fallacy” (­Carter, as cited in Huggan 99)? Or, like fictocriticism, is his work a performative contradiction? The act of making sense of mimetic reflection disempowers the ethnographer of their own assumptions of superiority, but how, Taussig asks, do we stop “­yet another defensive appropriation of the unfamiliar” rushing to fill the void with safe explanations (­Taussig 237). He calls this the “­second contact” in which fascination with the Other becomes mutual with mutual appropriation and the cycling between mimesis and alterity. Taussig’s ­non-​­dualist concept of mimesis makes possible the magical reciprocity and power of alterity.

Prompts and Resources •

Within Western postmodern culture, appropriation sometimes does not appear as a colonizing artistic gesture. According to Roland Barthes, “­the role of the appropriated image isn’t to ‘­stand for’ something in the world, but precisely to break free from the demands of representation and reveal the contingency of the signifying process itself ” 246

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•

• •

(­Barthes, as cited in Kester, 2011, loc. 1057). How does this notion conflict with Indigenous cultures? Indigenous people defined as primitive were considered not able to invent, produce, and create institutions or history, in other words, “­practice the ‘­arts’ of civilization” (­Tuhiwai Smith, 2012, ­p. 26). How did the Cuna peoples turn this colonial assumption on its head? Decolonize This Place: https://­decolonizethisplace.org Artleaks Gazette: https://­­a rt-​­leaks.org/­­a rtleaks-​­g azette/

Works Cited Benjamin, William. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. Penguin, 2008. —​­—​­—​­. Reflections: Essays Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings. Mariner Books, 2019. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. Kindle edition, 2004. Carter, Paul. The Road to Botany Bay: An Exploration of landscape and History. University of Minnesota Press, 1998. Donoghue, Michael E. Borderland on the Isthmus: Race, Culture, and the Struggle for the Canal Zone. Duke University Press, 2014. Fanon, Frantz. The Wretched of the Earth. MacGibbon & Kee, 1965. Frazer, James G. The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion. 3rd ed., Macmillan, 1998. Haskins, Fredrick. The Panama Canal. Doubleday, Page, & Co, 1913. Howe, James. “­K indling ­Self-​­determination among the Kuna.” Cultural Survival Quarterly Magazine, 1982, https://­w ww.culturalsurvival.org/­publications/­­cultural-­​­­survival-​­quarterly/­­k indling-­​­­self-­​ ­­determination-­​­­a mong-​­kuna Huggan, Graham. “(­Post)­colonialism, Anthropology, and the Magic of Mimesis.” Cultural Critique, vol. 38, 1997, ­pp. ­91–​­106. Karr, Heather. “­Sympathetic Topographies.” Parallax, vol. 7, no. 2, 2001, ­pp. ­107–​­126. Kurtzer, Sonja. “­Wandering Girl: Who Defines ‘­ Authenticity’” in Aboriginal Literature?, edited by Michele Grossman, Melbourne University Press, 2003, ­pp. ­181–​­188. Ladwig, Patrice, and Ricardo Roque. “­Introduction: Mimetic Governmentality, Colonialism, and the State.” Social Analysis, vol. 62, no. 2, 2018, ­pp. ­1–​­27. Lasso, Marixa. Erased: The Untold Story of the Panama Canal. Harvard University Press, 2019. Marsh, Richard Oglesby. White Indians of Darian, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1934. Othering Otherness: Stephen Muecke’s Fictocriticism and the Cosmopolitan Mischke, Dennis. “­ Vision.” Postcolonial Studies across the Disciplines, edited by Jana Gohrisch and Ellen Grünkemeier, Brill, 2013, ­pp. ­323–​­340. Muecke, Stephen, et al. Reading the Country: Introduction to Nomadology. Fremantle Arts Center, 1984. Nakata, Martin. “­Better.” Blacklines: Contemporary Critical Writing by Indigenous Australians, edited by Michele Grossman, Melbourne University Press, 2003, ­pp. ­132–​­144. Narogin, Munderooro. Writing from the Fringe: A Study of Modern Aboriginal Literature. Hyland House, 1990. —​­—​­—​­. Master of the Ghost Dreaming. Collins/­A ngus & Robertson, 1991. Nordenskiold, Erland, and Rubén Pérez Kantule, An Historical and Ethnographic Study of the Cuna Indians. Göteburg Ethografiska Museum, 1938. Parker, Ann, and Avon Neal. Molas: Folk Art of the Cuna Indians. Barre Publishers, 1977. Taussig, Michael. Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses. Routledge, 1993, 2018. Tuck, Eve, and Yang, K. Wayne. “­­R-​­words: Refusing Research.” Humanizing Research: Decolonizing Qualitative Inquiry with Youth and Communities, edited by Djangi Paris and Maisha T. Winn, SAGE Publications, 2014, ­pp. ­223–​­247. ­Tuhiwai-​­Smith, Linda. Decolonizing Methodologies, 2nd edition, Zed Books, 2012.

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29 A CRITIQUE OF GRAND HEGEMONY Disrupting Historical Valuations of Public Space through Pervasive Gaming Lillian Lewis and Veronica Hicks Introduction: Traditional Approaches to Art History in U.S. Art Classrooms How might contemporary pedagogical practices help art teachers critically and responsively educate students about historical events and artists associated with white, Western, colonizing art history? How can art educators respect the needs and desires of individual populations through pedagogies that shape a greater understanding of processes at work in decolonizing urban spaces? The authors prepared to address these questions through an examination of the traditional methods for teaching art history in U.S. schools. They do so by utilizing the Grand Tour as a historical art event to ground the process of understanding current teaching practices in context and as a means to reveal complexities within art historical subject matter. In the late twentieth century, ­P-​­12 art teachers in the United States and other Western countries were encouraged by scholars in the field to incorporate art history into their curriculum to a greater degree than in decades past. The d­ iscipline-​­based art education (­DBAE) approach to art education that emerged in the 1980s emphasized a balanced approach to teaching art education that included art history, art criticism, aesthetics, and studio production (­Hamblen). While DBAE provided openings for art educators to move beyond the emphasis on studio production as the primary focus of subject matter, its balanced approach had its shortcomings. U.S. public school art educators faced challenges when presenting depth of content and when trying to balance DBAE approaches to art history, art criticism, aesthetics, and studio production. Critics of DBAE have suggested that art educators sometimes shied away from questioning traditionally established practices when teaching Western art history. Additionally, many art educators teaching ­P-​­12 students confined art reproductions, aesthetics, and art historical texts to a sampling of the traditional Western canon. An example of the canon often taught to students is the Grand Tour. This customary journey for young men of means has been presented as an important event in art history, due to the duration of the custom and the perceived beneficial artistic and sociocultural impact on Western society. We delve into the history of this customary journey in order to analyze how the presentation of the Grand Tour is emblematic of the uncritical approach to teaching art history. 248

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Art History, the Grand Tour, and Urbanization The custom of the Grand Tour began in Europe in the late sixteenth century and continued through to the early nineteenth century (­Black). During this time, parents of white male aristocrats sought to extend their sons’ formal education and help them become more knowledgeable about Western civilization. The journey aimed to have young men gain a deeper knowledge of art and architecture as well as prepared them to be competitive businessmen and inventors in the era of colonization. Men on the Grand Tour often acquired artworks, artifacts, furniture, and commissioned artworks by artists living in the regions they visited. In some cases, they also hired artists to accompany them on the journey to document the experience. The journey often took years, required significant staff support, and spanned thousands of miles. Men often began their journey in London, traveling via carriages and ships to destinations including Paris, the Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland, Spain, Italy, Greece, and Turkey. While the Grand Tour precluded female, Black, Indigenous, People of Color (­BIPOC), transgender, poor, and disabled people from participating, it was not restricted to European white men. Some notable white North American men were also influenced by the Grand Tour. One such person of means, Thomas Jefferson, found inspiration while visiting and observing classical architecture often included in the Grand Tour. In a letter from 1787, Jefferson wrote, “­here I am, Madam, gazing whole hours at the Maison quarrée, like a lover at his mistress” ( ­Jefferson 226). He personally financed and embarked on the journey from Paris as a private citizen in February, traveling through southern France, northern Italy, and Switzerland. During his visit to southern France and northern Italy, he became more enamored with architecture from the Roman republic and empire as he encountered remaining examples such ­ eo-​­Classicism as the domas Maison Carrée. Jefferson is credited as an early champion of n inant architectural style in U.S. government buildings throughout Washington D.C. and Virginia, and he was very influential in urban planning throughout the state. Jefferson and L’Enfant modeled their design for Washington D.C. after Versailles, which, as the epitome of monarchy, may have seemed an incongruent choice. Jefferson, like many white, wealthy, influential men of his time, envisioned cities and the project of urbanization through the lens ­ eorges-​­Eugène Hausman’s renovation of Paris between 1853 and 1870 of privilege. In turn, G drew on Jefferson and L’Enfant’s design for Washington D.C.’s architecture. The lure of imperial built environments extends beyond their imposing buildings and wide avenues. Paris, Washington D.C., and numerous cities in the Western world alongside global postcolonial cities have been urbanized by white, wealthy, typically abled, Western men in an attempt to serve their tastes and reinscribe their power over any people they deem subordinate. Thus, the Grand Tour can be understood as a significant custom that produced the conditions for strategic urbanization as a means to control economic and social systems in cities. In the context of art education, urbanization is evident in the visible, tangible, lived experience of cultural appropriation and cultural hybridity iterated through the built environment. Cities are often perceived to exhibit the positive and negative effects of colonizing practices through architecture, infrastructure, landscape, monuments, and other public works. In the context of contemporary society, this cultural appropriation and hybridity may not be immediately evident, but its presence speaks of the hegemonic power of dominant Western sociocultural and economic practices. ­Non-​­Western, ­non-​­white, ­non-​­cis, ­non-​ ­hetero, ­non-​­English speaking, disabled identities exist as other or outside of the postcolonial urban landscape. While art educators can point to singular examples of architecture or public monuments in a city as examples of aesthetically or technically admirable works, they 249

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are likely to repeat Jefferson’s error of reinforcing personal privilege through urbanization. Architecture, public monuments, and other aspects of the built environment do not exist outside of the sociocultural and historical contexts, nor should they be presented as universally exemplary. There are many people living in cities that experience the built environment as undesirable, unwelcoming, silencing, or hostile to their presence.

The Subaltern, the “­Concrete Experience of the Oppressed,” and Giving Voice Art educators who are considering the implications of teaching art historical events such as the Grand Tour must consider the importance of sociocultural and historical contexts as implicative to understanding the discipline of art history. There are larger concerns to consider in teaching art historical events that extend beyond considerations of subject matter and pedagogy. The traditional paradigms of art education have advocated for art teaching to improve the technical qualities of works, the communicative properties of art, and the socially transformative potential of art (­Pearse). These paradigms are rooted in Western art practice and history and therefore are not necessarily inclusive or responsive to cultures, identities, or art existing outside the Western canon. As Rolling states, “­A s long as a system of semiotic exemplars is embraced as significantly informative, the resultant paradigm may continue to act as a watershed against competing systems of understanding” (­Rolling 2). In other words, paradigms of art education that are rooted in whiteness resist critical s­elf-​­examination and tend to silence cultures, identities, or art outside its semiotic vocabulary. In “­Can the Subaltern Speak?” (­Spivak), Gayatri Spivak opposes the Western attempt to situate itself as investigating a subject that is opposed to the investigated n ­ on-​­Western object. Through a deconstruction methodology, Spivak examines women living in postcolonial south Asia existing outside the mode of capitalist production, and what she judges to be a failed effort to provide agency to these women. She describes these women using Gramsci’s term “­subaltern” or economically dispossessed. She suggests that Western attempts to grant the subaltern collective voice will fail due to the assumption that a heterogeneous group desires cultural solidarity and the reliance on Western intellectuals to speak about the subaltern condition, rather than allowing them to speak for themselves. Spivak’s answer to her question “­can the subaltern speak?” is no, they cannot, especially not when the Western academic field is unable to relate to the other with anything other than its own paradigm. Using Spivak’s argument to reframe one of the questions we pose in our introduction, we are compelled to ask: Is it possible for art educators to respect the needs and desires of individual populations through pedagogies that shape a greater understanding of decolonizing urban spaces? We respond to this question with an examination of Bettina Love’s work in ­BIPOC-​­centered pedagogies.

A Critical Lens for Teaching Urbanization in Art Education As the ­co-​­founder of the Abolitionist Teaching Network, Bettina Love invites educators to recognize schools as spaces that center whiteness (­Love 13) and contribute to BIPOC student pain. For Love, if schools are a source of pain, how then do minority identities benefit where BIPOC is centered? Love describes her reaction to two urban sites in the United States that she sees as places that center forms of social interactions among historically marginalized people: “­I feel most alive, where my feet are on fire, my mind cannot stop racing, my soul feels whole, and my heart filled with joy” (­93). One of these locations is Beacon Hill’s African Meeting House, in Boston, Massachusetts. In the 1800s, this was a site for abolitionists 250

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to exchange ideas, as well as the Portia School of Law, which was the only American law school for women during that period in U.S. history. The other place Love describes is Congo Square in New Orleans, where, during the ­m id-​­1700s, BIPOC artists expressed creativity and resisted cultural erasure as an act of freedom. According to Love, Beacon Hill and Congo Square demonstrate that when given the opportunity, spaces cultivated culture and dismantled white supremacy. Art educators seeking to decolonize schools should not only recognize the built environment as potential for cultivating community identity, educational equity, and art creation and appreciation. Art educators must also attend to educational reforms necessary to address structural inequalities embedded in environments, as well as in both urban and educational abolitionist pedagogies. Love characterizes pedagogy as a tool that cannot by itself remove barriers of “­racism, discrimination, homophobia, segregation, Islamophobia, homelessness, access to college, and concentrated poverty” (­19). Art educators critically examining pedagogy to decenter whiteness should approach this task as an entanglement that invests in the promotion of marginalized lives. Love explains how pedagogy can be combined with grassroots organizing, requiring people to grant themselves the authority to experience personal and community significance through pedagogical activism. She calls on “­coconspirators,” not allies (­Love ­117–​­119), to decenter their voices and question their positions of power. Doing so helps BIPOC students aspire to possibilities and to freedom dream, drawing on Maxine Greene’s notion of committing to imagining change in what seems to be unchangeable (­Greene). There are ways to start looking at the aspirations or driving forces behind our own pedagogical perspectives, and the people they target or leave out. Scholars (­K inloch & Ayers; ­Ladson-​­Billings; Paris & Alim; Paris) have introduced urban educational reform targeting marginalized populations, particularly minority groups. From an abolitionist pedagogical perspective, education reform means seeing the educational survival complex as an injustice that must be met with action. The major focus of the action in urbanization prevents colonizing practices from repeating in education systems. It is here that education reform, as Love suggests, becomes a reforming of one’s own pedagogical practice. Art educators are thus faced with the challenge of ignoring the indoctrination of whiteness inherent in teaching art while using traditional curriculum and pedagogy or insisting that whiteness is decentered in teaching art. Taking this a step further, art educators should unequivocally demand that whiteness is secondary, or even irrelevant, to the teaching of art history. The lens of whiteness may seem like an unchangeable part of art history due to its ubiquity in the subject matter and pedagogy. Conversely, centering whiteness for the sake of tradition is rather antiquarian and a mark of unresponsiveness to shifting discourses of inclusivity in teaching practices. The subaltern should speak if there are possibilities for agency through inclusion that will improve art pedagogies. In order to shift the power dynamics in art education and the position of the subaltern, art curricula should link historical and contemporary global art practices with popular media that challenge and reclaim what teaching art history means. We propose that deconstructing oppressive social systems enacted by maintaining colonization in art history must include popular culture v­ is-­​­­à-​­vis art history, in order to expose issues of cultural trauma, identity, and disability.

Developing the Humble Tour Art educators exploring urbanization can also use pervasive gaming to strive for diverse learning environments. Art education should further consider how people emerging from colonization aim to redefine territories previously less diverse for higher academic 251

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achievement. Pervasive gaming can assist art educators in closing the diversity gap between minority students and privileged peers. A nationally representative poll (­R ichardson) reported that parents of s­chool-​­age children saw racial diversity in the classroom as a positive platform, and that beyond diversity, they would further support a longer commute to ensure that their child attended a more diverse school. Seven in ten parents preferred a diverse student body in the school their child attended, with 49% saying they were strongly compelled towards diverse learning environments. From that group, however, only 25% of surveyed parents would ensure their child attended a racially diverse school by adding to the commute distance. This illustrates that there is a desire for diversity, but travel and commuting are factors in achieving inclusive, diverse learning environments. The goal of obtaining diverse learning environments is supported by parents. According to the data, 55% of U.S. parents believe that diversity improves learning environments; within this, 51% believe that diversity improves the learning environment for white students, whereas 55% believe that diversity improves the learning environment for BIPOC students. Now, consider how students who are not experiencing diverse learning communities might interact within a pervasive game environment. Pervasive games encourage learning through highly physical ­role-​­play (­Benford et al.). Specifically, touring pervasive games involve players1 who move through cities while moving in a parallel virtual city that has a minority composition eroded due to the virtual format. The educational potential is thus met with artistic merit when players exchange items or assist one another in tasks for individual and mutual benefit. The results of a pervasive gaming study of children’s cultural learning indicate that pervasive games help students learn local culture through their learning achievement (­Chen et al.). The study found that the more agreeable students were with the game, the more diverse learning could be achieved. Pervasive learning causes learning to occur within the activity or cultural context where the game occurs, known as situated learning (­Lave). The players highlight their own situated knowledge, which is represented and identified by students as information used to further succeed in the game. Here is where the dominant narrative changes from historically valued knowledge to dismantled and historically marginalized knowledge that challenges privileged perspectives. The act of claiming and redistributing value breaks environmental barriers and uproots social stigmas related to the vast and heterogeneous population that is reflected in art education. As situated learning requires social interaction and collaboration (­Brown et al.), pervasive gaming in art education provides a platform for students to enact social inclusion and associate with diverse peer groups with the potential for academic achievement. The Humble Tour pedagogy avoids reinscribing colonizing behaviors by utilizing gaming elements as a method to reclaim space. The Humble Tour pedagogy begins with a social critique model presuming that those with marginalized identities exist in a postcolonial capitalist society and acquire less influence and less value than white identities. The authors engage Love’s pedagogical recommendations to the Humble Tour in order to center players as the leaders for an analysis and critique of the urban built environment. The authors resist traditional paradigms emphasizing ­teacher-​­led art education in favor of a ­player-​­led critique of systems of power embedded in cities. This pedagogy of resistance positions players as 1 The authors avoid the terms visitors or students in favor of players. Players as opposed to visitors, connoting a history of institutions othering people visiting cultural institutions and museums. Players as opposed to students connoting a subordinate position to teachers in the hierarchy of schooling. The term player acknowledges the need to center marginalized identities and the ­non-​­hierarchical social relationship embedded in this pedagogy.

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active information seekers and competent critics of the built environment and, by extension, other systems of power. Art educators become coconspirators, supporting players to enact a radical re/­v ision of the Grand Tour to the Humble Tour.

Playing the Humble Tour Prior to playing the game, art educators should prepare players for the Humble Tour by first introducing the Grand Tour as a foundation and point of departure in touring p­ resent-​­day urban built environments. Players of any identity or ability can play this pervasive game that involves creating their own tour of an urban space. The authors tested the Humble Tour pedagogy with participants in the city of Toronto, Canada, in 2018, in conjunction with an arts education conference at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education. The authors helped students approach the task of creating their own tour of the city by facilitating a discussion to determine the degree to which players had already explored the city, particularly the University of Toronto campus. The authors developed questions prior to the start of the game, asking players to tap into their experiences and memories of the campus in order to help them connect to stops they would choose for their tour. The players were then asked to leave the classroom, equipped with pencils and paper, and explore the urban space in proximity to the building they began in. The players were asked to sketch locations, architecture, infrastructure, or public art that they felt was significant to them. We communicated the instructions that required touring the University of Toronto campus and being critical of what is documented as a commemoration of touring, by noting the stops and coming back to display the documentation. The authors asked players to describe why the item they sketched was significant and to assign it a point value. The authors did not indicate a range of values for points, as it was left for players to make judgments about how items were assigned value. After this explanation, players were asked to explore while creating the game as a common goal as they played it. This allowed for cooperation, collaboration, and social interaction among individuals while choosing where to tour and what stops were valued enough to commemorate with a drawing. Next, the authors asked players to interact with, document, and note parts of the space by using their own discernment. Finally, the authors facilitated a whole group discussion, wherein players presented their drawings, descriptions, and point values. The player experience of the Humble Tour began with the authors’ overview of the Grand Tour as a customary period of foreign travel by young male aristocrats marking their passage into adulthood. Artwork, furniture, and other souvenirs collected on the journey were symbolic of colonizing practices. The authors provided examples of Grand Tour souvenirs and notable tourists. Players posed questions that clarified their tasks and used documentation materials consisting of a clipboard, HB pencil, eraser, and a pad of white, ­cold-​­pressed drawing paper. Then, players left the classroom at their own pace. The authors did not monitor the players’ movements or accompany them while they created the documentations and drawings. Players were free to collaborate or work independently without the authors controlling or monitoring where the players went. Hypothetically, players could have stayed just out of sight several feet from the door and the authors would not have known. This would not have conflicted with the aim of empowering players to choose how they wanted to construct their tour, and the authors invited players to share where they traveled. At the conclusion of the Humble Tour, players returned at their own pace within a time constraint imposed by the conference. The authors met with the players at a large table where players organized their drawings on the table. Players discussed and experimented with 253

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different ways to arrange their drawings. These experimental arrangements became a m ­ ap-​ ­like representation of campus space, yet there were no official maps of the space provided. This player map emerged organically due to player experiences of the built environment, as well as through socialization and collaboration. Players engaged in a lively discussion about their exploration, items they chose to represent in their drawings, and how they described the items in those drawings. Players had humorous and sometimes emphatic statements about the point values they assigned to the drawings. In one instance, a player assigned the International Symbol of Access (­ISA) a very high point value because they felt it was imperative for functional architecture. The player critiqued the ISA in relation to the built environment through a critical disability lens, stating that even though the symbol exists throughout the building, it did not guarantee that the building was truly accessible. This is but one example of the powerful discourse that emerged throughout the Humble Tour. The authors and players ended up staying a bit longer to finish their discussions because players were enthusiastic about sharing their observations and critiques of the built environment.

Conclusion: Pedagogies of Alternative Urbanisms The authors began their pedagogical journey by asking each other, how might contemporary pedagogical practices help art teachers critically and responsively educate students about historical events and artists associated with white, Western, colonizing art history? How can art educators respect the needs and desires of individual populations through pedagogies that shape a greater understanding of processes at work in decolonizing urban spaces? We worked to answer these questions by embarking on critical ­self-​­reflection as art educators. We began with a review of ­white-​­dominant, traditional art education to provide insight into how art history is included in the art curriculum. From this review, we concluded that the dominant paradigms in art education fail to sufficiently recognize art and culture outside the Western canon. As a consequence, art educators teaching from these paradigmatic positions neglect to provide relevance or voices for learners with marginalized identities. Emblematic of this teaching practice, we highlighted the Grand Tour as an example of an art historical event that is often presented in a decontextualized manner that fails to address white supremacy (­Acuff & Kraehe). Spivak’s criticism of Western academics’ failed attempts to give voices to women outside of the mode of capitalist production provided the authors with motivation to search for pedagogies by and for people with marginalized identities. We engaged Love’s recommendations to teach explicitly about oppression as part of intersectional justice. Love emphasizes that place is a centering form for activating culture. She is critical of teacher allyship for its inaction, calling on educators to become coconspirators for BIPOC students. The authors incorporated Love’s recommendations in the pervasive game, the Humble Tour. The authors taught players about the oppression inherent in the Grand Tour to activate them in a collaborative pedagogical process of re/­v isioning the city as a counternarrative to the Grand Tour. Through the Humble Tour, players were empowered to draw on their own physical, social, and cultural experiences of the city as experts and critics of colonizing aspects of the built environment. Is this pure dreaming, or does pervasive gaming have staying power in decolonizing practices in art education? While it is not clear yet, our example shows that there is potential in examining the possibilities of the Humble Tour as a pedagogical alternative to white supremacist art education. Reimagining art education and urbanism through collaborative, participatory actions in pervasive gameplay is a necessary part of contemporary pedagogical 254

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practices. Critical and responsive art education pedagogies will educate students so that they can imagine art and culture beyond the confines of the Western canon.

Prompts and Resources Identify and reflect on commonly taught Western art history artists or art movements whose inclusion in the curriculum reinforces Western colonizing practices. As you plan your teaching, consider the following questions: • •

•

•

•

• •

Why is it important to teach students about this art movement or artist? If this art movement or artist is important to include in your curriculum, how can you represent this movement or person in a way that does not glorify colonizing practices or colonizing aesthetics? How could the inclusion of additional global historical context or the inclusion of additional artists contribute to a critical understanding of the art movement or artist in relation to colonization? What aspects of the art movement or artist’s works provide opportunities for students to critically examine and analyze connections to their lived experiences of colonizing practices and aesthetics? Which media, methods, and space will students need to create works that critically respond to the artist or movement? How should you facilitate this process in a way that sustains your students’ cultures and supports decolonizing dialogue and artistic processes? Decolonizing Art History, Dorothy Price & Catherine Grant: https://­forarthistory.org. uk/­­latest-​­news/­­decolonizing-­​­­a rt-​­h istory/ Decolonizing Art Criticism, Zofia Cielatkowska: https://­kunstkritikk.com/­­decolonising-­​­­ art-​­criticism/

Works Cited Acuff, Joni B., and Amelia M. Kraehe. “­Visual Racial Literacy: A ­Not-­​­­So-​­New 21st Century Skill.” Art Education, vol. 75, no. 1, 2022, p­ p. ­14–​­19. Crossref, https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­0 0043125.2021.1986459. Benford, Steve, et al. “­Bridging the physical and digital in pervasive gaming.” Communications of the ACM, vol. 48, no. 3, 2005, ­pp. ­54–​­57. Black, Jeremy. The British and the Grand Tour (­Routledge Revivals). Routledge, 2010. Brown, John Seely, et al. “­Situated Cognition and the Culture of Learning.” Educational Researcher, vol. 18, no. 1, 1989, ­pp. ­32–​­42. Chen, C ­ heng-​­Ping, et al. “­Using Instructional Pervasive Games for School Children’s Cultural Learning.” Journal of Educational Technology & Society, vol. 17, no. 2, 2014, ­pp. ­169–​­182. Greene, Maxine. Releasing the Imagination: Essays on Education, the Arts, and Social Change. John Wiley & Sons, 2000. Hamblen, Karen. “­W hat does DBAE Teach?” Art Education, vol. 41, no. 2, 1988, ­pp. ­23–​­36. Jefferson, Thomas. “­L etter to Madame de Tessé, 20 March 1787.” The Papers of Thomas Jefferson, vol. 11, 1 ­January–​­6 August 1787, edited by Julian P. Boyd. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1955, ­pp. ­226–​­228. Kinloch, Valerie, et  al. Crossing Boundaries–Teaching and Learning with Urban Youth (­T he Teaching for Social Justice Series). Illustrated, Teachers College Press, 2012. ­L adson-​­Billings, Gloria. “­Toward a Theory of Culturally Relevant Pedagogy.” American Educational Research Journal, vol. 32, no. 3, 1995, ­pp. ­465–​­491. —​­—​­—​­. “­Just What Is Critical Race Theory and What’s It Doing in a Nice Field Like Education?” International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, vol. 11, no. 1, 1998, ­pp. ­7–​­24. —​­— ​­—​­. “­Culturally Relevant Pedagogy 2.0: Aka the Remix.” Harvard Educational Review, vol. 84, no. 1, 2014, ­pp. ­74–​­84.

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Lillian Lewis and Veronica Hicks Lave, Jean. Cognition in practice: Mind, Mathematics, and Culture in Everyday Life. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Lave, Jean, and Wenger, Etienne. “­L egitimate Peripheral Participation in Communities of Practice.” Distributed Learning: Social and Cultural Approaches to Practice, edited by M. R. Lea and K. Nicoll, London: Routledge Falmer, 2002. Love, Bettina. We Want to Do More Than Survive: Abolitionist Teaching and the Pursuit of Educational Freedom. Illustrated, Beacon Press, 2020. Paris, Django. “­Culturally Sustaining Pedagogy: A Needed Change in Stance, Terminology, and Practice.” Educational Researcher, vol. 41, no. 3, 2012, ­pp. ­93–​­97. Paris, Django, et al. Culturally Sustaining Pedagogies: Teaching and Learning for Justice in a Changing World (­L anguage and Literacy Series). Teachers College Press, 2017. Pearse, Harold. “­ Beyond Paradigms: Art Education Theory and Practice in a Postparadigmatic World.” Studies in Art Education, vol. 33, no. 4, 1992, ­pp. ­244–​­252. Richardson, Joan, editor. “­Valuing Diversity in Public Schools.” Phi Delta Kappan, vol. 99, no. 1, 2017, ­pp. ­16–​­20. https://­pdkpoll.org/­­w p-​­content/­uploads/­2020/­05/­pdkpoll49_2017.pdf Rolling, Jr., James. “­Rethinking Relevance in Art Education: Paradigm Shifts and Policy Problematics in the Wake of the Information Age.” International Journal of Education & the Arts, vol. 9, no. 1, 2008. Spivak, Gayatri, Chakravorty. “­Can The Subaltern Speak?” Can the Subaltern Speak?: Reflections on the History of an Idea, edited by Rosalind Morris, Columbia University Press, 2010, ­pp. ­21–​­79.

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30 ART EDUCATION AND ENTANGLED KNOWLEDGE IN THE DIGITAL AGE Learning from Tabita Rezaire’s Premium Connect Kristin Klein

Tabita Rezaire’s art presents complex entanglements in a complex world. Navigating the present by interweaving diverse frames of reference, the artist explores the question of how different ways of generating knowledge can be brought together. In this text, I take a closer look at her video work “­Premium Connect” (­2017),1 which examines ways to decolonize technology in the digital age. “­Premium Connect” is a study of information and communication technologies, an investigation of “­c ybernetic spaces where the organic, technologic and spiritual worlds connect.” (­Goodman Gallery 8) Rather than analyzing the content or aesthetic means of the video work, I focus on how various epistemic practices are explored through three exemplary perspectives addressed in “­Premium Connect”: I “­Plant Teachers and the Wood Wide Web” explores transgressions of anthropological and humanistic traditions by example of plant communication systems, continuous interweavings of naturecultures (­Haraway), and technology. It may inspire art educators to rethink who and what constitute knowledgeable subjects in digital culture. II “­Divine Internet” deals with traditional practices of divination as a means for accessing ancestral knowledge and as an aid to future ­decision-​­making. On the one hand, this part highlights a multimodality of epistemic practices in the digital age. On the other hand, it establishes a metaphor for digital technology. Both aspects contribute to a complex understanding of digital cultures in which art educators might find useful points of departure different from mere technocentric approaches. III “­Memory Loss” deals with cultural roots of computation in African cultures. This part hints at and critiques blank spaces in scientific discourse on digitalization. It scrutinizes how digital culture has been passed down in science historically, especially in the Global North. Art educators as well as artists are encouraged here to question their own practice in terms of diversity and intersectionality, especially concerning digital technology. 1 The video is available online and recommended to watch before reading further: https://­ v imeo.com/ ­247826259

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-34

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In combining these aspects and supplementing them by following detours into more traditional theoretical fields relevant to art education, this text aims to provide a deeper understanding of digital technology in its many instantiations. The conceptual expansion of technology, in turn, might be described as part of Rezaire’s decolonial work.

“­Plant Teachers and the Wood Wide Web” For a long time, researching subterrestrial organisms was hardly accessible or of little interest to the sciences of the Global North. As a result, an important phenomenon remained unnoticed: Plant organisms that appear to be ­self-​­sufficient on the visible surface are interconnected below ground and have developed l­arge-​­scale communication systems (­Simard 2021). What has not been taken into account here, at least according to Rezaire’s invocation, has always been an integral part of indigenous knowledge. The Secwepemc, for example, were aware of nature’s f­ar-​­reaching interrelations (­Simard 2021). They “­have long known how to communicate with nature and download its knowledge” (­Goodman Gallery 8). The metaphorical reference to digitization challenges us to think about what knowledge means in connection with others, human and nonhuman, but also how we want to design and use communication systems and, more broadly, technology. Embracing the idea that information and communication technologies act “­as a mirror of the organic world, capable of healing or poisoning depending on its usage and users” (­Goodman Gallery 8), “­Premium Connect” explores the ­so-​­called plant internet, a subterranean network of cells in which fungi play an important role. While only a small part of the fungus, the fruiting body, protrudes from the soil, most of the organism consists of a mass of thin filaments called mycelium. The mycelium threads act as an underground network, connecting roots of many different fungi and plants, sometimes over miles. While the ­rhizome-​ ­like root network served Deleuze and Guattari as a ­post-​­structuralist model of knowledge organization, numerous media theorists later compared it to the infrastructure of the Internet. Biologists also call it the “­Wood Wide Web” (­Rezaire 05:­07-​­05:10, Stamets 2019) of plants. Within this fungal network, nutrients and information are being exchanged, in both beneficial and destructive ways. A pest infestation inside the network can be communicated to other areas of the network by means of chemical signals. Nutrients are distributed, vital substances are withdrawn from and redistributed among members of the network, or plants are sabotaged by toxic chemicals. This exchange not only occurs between plants of the same species but also between different species, whereby plants that are connected to the fungal network generally have a higher probability of survival than those on their own (­Smith & Read 528). “­Premium Connect”, in contrast to research disciplines presupposing a subject clearly delimited from the environment, constructs a subjective relation influenced by the environment, by nature, animate as well as inanimate, by oxygen cycles and food consumption, by cosmic radiation, and by biotechnological, medical, viral, and pharmacological effects. Humans are, on closer inspection, already living symbiotically in multispecies relationships themselves (­Gane & Haraway 147). They are inhabited, like their smartphone screens, by a multitude of microbes and bacteria. It becomes evident that there is no clear n ­ ature-​­culture separation. Concepts such as ­nature-​­culture by Donna Haraway or naturecultures by Bruno Latour (­van der Tuin 269) therefore assume a continuum in which nature and culture as well as humans and technology are connected in direct exchange relationships. They emerge through one another and cannot be clearly discerned. In this definition, human subjects are always embedded in, situated in, and ­co-​­dependent on or part of their respective contexts and environments. Thus, they cannot take a distanced view from the outside (­Braidotti 135). 258

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Conversely, they change the observed in the course of observation. As Niels Bohr proved, measurement methods exert influence especially on the subatomic level and change, for example, the behavior or position of elementary particles. Apparatus and observed objects are thus inseparable from each other, material and discursive levels intertwined. According to Barad (­200), this circumstance requires a new way of thinking about epistemology and ontology, especially in their entanglement. As “­Premium Connect” asserts, what science can do, consequently, is a relatively modest, albeit important task. The theoretical physicist Sylvester James Gates is quoted as follows: “­Science is not about finding the truth. What science is about is making our beliefs of nature less false” (­Rezaire 11:­19-​­11:25).

Excursus: Artificial Intelligence and Moral Machines Digital technology further changes the understanding of human knowledge and ability. At present, digitalization processes and effects in particular are bringing about new conceptions of, among other things, human cognition (­Hayles 2017). Paradoxically, through automation and artificial neural networks, cognitive elements can be identified in human activities that previously seemed largely uninteresting for technology research.2 Machine learning in the field of automated driving, for example, indicates that driving a car, long considered to be a primarily manual activity, requires extensive cognitive abilities. Now, however, these are being identified as a complex interplay of conscious and unconscious processes, internalized rules, mechanical actions, motor memory, social and ethical conventions, cultural codes, and a given situation (­Pasquinelli 28). What is sometimes described as Artificial Intelligence in this context is actually a culmination of these parameters and almost impossible to translate into algorithmic regularity. This is illustrated, for instance, by the “­Moral Machine’s”3 dilemmas for deciding on different scenarios of a s­ elf-​­driving car. While in the past, a comparison of the human mind with technological innovations, such as hydraulic models, machines, or computers (­Rezaire 06:­51–​­07:10), as well as analogies between biological and technological systems, implied a lossless transfer of organic living into binary structures, this relationship turns out to be far more complex. The intertwining of organic, technological, and spiritual spheres is not synonymous with their ­one-­​­­to-​­one translatability. Dieter Mersch (­73) argues for an incommensurability of the w ­ orld—​­not everything can be counted and calculated so as to become computerized. This applies to art especially, which not only depicts but also aesthetically reflects on its own rules of representation. Digital technology not only changes ways of thinking and the spectrum of what is to be understood as cognitive abilities, but it further complicates the definition of knowledgeable subjects. Examples of this can be found when human memory is increasingly supported by smartphones, when algorithms are involved in perception and ­decision-​­making processes, or when information such as video sequences can be encoded in and retrieved from living cells (­Shipman et al.). If we return to “­Premium Connect,” this can also be observed in the networks of nature, which are to be understood as knowledge archives and storage media. Even further, plants can be teachers (­Rezaire 04:­42–​­04:47). This is not only to be read metaphorically: Donna Haraway points to the example of Ophrys apifera, also known as bee orchid, which mimics 2 Moreover, digital technology reveals the social inequity of structural racism encoded into it. It comes to the surface when face recognition in everyday devices is not programmed to identify faces of Black people or when a Google search for “­u nprofessional hairstyles” in the vast majority shows curly Black hair (­Benjamin 2019). 3 http://­moralmachine.mit.edu/

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the reproductive organs of a female bee from a species that has become extinct in many regions. The mimicry of the plant allows inferences about the appearance of the bee species, but, as Haraway points out, as an interpretation by the plant of what reproductive organs of a female bee might look like or how they attract male bees (­Haraway 69). As is evident in this example and the preceding sections: Knowledge is not solely attributable to a s­ elf-​­contained subject, but to an interacting web of humans, technology, nature, and culture. This observation challenges ideas of individuality and originality in art and art education as well. Moreover, what was considered anthropomorphizing just a few decades ago is now better understood in relation to affordances of nonhuman actors, such as digital devices capturing our attention or interface design leading our gaze and behavior in a certain way. Therefore, relational theories as Donna Haraway’s, Karen Barad’s, or Rosi Braidotti’s go beyond the physical limitations of the individual human. They understand subjectivation as the c­o-​ ­constitution of material and discursive relations of human and nonhuman actors. Thus, the current centrality of human actors in the humanistic sciences of the Global North is contrasted with alternative theoretical models. However, they, so far, incorporate little knowledge of indigenous communities, which have been in existence much longer (­Bennet  & Eglash 1335). The Yupiaq, for instance, view the human, the spiritual, and the natural world as based on an alliance and balance of all elements that are in constant reciprocal communication. The human being is part of these worlds, they do not, however, own them (­K awagley 1995). Artists like Tabita Rezaire bring forward indigenous concepts of an interconnected world, reminding the viewer of times and places where certainty about the power of other than human entities preceded the current intellectual debate.

Challenges for Art Education I “­Premium Connect” offers a shift of perspectives, emphasizing relations and interconnectivity beyond humans that could serve as a navigational tool in art education to look closer into how these relations affect us and are affected by us, especially since relations cannot do without inclusion and exclusion, and without violence and negotiation of power. That is why relations should always be an object of investigation, not an ideological prerequisite. In an age where digital technology allows knowledge to be accessed and politically significant connections to be made in unprecedented density, it seems all the more important to interrogate the ways in which these connections are made and to draw attention to what contexts are invoked. To use Haraway’s famous quote following the social anthropologist Marilyn Strathern: It matters what matters we use to think other matters with; it matters what stories we tell to tell other stories with; it matters what knots knot knots, what thoughts think thoughts, what descriptions describe descriptions, what ties tie ties. It matters what stories make worlds, what worlds make stories. (­Haraway 12) When Rezaire fuses common dichotomies of nature/­ culture and human/­ technology, she does so to cross prevailing understandings of (­d igital) technology: “­Overcoming the organism/­spirit/­device dichotomies, this work explores spiritual connections as communication networks and the possibilities of decolonial technologies” (­Goodman Gallery 8). She highlights modes of cognition and affect that resist digitization, but at the same time enable a manifold understanding of digital technology beyond discrete units and numerical values encodable in zeros and ones. The exchange systems of humanity, nature, and technology 260

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are a starting point for collective knowledge production, showing that these entanglements have shaped human beings since the beginning of time, constantly changing epistemological notions, perception, memory, thinking, and feeling. What is implied for art education, if one were to think about humans beyond a single and independent individual and beyond individualized creativity and originality? What concepts and ideas of art education would be affected? For example, what would a collective subject mean for the notion of artists? What would it mean for conceptualizing students’ abilities? In educational theory, implications are outlined more generally in terms of an entangled and ongoing ­becoming-​­with and in terms of sharing responsibility with others, human and nonhuman. In art education, there are projects like the one by Fiona Fell and David Rousell (­2018), who are rethinking collaboration as distributed becoming from a posthuman perspective, by reworking the visual arts curriculum through time and space. Still, there seems to be a lot of potential for further exploration.

“­Divine Internet” “­We humans are so insecure that we want to understand, it’s just another form of control” (­Rezaire 05:­11–​­05:15), proclaims a protagonist in Premium Connect. To her, wanting to comprehend purely analytically is an expression of a quest for control that seems to know how to systematically classify the world in terms of concepts, but is only insufficiently able to reflect on itself as a powerful practice. If, on the one hand, one has to assume a complex and hardly controllable present, and, on the other hand, subjects are not clearly defined, the question arises as to how the ability to know, to act, or make decisions is conceivable without an ­a ll-​ ­encompassing understanding. While risk analysis and futurology have established themselves as such attempts in the context of economic speculation, “­Premium Connect” refers to dialogic forms of traditional knowledge practices, especially the Ifá divination system. It consists of an extensive corpus of texts and mathematical formulas and is practiced by Yoruba communities in West Africa and the African diaspora in the United States, among other places. Knowledge of Ifá has been passed down in Yoruba communities and among Ifá priests primarily orally. Under the influence of colonial rule, however, the practices were often banned and its transmission came under threat. Technology plays an important role in keeping these rituals alive. It is a repository and carrier of spiritual practices, and in turn, it changes traditional rituals (­see ­Figure 30.1).4 In “­Premium Connect,” another analogy to the internet is drawn, in this case to ancestral knowledge: “­We are praising our ancestors because also, what they provide for us is a divine record of consciousness. They are the divine internet” (­Rezaire 06:­40–​­06:51). A connection with ancestral wisdom, in this example, becomes possible through divination. Divination is a traditional practice, enacted differently depending on cultural and religious contexts, to access information about the future that is presently still ­unknown—​­a journey through time, so to speak (­Rezaire 08:­06–​­08:11). Unlike other forms of divination, Ifá divination does not rely on a person with oracular powers, but on a standardized ritual and system of signs interpreted by diviners in contact with a psychic entity, using a divination chain and palm nuts. The Ifá divination system is used whenever an important individual or collective decision lies ahead. It is an aid to ­decision-​­making in an obscure situation with unknown variables. 4 See for example: ­Cutting-​­edge Technology for an Ancient Religion: https://­w ww.youtube.com/­watch?v= lQb3CB0MUrs

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­Figure 30.1 Ifá Divination App, Screenshot from Premium Connect (­ 13:04), 2017, vimeo.com/­ 247826259. Accessed 1 Oct. 2020. Credits: Premium Connect, 2017, Tabita Rezaire. Courtesy of the artist and Goodman Gallery, South Africa.

Fortune telling can be seen as a systematic method by which apparently unrelated, random aspects are organized in such a way that they present a problem in a certain light and are, as it were, offered to questioners. Divination then is not a prediction of the future, but a dialogue. The apparent dilemma of citing Ifá divination as an alternative knowledge practice without having experienced it in person can at least result in an attentiveness toward ingrained schemes of interpretation. Scientifically established methods can only inadequately capture phenomena outside their scope. The rain dance, practiced in the past by different cultures of Africa, America, and in parts of Europe, is such an example. ­One-​­sided ­cause-​­effect attributions as a frame of reference must obviously fail here. Even if, according to current knowledge, the rain dance does not actually lead to rain, it is meaningful for the performers, coming together and strengthening shared faith through the ritual (­Brülisauer 193). The more important question regarding knowledge practices, however, is: From what position, in what context, at what point in time, etc. does something make sense to whom? Or rather, where is meaning explicitly dismissed? “­Premium Connect” questions which systems have been established in the Global North, both in everyday life and in science, for collecting and reading data and weaving it together into information and knowledge, and which narratives are left out in the process. Leibniz still justified calculating with the number 0 by saying that God was 1, who created everything from nothing, 0. So, it had to be possible to calculate with 0. Isaac Newton, a role model for many Enlightenment thinkers, probably reached his insights on his lifelong search for the philosopher’s stone. His alchemical studies demonstrably influenced his physical treatises. Today, however, he is much more known for his groundbreaking work in classical mechanics than as a magician. Scientific empirical research is inevitably a form of observation purged in its representation and dependent on historical circumstances. “­Premium Connect”, on the other hand, deliberately juxtaposes different epistemic practices and ontologies. Theoretical physics, magic, and biology are in close proximity here, 262

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in their different modes, but without a clearly discernible hierarchy. While this seems only appropriate in view of the complexity of current world affairs, it also challenges existing concepts rooted in humanist thought. As the artist James Bridle observes: The greatest driving force of progress in the last centuries has been the central idea of the Enlightenment itself: (­the idea) that more ­k nowledge – ​­more ­information – ​­leads to better decisions [… ] In its early years, the Internet was often referred to as the ‘­information highway’, a source of knowledge that illuminates the world in the flickering light of fiber optic cables. Every fact, every quantum of information, is available today with a mouse ­click – that’s how we made ourselves believe. (­27) ​­ The sheer volume of data overwhelms established forms of critique that have emerged especially in the context of book culture. Digital networking conditions call for multimodal and ­situation-​­specific methods and tools, revising what can be known with and through technology. Rezaire, in referring to divination, brings up practices of magic, not so much as a creed, but a form of pragmatism in the digital age. Journalist Erik Davis notes: It’s not about the return of the gods or the ­re-​­enchantment of a technologically disenchanted reality. Instead, it’s about the rediscovery of tools and strategies that are, paradoxically again, pragmatic and instrumental. We (…) intuitively recognize that magic may help us map, manipulate, and navigate the weird multiverse that yawns before us, as consensus reality melts down. (­Davis 61) Magic and mysticism, in this case, are symptoms of an unmanageable and uncontrollable complexity. In a world of black boxes, in which computers grasp time horizons and data capacities that remain opaque to humans both in scope and in their functionality, magic represents a means of remaining able to act, however, not in the sense of conspiracy theories and their control fantasies of omnipotent individuals. “­Premium Connect” reminds us that invocations of old spirits, chance, desire, ignorance, and nonlinearity are always part of epistemic practices. The example of the “­Divine Internet” or divination serves as an exemplary occasion to reflect on the plurality of scientific as well as everyday rituals in the digital age.

Challenges for Art Education II Rezaire’s work combines different perspectivizations, suggesting a methodology of loosening between knowledge ontologies and knowledgeable subjects while different epistemic practices coexist. In order to meet the requirements of today’s complex societies, Rick ­Dolphijn and Iris van der Tuin also propose a shift from categorizing in scientific work towards cartography while at the same time envisaging possibilities for its transgression and alternative forms of critique (­167). They emphasize the way different forms of knowledge and epistemologies are linked, an awareness of which would dissolve dualistic conceptual constructions and the reference to paradigm shifts or schools of thought common in the humanities and social sciences in favor of dynamic theory production. Dolphijn and van der Tuin, by using cartography as method, aim at a deterritorialization of traditional classifications (­110) and a reflection of epistemological conditions. Art education, in any case, moves between disciplines and is rich in different modes of research and action. Taking Rezaire’s work, as an incentive to think further about entangled knowledge in art education, can be 263

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especially insightful for reflecting on situated knowledge for an awareness of a multifaceted ­sense-​­making in the digital age. It shows that digital technology is not only based on mathematical calculations but is also part of and enriched by spiritual practices. At the same time, it shows that the sciences, which consider themselves rational in a humanist tradition, bear traces of faith and irrationality. While acknowledging these phenomena, it is nevertheless important not to indulge in a ­techno-​­magic wonderland where a c­ o-​­presence of humans and technology is based on deception and subversion of conscious perception without questioning data collection and misuse or algorithmic violence (­Leeker 255). Spiritualism or magic offers an alternative tool for connection, a divine internet, and therefore a technology that could lead to reevaluating how digital technology is designed and used in the first place. Nevertheless, it remains crucial to criticize influential platforms and monopolized Internet corporations since they not only own the largest infrastructure but can exert political influence, for example, by regulating and controlling what can be said and done online, sometimes bypassing state bodies. In view of this fact, resistant technologies are paramount for Rezaire: Indeed, the West controls the Internet, in terms of domain ownership, content input and data utilization, while Africa remains the least visible continent on the Internet. The fantasized global online culture is still mainly a ­one-​­way flow, from them to the rest of the world. Considering the Global South context, we can ask ourselves if the Internet is a colonized space, and if we are still victims of a hegemonic power. How can culture have an impact on this social divide and misrepresentation? And can the Internet still be a space for dissent? (­Rezaire 186)

“­Memory Loss” Woman voice: Ifá is not a religion but contains religion. Ifá is not history but contains history. Ifá is not philosophy but contains philosophy. Ifá is not science but it contains science, and a very profound kind of science. What is a profound kind of science? Computerized male voice: Surely, not one relying on exploitation, oppression, and disconnection. ( ­Rezaire 03:­04- ​­03:36) As elaborated so far, “­Premium Connect” examines who and what can bring forth knowledge as well as different epistemic modes of generating and connecting knowledge in the digital age. Furthermore, the film explicitly points out structures of power in scientific traditions, especially when it comes to the historicization of digitalization. When the origins of digitalization are discussed today, they often begin at the earliest with Leibniz, who is stylized as the last polymath. If one follows Sybille Krämer’s account, for example, it was Leibniz who invented the binary code and, as a “­m astermind of ­network-​­like connections” (­5) laid the foundations of digital culture. What is left out of the present interview situation, presumably for the sake of communicative reduction, once again according to “­Premium Connect”, presents not an isolated case (­Goodman Gallery 8). It would be possible, however, to follow narratives that do not ostensibly adhere to ideas of individual authors. “­Premium Connect” puts forward research suggesting the binary system has its origins in, among other things, Bamana sand divination, a form of clairvoyance, also called geomancy, that uses markings and patterns in the earth or sand. The (­h is)­story of digitalization could then be told somewhat differently. Europeans carried the principles of Bamana divination techniques to Moorish Spain, where the practice was first picked up by alchemists and integrated 264

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­Figure 30.2 Fractal Structures in African Architecture and Design. Screenshot from Premium Connect (­0 0:13:04), 2017, vimeo.com/­247826259.  Accessed 1 Oct. 2020.  Credits: Premium Connect, 2017, Tabita Rezaire. Courtesy of the artist and Goodman Gallery, South Africa.

into the local divination. Later, Leibniz derived the binary code from geomancy (­Rezaire 08:­22–​­9:34). Not only the binary system but also other relatively new subfields of mathematics and ­ igh-​­tech applications in biology, geology, and other natural computer modeling as well as h sciences have their origin in Africa and Asia. Two examples are the Arabic number system and the algorithm. Fractal geometry and principles like recursion and scaling are very common in architecture, music, or in patterns of traditional African design (­see ­Figure 30.2). Reflecting mathematical principles, they could be found in many African countries and regions, even before they were known in Europe (­Eglash 51). Therefore, African settlement architecture was overlooked in its systematization by Europeans for a long time and even dismissed as disorganized and primitive (­196). Aerial photography, again a technology, has since helped to reveal the underlying order (­21). Rezaire’s work challenges perceptual protocols of the Global North and criticizes their filtering mechanisms. Many inventions are characterized by omissions, by powerful and less powerful narratives, by cultural reattributions. The abstract to “­Premium Connect” states in reference to the Ifá binary code, “­Once again the origin of knowledge has been erased in favor of Western achievements” (­Goodman Gallery 8). At the same time, phrasings such as origin of knowledge are questionable, as has been outlined in the previous sections. According to the physicist Gates in Premium Connect (­Rezaire 12:­0 0–​­12:36), codes, fractal structures, and mathematical descriptions are already inherent in nature. For example, the arrangement of plant leaves and seeds in Fibonacci order is the most efficient way for plants to capture sunlight and to accommodate as many seeds as possible in a small space. Methods for the mathematical description of the world can therefore already be found in nature. Here, again, digital technology can only be understood in terms of entanglements between nature and culture. 265

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Challenges for Art Education III “­You’ve been living in a dream world Neo” (­Rezaire 13:­01–​­13:03), Morpheus is quoted from the movie “­Matrix” at the end of Rezaire’s film. This scene, in which a Black person enlightens a White person about the constitution of reality, summarizes what “­Premium Connect” is also concerned with. Rezaire’s work makes visible what might otherwise escape the Eurocentrically educated gaze by exaggerating underexposed or forgotten aspects of digital culture in Western narratives. It raises awareness of the dynamics of digitalization and an understanding of technology as socioculturally rooted in nature and ancient cultures. In addition, Rezaire engages in postcolonial criticism of technology, which is still underrepresented in art education and other disciplines but should gain importance not only in the context of ongoing globalization. Theories of the Global North rarely reflect on the problem of their colonial legacies (­Eglash et. al. 1335), nor do they acknowledge ancient concepts and practices of indigenous commu­ aterial-​­semiotic nities, for instance, concerning relations between human and nonhuman m agencies (­1344). Moreover, indigenous frameworks of nurturing value circulation could lead to designing digital technology beyond value extraction, optimization, and efficiency, which in return are grounded in the exploitation of natural resources and labor (­1337). Indigenous cultures are places of resistance, resilience, and resurgence due to (­neo)­colonial experiences such as land grabbing and destruction of tropical forests by international corporations. However, a closer look at the various relationships between humans and nonhumans in different indigenous cultures is called for in order to avoid overgeneralizations, such as: “­the tendency to view all indigenous cultures as identical ‘­noble savages’ whose holistic oneness with nature traps them in a timeless past, erasing specific histories” (­1344). Especially in pedagogical settings, it is significant which framework is used for teaching with and through technology and its metaphors. Eglash et al. therefore argue, especially in STEM, to also connect to the cultural heritage of local contexts and communities, to understand learning as embodied and situated, and to make connections from these corporeal, historically grown contexts to current digital technology. For example, principles of reciprocity and recursion can be illustrated not only as mathematical functions, but at the same time, through ethical maxims of communality (­1336), cultural symbols, and material artifacts of the Asante, or the weaving of cornrows as embodied algorithmic cultural heritage (­1343).

Potentially Seeing the Same World Differently “­Premium Connect” brings together different perspectives of generating, dealing with, and thinking about knowledge in the digital age. The film recalls scientifically established as well as traditional spiritual practices and pop cultural references, weaving them into a dense fabric with numerous textures and patterns, holes, and mends. It also contours the notion of digitalization as an exceedingly multilayered one. Continuing this awareness into art education, different consequences were outlined in dialogue with “­Premium Connect”. The distributed ­nature-­​­­culture-​­technology subjects addressed in “­Plant Teachers and Wood Wide Web” challenge anthropological and humanistic traditions presupposing a subject more or less learning and acting individually. It also outlines digital technology not as something alien to the human body, but as imminent and ­co-​­evolutionary connected, mirroring social realities and inequities. “­Divine Internet” offered more i­n-​­depth provocations on what constitutes technology and how alternative ways

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of navigating a digitally networked world are possible. Finally, “­Memory Loss” pointed to historically concealed, forgotten, or underrepresented roots of digital technology. All three parts outline possibilities of decolonizing digital technology in art education. One would need to make different influences visible, to show the multiple entanglements and possibilities of becoming with and developing digital technology. Art educators could highlight how digital technology is connected to embodied experience and situatedness. They can encourage experimenting with different ways digital media can be used and instantiated. And they can help change the definition of how digital technology exceeds what is commonly known as algorithms and data. Rezaire’s work provides a format for establishing an understanding of data as, in a broader sense, cultural entities and their h ­ uman-​ ­readable encoding into art. As a protagonist explains at the very end of the film: Encoding is the translation of data from one format to another. A piece of data is an abstract information. In order to read this data we must encode it into a format we understand. We could potentially see the same world differently through another format. (­Rezaire 12:­37–​­12:42) “­Premium Connect” ultimately translates abstract information into culturally decipherable dimensions. At the same time, it asks what cannot be digitized, what eludes, what remains unavailable, or what is lost in translation. Refraining from the assumption that one can abstain from the conditions of digitality, it points out what cannot be mapped in 0s and 1s, yet is nevertheless influenced by digitalization. In this way, Rezaire offers a complex understanding of how we can become knowledgeable with and through digital technology, and she presents ideas for imagining technology otherwise.

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Plant Teachers and Wood Wide Web What can we learn from others, not only humans but objects and animals? What can we learn, for instance, from a creaking door, from a watermelon, and from stones hundreds of years old? Moreover, how does nature influence our understanding of digital technology and how does digital technology in turn influence how we see ourselves, our bodies, and the way we think? Divine Internet Where and how do chance, desire, unknowing, nonlinearity, etc., play a role in art, everyday life, and academic fields? How can we navigate complexity in the digital age through different epistemic practices and still find a common ground? Memory Loss What are possible blind spots in art education? Which artists and artistic practices, and which art historical traditions and concepts are marginalized or even invisible? What is missing in the curriculum? Amakaba. A Vision of Collective Healing through Art, Science & Spirituality. https://­ www.amakaba.org. Accessed 10 May 2022. Black(­s) to the Future. A space for Sharing and Collective Experimentations. http://­ blackstothefuture.com. Accessed 10 May 2022. Rezaire, Tabita. Artist Website. https://­t abitarezaire.com. Accessed 10 May 2022.

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Works Cited Barad, Karen. Meeting the Universe Halfway. Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning. Duke UP, 2007. Benjamin, Ruha. Race after Technology: Abolitionist Tools for the New Jim Code. Polity, 2019. Bennett, Jane. Vibrant Matter. A Political Ecology of Things. Duke UP, 2010. Braidotti, Rosi. Posthuman Knowledge. Polity Press, 2019. Bridle, James. New Dark Age. Technology and the End of the Future. Verso, 2018. Brülisauer, Bruno. Was können wir wissen? Grundprobleme der Erkenntnistheorie. Kohlhammer, 2008. Davis, Erik. “­W hy has so much of millennial culture turned towards psychedelics?” Spike Art Magazine, vol. 58, 2019, ­pp. ­60–​­61. Dolphijn, Rick, and Iris van der Tuin. New Materialism: Interviews & Cartographies. Open Humanities Press, 2012, hdl.handle.net/­2027/­spo.11515701.0001.001. Accessed 1. April 2021. Eglash, Ron. African Fractals. Modern Computing and Indigenous Design. Rutgers UP, 1999. Eglash, Ron et al. “­Decolonizing posthumanism: Indigenous material agency in generative STEM.” British Journal of Educational Technology, vol. 51, no. 4, 19 Jun. 2020, p­ p. ­1334–​­1353, British Educational Research Association, doi: 10.1111/­bjet.12963. Gane, Nicholas, and Donna Haraway. “­W hen we have never been human, what is to be done?” Theory, Culture and Society, vol. 23, no. ­7–​­8, 2006, ­pp. ­135–​­158. Goodman Gallery. Tabita Rezaire. Exotic Trade. Johannesburg, 2017, tabitarezaire.com/­onewebmedia/ ­E XOTICTRADE_TABITA%20REZAIRE.pdf. Accessed 1 April 2021. Haraway, Donna J. Staying with the Trouble. Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Duke UP, 2016. Hayles, Katherine J. Unthought: The Power of the Cognitive Nonconscious. The University of Chicago Press, 2017. Kawagley, Angayuqaq Oscar. A Yupiaq Worldview: A Pathway to Ecology and Spirit. Waveland Press, 1995. Krämer, Sybille. “­Vordenker der Digitalisierung.” Campus.leben, Freie Universität zu Berlin, 27 Jan. 2016, www.­f u-​­berlin.de/­campusleben/­forschen/­2016/­­160127-­​­­leibniz-­​­­i nterview-​­k raemer/­i ndex. html. Accessed 1 April 2021. Leeker, Martina. “­Psychedelische Performances und technologische Verzauberungen. Wie und wozu Gehirne in digitalen Kulturen getäuscht werden.” Kunst#quer#Kopf. Kunst und Neurowissenschaften begegnen sich, edited by Bernhard Balkenhol, Christa Sturm, kopaed, 2020, p­ p. ­246–​­271. Mersch, Dieter. “­K reativität und Künstliche Intelligenz. Einige Bemerkungen zu einer Kritik algorithmischer Rationalität.” Zeitschrift für Medienwissenschaft, vol. 11, no. 2, 2019, ­pp. ­65–​­74, doi: 10.25969/­mediarep/­12634. Pasquinelli, Matteo. “­Three Thousand Years of Algorithmic Rituals: The Emergence of AI from the Computation of Space.” ­E -​­flux, vol. 101, Jun. 2019, www.­e -​­flux.com/­journal/­101/­273221/­­three-­​ ­­t housand-­​­­years-­​­­of-­​­­a lgorithmic-­​­­r ituals-­​­­t he-­​­­emergence-­​­­of-­​­­a i-­​­­f rom-­​­­t he-­​­­computation-­​­­of-​­space/. Accessed 1 April 2021. Rezaire, Tabita. “­A fro cyber resistance: South African Internet art.” Technoetic Arts. A Journal of Speculative Research, vol. 12, no. 2/­3, 2014, ­pp. ­185–​­196. Shipman, Seth L. et al. “­­CRISPR-​­Cas encoding of a digital movie into the genomes of a population of living bacteria.” Nature, vol. 547, no. 7663, 2017, ­pp. ­345–​­349, doi: 10.1038/­nature23017. Simard, Suzanne W. Finding the Mother Tree: Discovering the Wisdom of the Forest, Knopf, 2021. Simard, Suzanne W. et al. “­Net transfer of carbon between ectomycorrhizal tree species in the field.” Nature, vol. 388, no. 6642, 1997, ­pp. ­579–​­582, doi: 10.1038/­41557. Smith, Sally E., and David J. Read. Mycorrhizal Symbiosis. 3rd ed., Academic Press, 2008. Stamets, Paul. Fantastic Fungi: How Mushrooms Can Heal, Shift Consciousness & Save the Planet, Earth Aware, 2019. Van der Tuin, Iris. “­Naturecultures.” Posthuman Glossary, edited by Rosi Braidotti and Maria Hlavajova, Bloomsbury Academic, 2018, ­pp. ­269–​­270.

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31 RARANGA AND TIKANGA PĀ ­HARAKEKE—​­AN INDIGENOUS MODEL OF SOCIALLY ENGAGED ART AND EDUCATION Leon Tan and Tanya White

In this chapter, we present a case study of socially engaged art in Tāmaki Makaurau (­Auckland), Aotearoa New Zealand, in which the customary practice of raranga (­weaving) is ­applied—​­through a methodology we call Tikanga Pā ­Harakeke—​­to contemporary social justice and health issues for the benefit of mokopuna (­g randchildren) and whānau (­family). By socially engaged art, we mean “­art that is collaborative, often participatory and involves people as the medium or material of the work” (­Tate Art Terms). We elaborate on key aspects of raranga and tikanga pā harakeke, namely, an indigenous worldview, a methodology, and raranga wahakura (­the weaving of sleep vessels for infants) and manaaki whenua (­land care) as twin strands of a social practice. The case study is then related to the globalized field of socially engaged art with attention to differing conceptions of the world and creative agency. At the end, we conclude with an affirmation of the importance of an ontological reorientation if socially engaged art and education are to serve the interests of a more sustainable world. To begin, we locate this research historically and geographically in broad brushstrokes and provide some provisional definitions. Aotearoa New Zealand is a remote, mountainous group of islands in the southern part of the Great Ocean of Kiwa, Te ­Moana-­​­­nui-­​­­a-​­Kiwa (­the Pacific Ocean). Te ­Ika-­​­­a-​­Māui1 (­The Fish of Māui) is the name for the North Island, and Te ­Waka-­​­­a-​­Māui (­Māui’s waka or sea vessel) is the name for the South Island. ­Snow-​­capped mountains, volcanoes, winding rivers, flatlands, golden beaches, lush forests, lakes, and hot springs make up the dramatic and diverse landscapes of Aotearoa. Endemic flora and fauna evolved in isolation here for millions of years; more than 80% of the land was once covered in rich native forest and shrubland. Many generations following Māui, tribal narratives attribute the discovery of Aotearoa to Kupe, a ­well-​­k nown navigator of Te ­Moana-­​­­nui-­​­­a-​­K iwa. Toi is another prestigious early ancestor from the ancient homeland of Hawaiki. Both Kupe and Toi are prominent figures in the settlement of Aotearoa by early Māori. As more waka arrived over time, Māori 1 One of the most w ­ ell-​­known Māori narratives recounts how the North Island of Aotearoa was fished up by Māui Tikitiki a Taranga. Through his exploits he became a legendary hero throughout Te Moana nui a Kiwa (­Te Rangi Hīroa).

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-35

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settlements expanded across the group of islands for several hundred years before the first European ship landed under Abel Tasman’s command. Meeting with hostility from South Island tribes, however, the Dutch left with unfavorable impressions (­Walker 78). Over a hundred years later, British and French explorers were the next to “­d iscover” Aotearoa New Zealand, engaging with local iwi (­tribes) with varying, and in some cases bloody, consequences. Organized colonization, predominantly by the British, took place in earnest through the 1830s, and by 1840, ­numerous—​­but not ­a ll—​­chiefs had signed a Treaty with the British Crown drafted by William Hobson. “­But what they thought they gave and what the colonizer claimed, were separated by an abyss that was to have cataclysmic consequences for Māori people” (­Walker 96). That the Treaty of Waitangi consisted of English and Māori language versions understood very differently by each party is unsurprising, given the haste in which it was drafted and translated, and perhaps more importantly, given the vastly different worldviews and cultural reference points of the parties involved (­Salmond, Ontological Quarrels 116). More will be made of these exchanges across cultures as our narrative unfolds. On arrival to the shores of Aotearoa, a land of rich primeval forests, magnificent towering kauri trees, and bountiful sea life, Māori discovered harakeke growing in abundance along the many streams, rivers, and lakes. Harakeke, botanical name Phormium Tenax, also commonly known as New Zealand flax,2 is one of Aotearoa’s ancient indigenous plants. Resilient and robust, it flourishes in the transition zones between land and water and has since ancient times served as a natural filter for the waterways beside which it grows. Harakeke quickly became essential to many aspects of everyday life. Muka (­harakeke fiber) became the raw material to make clothing and whatu kākahu (­cloak making) designs developed that are unique to Aotearoa. Harakeke was also utilized in making nets, all manner of kete (­vessels), mats, rope, cordage for fishing, bird snares, and lashings for whare (­houses) and waka. To this day, harakeke continues to be used as rongoā Māori (­for healing purposes). Externally, it can be made into a poultice to treat boils and ringworm while the take (­fi rm lower ends of the harakeke plant) is used to make splints. The liquid from boiling harakeke leaves and roots has antiseptic properties and can be used as a disinfectant. Internally, harakeke is a strong purgative to cure intestinal worms, dysentery, and other such ailments. The sap from harakeke is used to treat wounds and toothache. A pā harakeke is a community of harakeke growing together; a taonga (­valued treasure) of te taiao (­the natural environment) and part of a cultural grid within the landscape which people have associations with and whakapapa (­genealogical) ties to. There are many named varieties, identified for their individual purposes and characteristics. Tikanga pā harakeke is an approach to the world that embodies ways of being and doing that sustain relationships to Papatūānuku (­Mother Earth).

An Indigenous ­Worldview—​­The Woven Universe That ultimate reality is w ­ airua-​­spirit The Universe is ‘­Process’ Io Taketake, is First Cause, Ground of Being, Creator and genesis of the cosmic process. 2 Named NZ f lax by e­ ighteenth-​­century botanists aboard the Endeavour, who saw similarities to the fibre of English f lax. Botanists have long since identified Harakeke to be part of the Day Lily family.

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Spirit is ubiquitous, imminent in the total process; upholding/­sustaining/­replenishing/­ regenerating all things by its hau or mauri (­Breath or Life principle). (­Marsden 33) As a methodology and practice, Tikanga Pā Harakeke, raranga and manaaki whenua emerge from a Māori worldview, an ontology and epistemology in which “­the universe is woven.” The writings of the tohunga (­priest or expert) Māori Marsden tell us that “­The whare wānanga sees and interprets the world as a kahu, a fabric comprising a fabulous matrix of energies; rhythmical patterns of pure energy, woven together…” (­Marsden xiii). From this point of view, whakapapa is the woven relationship between people and cosmological or divine order, binding whānau and hapū (­k inship groups) across time and space to Papatūānuku, te taiao, tupuna (­ancestors) and atua (­gods). Gatherings on the marae (­a complex of buildings for communal and ritual purposes) are a weaving of whanaungatanga (­k inship) relationships established in the rituals of encounter of the pōwhiri (­welcome ceremony on a marae). These relationships are based on spiritual, ancestral, historical, and traditional ties and influence the way we react to each other and to the universe. Whanaungatanga is the process of engagement through and by which relationships, connections, obligations, and responsibilities between people are strengthened. In Te Ao Māori, the weaving of relations proceeds through reciprocal exchanges in a recursive rather than linear fashion. In this world, “­Time is a continuous stream. The temporal is subordinated under the cosmic process and denotes not time but sequences in processes and events which occur in the cosmic process” (­Marsden 22). As such, there is no real division between past, present, and future. If ­wairua-​­spirit is immanent to all things in this world, “­then no real distinction exists between spiritual, ­socio-​­cultural and ­socio-​­economic values” (­Marsden 37). In this chapter, raranga is weaving, but it is not only the weaving of harakeke. Raranga, in the practice of tikanga pā harakeke, is also the weaving together of people to place, purpose, and the cosmos itself. The following case study demonstrates the applications of raranga, manaaki whenua, and kaitiakitanga (­g uardianship) to the weaving of the universe in Tāmaki Makaurau.

An Indigenous ­Methodology—​­Tikanga Pā Harakeke Tikanga (­correct procedure or custom) associated with the gathering of harakeke is expressed in the following ­well-​­known whakatauākī (­proverb), composed during the nineteenth century by Kuia (­female elder) Meri Ngaroto of Te Aupouri Hūtia te rito o te harakeke Kei hea te kōmako e kō? Kī mai ki ahau He aha te mea nui o te ao? Māku e kī atu He tāngata, he tāngata, he tāngata. If you pluck out the heart, the new shoot of the harakeke Where will the bellbird sing? If you ask me, What is of most importance in this world? I will answer, It is the new shoot, the mokopuna, it is people.

The pā harakeke and its system of interrelationships is a model for healthy community and whānau relationships. The rito is the central shoot, child, mokopuna, and the heart of the pā harakeke. The paramount objective of tikanga pā harakeke is to protect the rito because the 271

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­Figure 31.1 Rangimarie Pā Harakeke growing at Te Noho Kotahitanga Marae.

rito ensures the continuation and longevity of the wider whānau. As an ecological model, the above whakatauākī speaks about our responsibilities to care for and protect the environment in a sustainable way. It speaks about manaakitanga (­hospitality, generosity, kindness) and kaitiakitanga and reminds us that our actions will have ­far-​­reaching consequences for future generations. If we do not look after the rito, the new growth, eventually the pā harakeke will perish. If there is no pā harakeke, there will be no harakeke flowers, and no nectar for the kōmako (­bellbird) to feed on. There will be no birdsong, only the question Kei hea te kōmako e kō? Where will the bellbird sing? Based on the above whakatauākī, tikanga pā harakeke is a methodology of care and creativity that has the ­well-​­being of mokopuna and whānau at heart. It concerns the protocols of right relationships between parts of the harakeke and right thought and action between people and the environments of the past and future.

An Indigenous Social Practice: Raranga Wahakura and Manaaki Whenua In our case study, tikanga pā harakeke is applied through two strands of ­activity—​­raranga wahakura (­sleep vessels) and manaaki whenua. In the first strand, the weaving of wahakura took place over the course of 2017 through a series of wānanga (­learning fora). More than 30 wahakura were created for Ngāti Whātua ki Orakei’s “­Weaving Waiora” program, individual whānau within the community and community organizations including E Tipu E Rea Whānau Trust (­Thrive Teen Parenting). Over 5,000 whenu strands (­harakeke strands) were prepared and woven, equating to several hundred hours of work. In excess, 1,200 leaves were gathered from 300 individual whānau harakeke (­individual fan), and between 20 and 30 pūharakeke (­harakeke plants) were cleared. The project involved the participation of five pā harakeke (­harakeke family), including Rangimarie Pā Harakeke (­Te Noho Kotahitanga Marae, Unitec), Te Taha Tū Pā Harakeke (­Unitec), Tui Pā Harakeke (­Point Chevalier), Kohunga Pā Harakeke that grows next to Te Kohanga Reo o te Rongomau and the pā 272

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­Figure 31.2 Wahakura at Ngākau Māhaki whare nui, Te Noho Kotahitanga Marae.

harakeke behind the whare pukapuka at Te Kura Kaupapa Māori o Ngā Maungarongo. The main varieties of harakeke sourced were kohunga, arawa, ngaro, and one other piupiu variety from Pukepoto, which grows at Te Kura Kaupapa Māori o Ngā Maungarongo. Whānau Manāki Pā Harakeke (­the Community Corrections Workforce), so named because of their activities on the whenua, were key participants in the second strand of the project involving clearing and caring for Rangimarie Pā Harakeke and Te Waiunuroa o Wairaka (­a freshwater spring named after Wairaka of the Mātaatua waka). Corrections whānau, over a period of years, undertook significant clearing of the pā harakeke, removing invasive weeds such as Convolvulus, which would otherwise overrun the harakeke. Notably for some, engaging in tikanga pā harakeke and its wānanga was the first time they had been on a m ­ arae—​ “­ ­I’m Māori, but I’ve never been on a marae until today. It feels good learning about my heritage.” For others, the wānanga enabled a reconnection to whakapapa. Some were able to access childhood memories of times spent with their kuia, gathering harakeke for weaving, or memories of helping their grandparents in the maara kai (­food garden). Manaaki whenua is a critical strand of tikanga pā harakeke that supports raranga wahakura insofar as the health and productivity of participating pā harakeke depend on regular clearing and attention. Many mokopuna were recipients of the wahakura which were woven, collectively impacting on the ­well-​­being of whānau and community. On occasion, there was an opportunity to work alongside whānau throughout the entire wahakura creation process, beginning together at the pā harakeke. These wānanga made possible ­inter-​­generational knowledge exchange, as whānau members of all ages gathered to contribute. The following kōrero (­conversation) was shared by Nanny Hazel, a kuia (­g randmother) who was at the time expecting her first mokopuna (­g randchild), Pikia. 273

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­Figure 31.3 Whānau manaaki pā harakeke clearing harakeke growing beside Te Waiunuroa o Wairaka.

When we commenced this journey, I never in my wildest dreams thought it would have the impact and effect on me and my whānau for my future mokopuna that it did. Tanya took us through the different customs and started us with the whiri and raranga. We shared stories throughout the wānanga and the one that really stands out is how it reminded me and my sister, Maria, when we used to go down to the puna at Waimate North (­Bay of Islands) with our mother, where she came from, to gather harakeke and how she did raranga with us and later with her mokopuna (­Dunlop). The following reflections came from Pikia’s mama: As a mama, I felt so empowered and inspired by seeing my partner’s and whānau’s hands weaving something together for the arrival of pēpi and my kōpū (­womb) felt surrounded by so much aroha. Hapūtanga is a beautiful process but in a modern society where our lives tend to be rushed and busy, I feel it is easy to become disconnected to the sacredness and beauty of growing life. This wānanga enabled me to reconnect with Papatūānuku and bring my focus back to what is important, and a firm reminder of the aroha baby has around ­her – to ​­ me the wahakura is an embodiment of that. (­Dunlop) For participants in both strands of the project, engagement with Tikanga Pā Harakeke involved immersion in a Māori worldview, whether through exposure to the reo (­language) in the form of karakia (­prayers) accompanying the gathering and preparation of harakeke or through participation in the ritual immersion of whenu strands for weaving wahakura, in Te Waiunuroa o Wairaka. Beginning in 2021, the two strands became even more interwoven 274

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such that Whānau Manaaki Pā Harakeke are now also learning the art of raranga, with the aim of learning the skills required to weave wahakura. The material and relational weaving upon which this social practice is built functions to increase ­well-​­being and sustainability wherever relations across human and nonhuman life forms, generations, and whenua need connection and rejuvenation. Insofar as raranga rejoins participants and whānau with each other and with vital aspects of Te Ao Māori, it always comprises a wānanga or cultural pedagogy. While this project is highly localized to the boundaries of the Wairaka (­Mount Albert) area of Tāmaki Makaurau, it nevertheless contributes to ­large-​­scale collective action. According to ­Tipene-​­Leach and Abel, wahakura are an indigenous innovation for the prevention of Sudden Unexpected Death in Infancy (­SUDI), which emerged in 2005 as a rejection of the prevailing “­Stop Bedsharing” health advice of the time. Understood in this context, raranga wahakura participates in a ­long-​­standing initiative around tino rangatiratanga (­­self-​ ­determination) with regard to whānau relations and health. The project also contributes to Ara Poutama Aotearoa’s (­New Zealand Department of Corrections) Hokai Rangi strategy for improving outcomes for Māori. While there are numerous problems concerning the Department of Corrections as a state institution, not least, the disproportionately high rates of incarceration of Māori, this community weaving wānanga involves l­ong-​­term and institutional change from within; it concerns tino rangatiratanga with regard to “­corrections” and “­rehabilitation.”

Socially Engaged Art in a Globalized Field Zooming out from our close look at an indigenous practice in Aotearoa New Zealand, socially engaged and participatory practices may be found in every corner of the world. Dubbed “­the social turn” (­Bishop 178), the proliferation of such artistic practices has been documented and historicized under a variety of labels since the 1990s, by authors including Suzanne Lacy, Nicolas Bourriaud, Claire Bishop, Grant Kester, and Nato Thompson. Most recently, Cartiere, Tan, and Masemann (­­335–​­363) produced a global map of public and participatory art between 2008 and 2018. Three Weeks in May (­1977) by American artist Suzanne Lacy is commonly regarded as paradigmatic of socially engaged art. In this project, Lacy posted the locations of rape reports from the Los Angeles Police Department on a l­arge-​­scale map of the city in a public shopping mall, updating the map daily. A second map installed beside the first showed locations for support as well as a ­three-​­week schedule of activities including ­self-​­defense demonstrations, public lectures against rape and sexual violence, and ­performances—​­by Lacy and other a­ rtists—​­across the city. Like much socially engaged art that followed, Lacy’s project sought to change entrenched social problems, here seeking to raise consciousness and provoke action around sexual violence. Despite the global spread of socially engaged and participatory art and education since Lacy’s seminal project in 1977, scholarship and ­policy-​­making in this field still remain grounded primarily in the context of the global north. “­The literature, to date, on public art planning is based in ­Euro-​­American contexts. Other contexts (­such as those of Asia, which are characterized by different social structures and governance) have not been well examined yet” (­Zheng 90). Within this regional art historical context, key characteristics of the social turn, such as the changing status of the art object, the practice of art as a relational system of action, and the emphasis on collaboration, appear novel or innovative because they are understood as an evolution of, and response to, European and American ­modernism—​­and the legacy of representation. Lacy’s work was “­new genre” insofar as it broke from the tradition 275

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of monuments and sculptures in the public realm on the one hand and emphasized collaboration and participation over individual artistic autonomy on the other hand. These features of the social turn are, however, far from new to the fields of customary and contemporary art practice in many regions of the global south.3 Indeed, such features may also be found in the global north, if we look beyond the small set of art historical texts pertaining to socially engaged art from the 1990s onwards.

Differing Worldviews or Ontologies An overreliance on canonical texts from the 1990s to 2000s (­e.g. Lacy, Bourriaud, and Bishop) has resulted in the unfortunate implication in much of the scholarship of this field that the globalization of socially engaged and participatory practices is a continuation of projects like Lacy’s, an extension of E ­ uro-​­American art history and western modernism. The modernist worldview, however, stands in stark contrast to that of the woven universe. If modernism was atomistic and individualistic, and here we might observe that such a mode of thought introduced an ­exclusive—​­a nd ­i llusory—​­separation of mind from body, reason from emotion, self from other, subject from object, and “­m an” from nature, Māori ontology was, however, ecological and relational. Comparing the modernist and Māori worldviews, Salmond writes: Here the world is conceived of as a singular entity, composed of arrays of bounded entities in different realms and on different s­cales—​­in contrast with te ao Māori, for example, where reality is generated as arrays of ­open-​­ended, continuously reproducing networks of relations. (­O ntological Quarrels 124) We could say that the Māori worldview was one of relational aesthetics avant la lettre, insofar as much, if not all, of Māori life was premised on the composing and recomposing (­interweaving) of relations. Significantly, the networks of relations privileged in a Māori ontology consisted not only of people but also of plants and animals, rocks, mountains, and rivers and were animated by the winds of growth and life (­hau tupu and hau ora): In Te Ao Māori, then, the negotiations that forge and shape relations are the stuff of life. Gifts, as part of the donor’s hau, create an obligation for reciprocal gifting, and this applies to ancestors, objects, plants and animals, as well as living people. ( ­Salmond, Ontological Quarrels 121) When Māori chiefs signed the Māori version of the Treaty of Waitangi, they understood themselves to be weaving relations between themselves, Queen Victoria, and each party’s descendants through a series of gift exchanges. In the English version, which emphasized concepts of sovereignty, rights, subjects, and property, they inadvertently subjugated themselves to the Crown and its ostensibly modern worldview. When an indigenous worldview is supplanted by one which privileges individual persons (­rather than relations) as the fundamental units of reality, and property ownership rather than reciprocal exchange as a 3 As Meiqin Wang observes of China’s Modern Woodcut Movement and revolutionary and socialist artists in the Maoist era, “­t he social and public turn of contemporary Chinese art actually rekindles the historical legacy of Chinese artists as socially charged intellectuals.”

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preferred mode of social ­co-​­existence, as in the case of Aotearoa New Zealand, the result is detrimental not only to the indigenous population but also to the environment itself: In New Zealand, as elsewhere, shifts towards atomistic ways of being, anthropocentric models and extractionist habits of mind have been associated with fragmentation in social networks, growing inequalities between rich and poor, the incarceration of many young people (­especially young Māori men), market failures in housing and finance, and the degradation of freshwater, land and maritime ­ecosystems—​­all sites of mate (­dysfunction, ill health and disorder). The tears of Rangi t­hemselves—​­lakes, aquifers and ­r ivers—​­are becoming toxic, making people and animals sick. (­  Salmond, Tears of Rangi 414 ) In presenting an indigenous case study of socially engaged art, we suggest that decolonizing begins with education in the sense of exposure to and immersion in the worldview, protocols, and language of the woven universe. Raranga wahakura, manaaki whenua, and tikanga pā harakeke, then, not only concern the art of weaving fiber and relations and caring for the environment but also comprise a decolonial pedagogy, a method and practice of teaching and learning a Māori ­cosmo-​­logic that is bound up with the restoration of mana (­prestige, authority, spiritual power) and hau ora for whānau, hapu and iwi, and the rehabilitation of land and waterways.

Creative Agency With regard to art, the ancestors thought about whether humans invented it first or whether superhumans such as the gods were the inventors. In common with other Polynesians, the Māori favored the idea of a n ­ on-​­human origin for the various domains of art and for the inspiration of artistic creation. (­  Mead, Māori Art on the World Scene 55) While much of today’s socially engaged art emphasizes the changing role of the audience from passive spectator to active participant or collaborator, most such projects, at least in the North American and European contexts, remain grounded in an atomistic and individualistic worldview, as seen in preoccupations with questions of artistic autonomy and authorial agency. In Three Weeks in May, for example, Lacy still occupies a privileged position ­v is-­​­­à-​­vis collaborators and audiences; the form of the project and its manner of realization rely primarily on her conceptualization of the work as an artist. However, in raranga and tikanga pā harakeke, agency is understood first and foremost as the creative and spiritual quality of a woven web of relations. In this worldview, creative agency is always collaborative and woven and belongs not just to individual humans but also to the pā harakeke, whenua, and atua. Writing on the landmark 1984 Te Māori exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Hirini Mead observed that Māori art was and is “­an art that is ­people-​­oriented in one sense and a­ ncestor-​­oriented in another” (­Magnificent Te Māori 31). It is ­a ncestor-​­oriented in stressing the importance of whakapapa/­k inship and continuity with the past and p­ eople-​ ­ riented in that the care for art objects and ­heirlooms—​­often one and the ­same—​­by the o living concerns the upholding of mana of the ancestors and their descent lines in the present. In our case study, both strands of the practice, raranga wahakura and manaaki whenua, are ­ancestor-​­oriented and p­ eople-​­oriented in that both involve weaving relations between participants and the whenua as ancestor, Papatūānuku. Both are also mokopuna focused, which 277

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is another way of saying that the creative agency at stake here is future oriented. The wahakura are literally focused on reducing Sudden Unexpected Death in Infancy (­SUDI) and hence the maintenance of the creative spark that a child continues from its ancestral lines. Manaaki whenua, meanwhile, maintains the balance of natural and ancestral forces at the Wairaka site for future generations.

Conclusion Toi te kupu Toi te mana Toi te whenua “­By language, ­self-​­esteem and land a culture survives” (­Mead Magnificent Te Māori 27)

We have seen how reo, mana, and whenua are interwoven in the indigenous model of socially engaged art and education presented here. Tikanga pā harakeke is at every turn a wānanga, an opportunity to participate with mindfulness in what Marsden called the “­rhythmical patterns of pure energy, woven together” comprising life and the world. These wānanga concern what has been called “­lifelong learning” in some circles, namely, learning to weave and to be woven into the world. For Māori, and indeed, for all who reside on these shores, part of this learning is about weaving and being woven into this part of the world, Tamaki Makaurau, Wairaka, in the expanse of the great Ocean of Kiwa. This weaving wānanga is a model of creative agency and education that we believe provides signposts to a more sustainable and l­ife-​­affirming mode of inhabiting the world and coexisting with its varied life forms, not least, the earth itself, Papatūānuku. Such a reorientation is necessarily ontological; we are unlikely to heal the wounds inflicted by a colonial worldview from within its own frame of reference.

Prompts and Resources • • • • • •

How do the specificities of place and culture affect conceptions and practices of creativity and education? Marsden, Māori. The Woven Universe—​­Selected Writings of Rev. Māori Marsden, ­edited by Royal, Charles, The Estate of Rev. Māori Marsden, 2003. Mead, Sidney Moko. Māori Art on the World Scene. Ahua Design & Illustrations Ltd. and Matau Associates Ltd., 1997. Salmond, Anne. Tears of Rangi. Auckland University Press, 2017. https://­aucklanduniversity press.co.nz/­­tears-­​­­of-​­rangi/ Maihi, T. T., & Lander, M. (­2005). He Kete He Korero: Every Kete Has a Story. Auckland, New Zealand: Reed. Ngā Whenu o te Wahakura: The Many Strands of Wahakura. https://­sudinationalco ordination.co.nz/­­nga-­​­­whenu-­​­­o -­​­­te-​­wahakura

Works Cited Bishop, Claire. “­The Social Turn and its Discontents.” Artforum International, vol. 44, no. 6, 2006, ­pp. ­178–​­183. Bourriaud, Nicolas. Relational Aesthetics. Les Presses du Reel, 1998. Cartiere, Cameron, Tan, Leon, and Masemann, Elisha. “­Mapping Art in the Public Realm: 2­ 008–​ ­2018.” Routledge Companion to Art in the Public Realm, edited by C. Cartiere and L. Tan, Routledge, 2020, ­pp. ­335–​­363.

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Raranga and Tikanga Pā Harakeke Dunlop, Hazel. Personal Interview. November 2017. Kester, Grant. Conversation Pieces: Community and Communication in Modern Art. University of California Press, 2013. Lacy, Suzanne. Mapping the Terrain: New Genre Public Art. Bay Press, 1995. Marsden, Māori. The Woven Universe – ​­Selected Writings of Rev. Māori Marsden, edited by Royal, Charles, The Estate of Rev. Māori Marsden, 2003. Mead, Hirini Moko. Magnificent Te ­Māori – ​­Te Māori Whakahirahira. Heinemann Publishers, 1986. —​­—​­—​­. Māori Art on the World Scene. Ahua Design & Illustrations Ltd. and Matau Associates Ltd., 1997. Salmond, Anne. Tears of Rangi. Auckland University Press, 2017. —​­ —​­ —​­ . “­ Ontological Quarrels: Indigeneity, Exclusion and Citizenship in a Relational World.” Anthropological Theory, vol. 12, no. 2, 2012, ­pp. ­115–​­141. Tate Art Terms. “­Socially Engaged ­Practice  – ​­Art Terms.” Tate, https://­w ww.tate.org.uk/­a rt/­­a rt-​ t­ erms/­s/­­socially-­​­­engaged-​­practice. Accessed 22 February 2021. Te Rangi Hīroa (­Buck, Peter. H.) The Coming of the Māori. Whitcombe and Tombs, 1949. ­Tipene-​­Leach, David and Abel, Sally. “­Innovation to Prevent Sudden Infant Death: The wahakura as an Indigenous Vision for a Safe Sleep Environment.” Australian Journal of Primary Health, vol. 25, 2019, ­pp. ­406–​­409. Thompson, Nato. Living as Form: Socially Engaged Art from 1 ­ 991–​­2011. MIT Press, 2012. Wang, Meiqin. “­­Place-​­Making for the People: Socially Engaged art in Rural China.” China Information, vol. 32. no. 2, 2018, ­p. 246. Zheng, Jane. “­Contextualizing Public Art Production in China: The Urban Sculpture Planning System in Shanghai.” Geoforum, vol. 82, 2017, p­ p. ­89–​­101.

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32 DECOLONIZATION AND THE DEGENERALIZATION OF TIME IN ART EDUCATION HISTORIOGRAPHY Juuso Tervo

I would like to begin this chapter with two passages by Édouard Glissant, featured in his books Poetics of Relation and Poetic Intention, respectively: For centuries “­generalization,” as operated by the West, brought different community tempos into an equivalency in which it attempted to give hierarchical order to the times they flowered. Now that the panorama has been determined and equidistances described, is it not, perhaps, time to return to a no less necessary “­degeneralization”? Not to a replenished outrageous excess of specificities but to a total (­­dreamed-​­of ) freedom of the connections among them, cleared out of the very chaos of their confrontations. (“­Poetics of Relation” 62) Was not what you would call History incomplete, not only in reach but yet in “­understanding”? Is there not in your weary disdain for the historical a sort of affront to those who never had a history for you? The history you i­gnored—​­or didn’t ­m ake—​­was it not History? (­the complex and mortal anhistorical). Might you not be more and more affected by it, in your fallowness as much as in your harvest? In your thought as much as in your will? Just as I was affected by the history I wasn’t making, and could not ignore? (“­Poetic Intention” 23) The complex and important questions Glissant poses serve both as a point of departure and return for the following inquiry into decolonial thought and art education historiography. Rather than a mere figuration of cyclicity, this imbrication of beginnings and ends is meant to suggest a sort of a method: one that, in Glissant’s terms, attempts to rehearse a “­Poetics of Relation,” which: remains forever conjectural and presupposes no ideological stability. It is against the comfortable assurances linked to the supposed excellence of language. A poetics that is latent, open, multilingual in intention, directly in contact with everything possible. Theoretician thought, focused on the basic and fundamental, and allying with what is true, shies away from these uncertain paths. (“­Poetics of Relation” 32)

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While beginning and ending with uncertain paths is certainly familiar to anyone involved with historical research, the uncertainty that Glissant points to entails a radical critique of the epistemic mastery over the past, the present, and the future that historians so often rehearse in the name of History.1 In other words, even though historical sources are always open to (­re)­interpretation, this openness is always guided by either an implicit or an explicit understanding of what history is and what is the past (­a s represented by historians) understood to do in the present; something that, throughout this chapter, I call historical imagination. As Glissant above argues, the “­generalization” of “­Western/­modern”2 time and history has entailed a historical imagination that, first, uses “­Western” categories and categorizations to “­m ake sense” of temporal and epistemic differences globally, and second, actively neglects histories not “­m ade” by the “­West.” For Glissant, Poetics of Relation is a call to put such “­generalizing” History in question, particularly its temporal imaginaries that tie the fundamental openness of historical interpretation to a “­h istorical economy that is directed by the laws of progress” (­Certeau “­Heterologies” ­199–​­200). If, as Javier Sanjinés C. has put it, “­to decolonize means to unveil the hidden complicity between the rhetoric of modernity and the logic of coloniality” (­55), my intention in this chapter is to study in what ways Glissant’s Poetics of Relation, and as I will discuss later, Gloria E. Anzaldúa’s concept nepantla might degeneralize historical imagination and thus steer art education historiography to paths that differ from the generalizing axis of modernity/­ coloniality. In other words, shaken by poetics that is “­d irectly in contact with everything possible” (“­Poetics of Relation” 32), I am interested in what might their poetics do to the very craft of writing history that is always also a practice of making history.3 My use of the term study is intentional and, most importantly, methodological.4 In the spirit of Igor Stravinsky’s claim, “­poetics is the study of work to be done” (­4), I see that to study Glissant’s and Anzaldúa’s poetics is to study a work of decolonization yet to be done in my own practice as an art education historian. Expressing this differently, their writings allow me to engage with historical imagination(­s) I do not yet fully know how to utilize in my work, but nevertheless consider to be crucial when searching for epistemologies and ethics of historiography aside from the generalizing, “­Western/­modern” frames of reference. As a student (­not master) of decolonial thought and practice, I use this chapter as an opportunity to formulate theoretical connections between decolonial thought, philosophy of history, and art education historiography. I do this by closely attending to passages of text that, I believe, help to approximate the very work of generalization and degeneralization in art education historiography. While this methodological framing makes my study somewhat speculative and derivative, I nevertheless see that making history otherwise requires that one can also

1 Throughout this chapter, I use the terms History and Historical (­w ith capital H) similarly as Glissant does in the passage above; that is, when referring to the kind of generalized historical imagination this text aims to critically unpack. 2 I use quotation marks around the terms “­West” and “­Western/­modern” in order to point to the need to degeneralize them as well; that, in other words, the “­West” and its “­modernity” are wide and complex concepts that should be approached with a certain caution. In addition, by pairing the “­West” with “­modernity,” I’m underlining that much of the critique of historical time I’m rehearsing in this text is a critique of time in the ­so-​­called modernity as figured in the “­West.” 3 See Certeau, The Writing of History. 4 Here, I continue my earlier explorations of poetic historiography for art education as a practice of studying—​ c­ ontra learning ­f rom—​­the past. See Tervo “­Studying in the Dark.”

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imagine it being ­so—​­even if this means following “­uncertain paths” devoid of “­comfortable assurances” (“­Poetics of Relation” 32). By focusing specifically on the temporal aspects of historical imagination, my aim is to complement critical writings that have questioned Eurocentric contents of art education histories.5 This is because historians do not only work with ­sources—​­they also work with time. While diversifying the content of history beyond Eurocentric, ­m ale-​­dominated narratives of the past is crucial for rethinking historiographical practices in the field, I see that it is equally important to question the very idea of history itself and its temporal narrativizations. If previously unacknowledged people, sources, worldviews, or practices are simply integrated into a generalized science that “­moves (­or ‘­progresses’) by changing what it makes of its ‘­other’” (­Certeau, “­The Writing of History” 3), historians simply secure their traditional position as masters of otherness who are able to recognize, define, and make sense of the difference between the past, the present, and the future.6 In the words of Michel de Certeau, this makes historiography “­in effect pedagogical: I will teach you, readers, something you do not know, and it is a law, written by reality itself ” (“­Heterologies,” 32). I see that Glissant’s and Anzaldúa’s thought and poetics open an approach to time that allows another kind of pedagogy of history to emerge: one that, in Anzaldúa’s words, may lead to unlearning “­consensual ‘­reality’” (­A nzaldúa 44) whose “­laws” allegedly assign things, thoughts, and people to their proper places in the continuity of Historical time. While being a theoretical study, my intention is not to provide a generalizable, theoretical frame for a decolonial historiography in art education. Since theorizing and practicing decolonization means different things in different historical and geopolitical contexts, a generalizing theory of decolonization would be an oxymoron, a colonial enterprise in itself. However, following Glissant, confining decolonization to mere particular instances of thought, practice, and experience may lead to “­a replenished outrageous excess of specificities” (“­Poetics of Relation” 62) that, paradoxically, constrain these specificities to a particular place within a universalized frame of reference. Thus, as Jini Kim Watson and Gary Wilder have noted: we need to transcend the sterile debate between o ­ ne-​­sided conceptions of universalism and particularism. Rather than embrace one or the other as the privileged standpoint of critique, the task is to displace the opposition itself as an imperial artifact that is empirically unfounded, analytically limited, and politically s­ elf-​­undermining. (­14) This means that just like there is no one, neatly packaged History (­unless history is forced into such), there is no one single decolonial critique of Historical time. As Ania Loomba has argued, leaning onto the ­oft-​­repeated distinction between “­Western”/­linear and “­­non-​ ­Western”/­c yclical systems of time may sustain the idea of “­­non-​­Western” societies as traditional and religious (­i.e., caught in the past), whereas the “­West” is seen ­forward-​­looking and rational (­i.e., transgressing the past). While cyclicity does characterize some Indigenous perceptions of time (­e.g., Keskitalo 566), using the time of “­Western” science as an implicit, unnamed background for bringing “­d ifferent community tempos into an equivalency” 5 For two informative collections, see Bolin and Kantawala Revitalizing History; and Daichendt et al. “­Critical ­Re-​­Framing of Art Education Histories.” 6 What I mean by this is something akin to how art education historian Mary Ann Stankiewicz characterized her Roots of Art Education Practice: “­I attempt to make familiar ideas about art education seem fresh by examining them in the context of art teaching practice a century ago. At the same time, I want to make the strange world of the past more familiar by indicating similarities between present and past” (­x ii).

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(­Glissant, “­Poetics of Relation” 62) eventually reproduces epistemic power relations between universalized “­West” and the particularized “­Rest.” Keeping this in mind, when searching for ways to degeneralize the temporal landscape of historical imagination in art education historiography, my aim is to challenge what Rauna Kuokkanen has called “­Western” academia’s “­epistemic ignorance” (­49) toward the plurality of times, places, and spaces through which the relation between the past, the present, and the future is imagined and figured. This chapter proceeds as follows: First, I discuss what is the “­Western/­modern” time and History that a decolonial approach to historical research might seek to degeneralize. Beginning with a short excursus into historical teleologies in European thought, I explore the interconnections between knowledge, agency, and time. Then, I introduce Anzaldúa’s concept of nepantla and see what kind of degeneralizing changes in historical imagination it might engender in historical research. Lastly, I conclude with a brief discussion of the role of art in the temporal degeneralization of art education historiography.

Generalizing and Degeneralizing Historical Imagination In order to better understand what degeneralization of historical imagination might mean, it is worth taking a closer look at how generalization of History itself works. Since a comprehensive discussion of the “­Western” imaginaries of History is beyond the scope of this chapter, I will focus on one aspect that is particularly pertinent to Historical time: teleology. Uniting time and history into a universalized process of purposeful change beyond pure chance or pure determinedness, teleological imaginaries of history were “­a mong the key vehicles of the formulation of universalist understandings of humankind in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as they offered unification in time to the species at large” (­Trüper, Chakrabarty and Subrahmanyam 12). Hence, understanding historical teleologies offers not only tools to question the ­so-​­called master narratives of History but also the temporal arrangements of historical imagination. When diving into the European formulations of historical teleologies in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it is difficult not to stumble upon G. W. F. Hegel’s work. His characterization of world history as a process of increasing ­self-​­awareness of the ­Spirit— ​­“­the human as such” (­Hegel 21)—​­has served as a greatly influential backdrop for “­Western” History and its teleological imaginaries. For Hegel, it was freedom that served as the “­fi nal goal” (­i.e., telos): toward which all the world’s history has been working. It is this goal to which all the sacrifices have been brought upon the broad altar of the earth in the long flow of time. This is the one and only goal that accomplishes itself and fulfills i­tself—​­the only constant in the change of events and conditions, and the truly effective thing in them all. It is this goal that is God’s will for the world. (­­22–​­23) Seeing History as a process of gradual ­self-​­awareness of freedom, Hegel imagined a world historical frame through which it was possible not only to apprehend historical changes and compare different historical and local contexts but also to understand the role of the particular (­a n individual person, group, or nation) in universal History. This, in turn, made history into a totalized whole that humans, with their knowledge of it, could steer forward. As Trüper, Chakrabarty and Subrahmanyam characterize Hegel’s historical system: “­h istory was teleological process toward freedom precisely to the extent that it understood itself; and in the very effort to understand itself, it made itself into an intelligible object” (­­9–​­10). Hence, 283

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“­If humanity made progress in its understanding of history, it could be certain that history as a whole progressed” (­9). Hegel’s teleological vision of freedom and history came, of course, with a price. Turning history into an “­intelligible object” whose objectified intelligibility guaranteed its progress meant that not only history but the entire world had to become intelligible for Christian Protestant, White male North Western Europeans like Hegel whose intelligence allegedly kept the progress of History on its right track. As Tomoko Masuzawa put it, “­the assumption of ­Euro-​­Christian supremacy over all others … played a decisive role in the emergent sense of ‘­the world’ as a totality” (­70), meaning that every comparative distinction made between, for example, science and religion, or tradition and progress, in any part of the world was based on an implicit or an explicit European “­frame of reference” (­R if kin 16). It was only through this frame that ­d ifferences—​­whether historical, cultural, or ­both—​­were to be imagined and made sense if humanity was to make any progress at all. How does this short excursus to Hegel’s thought help to understand better what is at stake in the generalization of History that Glissant critiqued? It is important to note that the relationship between knowledge, agency, and time that Hegel’s historical teleology entailed does not merely concern History, but is deeply connected to the premises of “­Western” science. In particular, it has to do with the division between the inquiring subject and the object under inquiry.7 As the subject ought to represent the object (­never the other way around), their constitutive difference becomes settled in the meaning that the subject imposes on the object. Hence, what Masuzawa calls the E ­ uro-​­Christian “­sense of ‘­the world’ as a totality” (­70) refers to a practice of representation that posited this “­sense” as the generalized rationality governing m ­ eaning-​­making process in research, whether historical or not. Such a “­science” of History has included techniques of periodization that turn local and global histories into identifiable and distributable objects of time (­epochs, paradigms, etc.), as well as of contextualization, that allow historians to produce meaningful knowledge of past events, people, and phenomena by situating them within an encyclopedic corpus of “­Western” knowledge.8 As an object of meaningful knowledge, the past settles into a chronological sequence of time that historians, with their knowledge of History, ought to steer forward. Dipesh Chakrabarty has argued that such an approach “­speaks of a very particular relation to the past:” a “­desire on the part of the subject of political modernity both to create the past as amenable to objectification and to be at the same time free of this object called ‘­h istory’” (­244). In this scheme, time functions merely as an empty backdrop for events, people, and phenomena to occur. Following Mark Rif kin, to see time as a passive canvas on which certain events and subjectivities ­appear—​­and, subsequently, others disappear i­nto—​­neglects the fact that the objectivity of time and its progression are themselves products of a particular tradition of “­­sense-​­making” that has been used (­a nd still is) to justify practices of coloniality. From this perspective, degeneralizing and, subsequently, decolonizing historical imagination would require accepting what Kuokkanen has called “­the gift” (­23) of indigenous epistemes that resist the epistemological generalization and naturalization of “­Western” time of History. While “­Westerners” have seen other imaginaries of time and history as a proof that “­­non-​­Western” societies live in the past,9 “­a history that decolonizes otherness” (­Pérez 6), may begin from a recognition that historical imagination cannot be fully exhausted in 7 See Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies, especially ­Chapters ­1–​­3. 8 See Davis, Periodization & Sovereignty for a critical discussion of the politics of periodization and Western modernity; on epistemological mechanisms of power in historiography, see Certeau, The Writing of History. 9 See Fabian, Time and the Other.

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the differentializing and objectifying work of History incapable of “­tolerat[ing] otherness or leav[ing] it outside its economy of inclusion” (­Young 35). What does this have to do with writing histories of art education today? As mentioned earlier, in the past few decades, art educators have been increasingly interested in local and minor articulations of the past and offered powerful critiques of generalizing (­often national) histories of the field.10 Writing ­so-​­called new histories from below to challenge histories from above, these histories have offered crucial perspectives to previously unrecognized aspects of the past. Yet, as I have argued elsewhere,11 there is still a strong tendency among art education historians to write histories in a future tense.12 While ­future-​­oriented thought is certainly not specific to Europe or its modernities,13 the idea that the past finds its meaning from the future it is expected to unfold resonates with Chakrabarty’s words above: namely, that the desire of the subject of modernity is to objectify the past in order to free itself from it. In pedagogical terms, this means that the progressing time of History can be seen to function as an unarticulated, general frame of reference that directs what kind of lessons from the past art educators should draw from and why. Taking this into consideration, I wonder what would it mean for art education historians to write about “­a past that cannot be rationalized and that is useless for predicting the future” (­Sanjinés 164)? For example, writing and reading about past “­struggles, lives, and achievements of African American and women art educators” (­Bolin & Kantawala) offer a powerful and m ­ uch-​­needed critique of Eurocentric imaginaries that have guided art education historians in the United States to their sources; however, I see that these histories may also radically challenge historical imagination that treats these struggles, lives, and achievements mainly as “­models for” and “­insights into” the future (­Bolin & Kantawala ­17–​­23). If this is so, how might a degeneralized, decolonial historical imagination work with time aside from its seemingly inevitable progression?

Imagining History Otherwise In order to seek at least speculative answers to these complex questions, I turn to Gloria E. Anzaldúa’s concept nepantla that, I claim, offers one possible tool to imagine historical time otherwise. As a “­place where we can accept contradiction and paradox” (­A nzaldúa 56), nepantla resists its rationalization through one, the general frame of reference. Hence, this “­m idway point between the conscious and the unconscious, the place where transformations are enacted” (­56), helps to direct our attention to the workings of time itself without a recourse to a future that “­m akes sense” of the past or vice versa. Calling those who occupy this liminal place “­las nepantleras,” Anzaldúa argued: Las nepantleras refuse to turn right onto the dominant culture’s assimilation/­acquiescence ­ ationalistic-​­isolationism path demanding highway. They refuse to turn left onto the n that we preserve our ethnic cultural integrity. Instead, las nepantleras construct alternative roads, creating new topographies and geographies of hybrid selves who transcend

10 In addition to those mentioned earlier, see Lentis Colonized through Art; Stabler “­A Sentimental Art Education.” 11 See Tervo, “­A lways the New” and “­Studying in the Dark.” 12 For example, art education historian Patricia Amburgy has called for “[m]eaningful stories about the past” that “­r aise questions about current conditions, challenging us to reconsider old assumptions and to work toward new beliefs and practices” (­158). 13 See, for example, Acuff, “­A frofuturism”; Parikka, “­M iddle East and Other Futurisms.”

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binaries and d­ e-​­polarize potential allies. Nepantleras are not constrained by one culture or world but experience multiple realities. (­82) Through their resistance toward a generalized future (“­a ssimilation/­acquiescence”) and a particularized past (“­­nationalistic-​­isolationism”), the work of las nepantleras degeneralizes the time of history in the present. This means that history becomes less of a differentiating process between the past and the future and more of a web of interrelated tempos and connections that, together, make up the present. In short, the temporal topographies of nepantla must be figured in plural. Countering “­Western” academia’s fear of “­interruption and ambiguity, loss of control, erasure of various boundaries (­e.g., disciplinary), and an excess of relativity” (­Kuokkanen 88), Anzaldúa’s nepantla offers an approach to change and difference that does not try to tame its own plurality. “­Because change often happens in nepantla,” Anzaldúa argued, “­we must learn to swim in this liminal space” (­87). Resonating with Chakrabarty’s critique of “­Western” objectification of time and History, Anzaldúa’s poetics offers an example of historical imagination that begins within time and thus challenges the dichotomized interplay between subjects and objects. Like stories that begin or take place in medias res, this calls for a careful attention toward history as it is unfolding. Even though accompanied by a profound uncertainty about the course of events (­here, one can think of the first pages of a book or first minutes of a film during which one enters into the story, figuring out its world and characters), such an approach also entails an attentive openness toward the present as a time and place affected by multiple, yet connected pasts. Rather than “­m aking sense” of this present by inserting it into a narrative of gradual progression or, alternatively, of ­decline—​­a narrative fueled by ­self-​­conscious actions that either perpetuate or hinder ­it—​­to begin within the temporal plurality of the present offers a possibility to study pasts and presents simultaneously and thus multiply temporal frames of reference through which history is written. In Rif kin’s words, this means to be attentive to “­peoples’ own frames of reference for their experience of time: not just as beliefs set within a supervening or underlying ‘­natural’ time but as a basis for understanding the materiality of their ways of being and becoming” (­R if kin 31). To concretize this a bit, Indigenous scholarship reminds us that colonialism is not simply a past phenomenon of “­Western” imperialism, but a very actual, present condition around the globe.14 What this means for historical research is that instead of approaching colonialism as a past mistake that Historical progression eventually gets rid of, it is understood to actively partake in the historical imagination that “­m akes sense” of the present, including present imaginations of future progression. This does not mean that colonialism would be an ultimate frame of reference through which Indigeneity or n ­ on-​­Indigeneity, “­West” or “­­non-​ ­West,” or, even more abstractedly, particular and universal History become intelligible. As Anzaldúa’s nepantla exemplifies, there are also other topographies of historical imagination than a single crossroad: a body of water or a deep soil that spreads into multiple directions both vertically and horizontally. From this perspective, to be attentive to past and present practices of coloniality in, for example, Indigenous education15 would not only be a practice of unearthing minor histories neglected by “­Western/­modern” History but also be a practice of (­re)­inserting the latter into the soil of connected pasts and presents for it to decompose and disintegrate. Eventually, such a “­Western/­modern” imagination might begin to lose its 14 See Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies. 15 See Eldridge “­A n Indigenous Reframing”; Keskitalo “­Place and Space in Sámi Education”; and Kortekangas et al. Sámi Educational History in a Comparative International Perspective.

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explanatory force and authority as the frame of reference through which to “­m ake sense” of change, difference, and otherness, whether in the past or in the present. Here, decomposing and disintegrating offer useful metaphors for a durative work of time that requires a language of history devoid of a single center from which differences are perceived and mastered. In contrast to the universalized freedom that offered Hegel’s narrative of gradual s­elf-​­awareness its future horizon, such a language might attune to “­a total (­­d reamed-​­of ) freedom of the connections among” “­specificities” (“­Poetics of Relation,” 62, emphasis added), and thus degeneralize historical agency and imagination. Like Glissant’s Poetics of Relation, the fluctuating and withering boundaries between subjects and objects in nepantla mean that a decolonial, degeneralizing historiography would step away from “­Western/­modern” figurations of the relation between knowledge, agency, and time. This resonates, in part, with David Scott’s call for a “­sensibility for the tragic” in postcolonial thought: A tragic perspective aims to offer, among other things, a strong doubt about teleologies of history in which heroic subjects of rational s­ elf-​­determination and committed resolve realize their moral and political destinies, and it does so in part by urging an attunement to the contingencies that can afflict human action in time and therefore a sensitivity to the constraints of human finitude, the pervasive, ineliminable proximity of collision and failure, of catastrophe and death. (­800) Taking up a tragic perspective does not mean that a decolonial poetics of historiography would adhere to the narrative of extinction so often imposed on Indigenous and Othered communities by the “­West”—​­a narrative that sees extinction as a “­proof ” that such communities cannot reach the kind of historical agency that marks the “­superiority” of “­Western/­modern” History. Rather, the contingencies that Scott refers to offer a reminder that time’s objectification into a universalized background for Historical development often neglects a wide range of agencies, whether human or nonhuman, whose actions cannot be neatly narrated between the beginning and the end.16 Instead of approaching the limits of one’s conscious control over History as a problem to be solved (­e.g., a tragedy we must overcome), I see that these limits bring about an ethics of historical “­­sense-​­making” based on openness, attention, and care toward changes and differences that might make little or no sense from the perspective of Historical progression. It is worth noting that not adhering to “­Western/­modern,” scientific practices of “­­sense-​ m aking” may put decolonial historiography in a precarious, uncertain position within ­ academia. The epistemic ignorance that Kuokkanen sees as a central characteristic of the “­Western” university system effectively marginalizes everything that does not “­m ake sense” through its dominant frames of reference. As Emma Pérez puts it: The decolonial imaginary is intangible to many because it acts much like a shadow in the dark. It survives as a faint outline gliding against a wall or an object. The shadow is the figure between the subject and the object on which it is cast, moving and breathing through an ­in-​­between space. (­6) 16 To return to the metaphor of decomposition, while it is possible to give the process of decomposition a point of beginning and an ­end—​­let’s say, an apple turns to ­humus—​­the process itself is connected to so many other processes, agencies, and conditions that “­m aking sense” of it only through a recourse to, let’s say, apple’s inherent potentiality to turn into soil, makes little sense from the perspective of the process as a whole.

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Returning to Glissant’s questions that open this chapter, this intangibility does not need to be accepted as such: it must be questioned, endlessly, since the ­life-​­worlds that a decolonial imaginary speaks of are very much tangible for many who are left out from the Historical imagination of “­Western” “­modernity.” Being attentive to these l­ife-​­worlds does not have to be done in the name of History or its progression. Rather, it may be understood as an act of care toward the plurality of temporal and epistemic frames of reference through which history is imagined, researched, and w ­ ritten—​­in a word: made.

Closing Thoughts In this chapter, my intention has been to use aspects of Glissant’s and Anzaldúa’s thought and poetics to imagine historical temporalities aside from the generalizing logic of modernity/­ coloniality. I have focused my study specifically on historical time because temporal frames of reference through which historians “­m ake sense” of history play an important role both in the generalization and degeneralization of historical imagination. “­Exploring what constitutes the background for marking and experiencing time,” writes Rif kin, “­d raws attention not only to the milieu, at whatever scale, that serves as the context for thinking and feeling time’s unfolding but also to the t­ aken-­​­­for-​­granted processes through which temporal dynamics are figured” (­11). I see that this challenges historians to pay attention to various temporal dynamics at play in their work and encourages them to seek historical imaginaries and figurations of knowledge, agency, and time aside from the eternally progressing History of modernity/­coloniality. What is the decolonial work to be done that Glissant’s and Anzaldúa’s poetics might lay out for art education historians? Instead of seeking epistemic validity, ethical frameworks, pedagogical mastery, or historical imaginaries solely from the traditions of “­Western/­modern” science, I see that art education historians who, like myself, are trying to understand what decolonization means for their work could benefit from studying artistic practice of artists and authors such as Glissant and Anzaldúa. After all, artists, much like historians, work with time; sometimes in ways that question its chronologically narrated order. It is, of course, important to acknowledge that “­art” ( ­just like history) is neither neutral nor universally applicable concept.17 For example, as Gunvor Guttorm has argued, while Sámi duodji may be characterized as traditional arts and craft, the very concept of “­t raditional” derives from a European tradition of thought that not only separates art (­high culture) from craft (­low culture) but also sustains the idea that tradition is always separate from innovation. This means that practices like duodji are easily considered separate from contemporary ­a rt—​­a term that, in itself, often homogenizes the very contemporaneity it refers ­to—​­and, subsequently, from contemporary art curricula. Similarly, when discussing the difficulty of using the term art to describe her practice, duojár Jenni Laiti writes: When I make duodji, I make more than an object or a ­piece—​­I create new life. In cooperation with the material, I discuss, communicate and create with love and from love. Each duodji has its own will, its own life. Respect, consent, trust, openness, honesty and mutual understanding are part of the process. My family, grandparents and people before them, future generations and the place, region and land I belong to are all involved in the creation process. (“­A rt is free when we are free” paragraph 10) 17 For an informative discussion of the epistemic generalization of European art, see Ryynänen On the Philosophy of Central European Art.

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Instead of approaching epistemic mismatches like these as obstacles that more accurate methods and methodologies will eventually overcome, I see that it is precisely from such mismatches where degeneralization of historical imagination in art education, whether employed in historical research or educational practice, may begin. Notably, some have already begun. For example, Laurie Eldridge has shown how the overlaps between artistic and ceremonial practices among Native Americans involve layers of knowledge and practices that cannot be “­m ade sense” through settler imaginaries of science, history, or art. Arguing for an “­Indigenous reframing” (­27) of historical research in art education, Eldridge’s work demonstrates the importance of rethinking the very work of history, including its temporal frames of reference through which personal, interpersonal, and communal pasts, presents, and futures are imagined and figured. Similarly, writing and reading about the a­ bove-​­mentioned struggles, lives, and achievements of African American and women art educators not only offer important models for the future but also help to radically reconfigure f­uture-​­oriented imaginaries of History that have failed to recognize knowledges and agencies beyond Eurocentric frames of reference. To begin in medias res means that the horizon of d­ egeneralization—​­the work to be d­ one—​ ­is not in the future, but now, in the present. Laiti’s words above and Anzaldúa’s nepantla offer figurations of a historical present whose time and space cannot be confined within a generalized ­meaning-​­making process between (­active) subjects and (­passive) objects. Extending its now both into the past and the future, such a present requires a pedagogy quite different from what Certeau identified as the explanatory pedagogy of History. Perhaps a pedagogy of degeneralization, a decolonial historiography may approach the work of history in the present akin to what Anzaldúa described as swimming in nepantla, that is, living and breathing in time’s differing tempos. What might this concretely do for the craft of art education historiography is still, at least for me, unclear. However, even as a conjectural point of beginning, I see that a degeneralization of time unfolds a poetics of history that resist the “­comfortable assurances” (“­Poetics of Relation” 32) of pedagogical mastery and the certainty it demands.

Prompts and Resources •

• • • •

How do you imagine the relationship between the past, the present, and the future in your work as a student, educator, artist, activist, and/­or researcher? What role does decolonization (­a s you understand it) play in that imagination? From where might you begin to search for the kind of “­uncertain paths” (­Glissant) to history as discussed in this chapter? To where might such paths lead you? AIDA: Arctic Indigenous Design Archives: https://­kansallisarkisto.fi/­a ida/ Feminist Culture House: https://­feministculturehouse.org/­about/ #StopHatredNow platform: https://­w ww.stophatrednow.fi/­about

Acknowledgment I wish to thank Johanna ­Sitomaniemi-​­San and two anonymous reviewers for offering careful, critical, and insightful feedback for the first version of this chapter.

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33 NEPANTLANDO A Borderlands Approach to Curating, Art Practice, and Teaching Leslie C. Sotomayor II and Christen Sperry García

Gloria Anzaldúa defines and conceptually marks the border as an ideological site she calls ­nepantla—​­a Nahuatl word that refers to a space existing ­in-​­between worlds. A crossing over from what has been to what will b­ e—​­nepantla is a threshold where realities are made visible as multiplicitous and dimensional realms and ways of being (­A nzaldúa, et al., Luz en lo Oscuro). Anzaldúa writes that the tension and “­pulling” between opposing realities are polarizing ideologies between traditional values and feminist consciousness that often cause confusion, not knowing if one should assimilate or isolate (­A nzaldúa, et al., Luz en Lo Oscuro). In the nepantla space, something happens to radically impact one’s s­elf-​­identity as a catalyst for shifting, a decolonization begins through awareness of self. Because of the rupturing that the nepantla space induces, a pivotal place for intentional ­self-​­autonomy and activism is activated (­Koshy). Anzaldúa’s expands her Borderlands theory beyond the physical geographical borders of Mexico/­United States to include “­psychic, sexual, and spiritual borderlands” (­A nzaldúa 1999, Borderlands). Anzaldúa crafted living in Borderlands, ­in-​­between places, as both a psychological realm of unrest and as the catalyst for creative acts (­A nzaldúa). The Borderlands are a potential site for crafting one’s embodiment and transformation. As such, borderlands have the potential to decenter White patriarchal art academic canons and curate approaches towards ­re-​­crafting. We situate Anzaldúa’s Borderland theory to the crossings in nepantla and identify ourselves as intentional border crossers, visionaries, as nepantleras.1 As nepantleras through our roles in curating/­art/­teaching, we grapple with border crossings that are often segregated and challenging. As nepantleras,2 we activate new processes for decolonizing our minds and bodies. As we traverse nepantla spaces, we seek opportunities for initiating what we call nepantlando. Nepantlando = nepantla (­existing ­in-​­between worlds) + Spanish gerund (­a ndo). We define nepantlando as an activated i­n-​­between space where within the gap, la rajadura, it is no longer a place of teetering precariously on the edge or straddling the ­in-​­between; but rather, a bridge is created, envisioned, summoned, and embodied by nepantleras as new possibilities through intentional acts that lead to transformation. As authors for this chapter, we are situated in our Chicana/­x and Latina/­x ­self-​­identifying roles as artists, curators, and educators who inhabit institutionalized learning environments 1 Anzaldúa’s coined terminology and theoretical lens of nepantlera, a “­v isionary cultural worker” (­Keating). 2 Anzaldúa offers her most extensive discussion of nepantleras, to date, in “­now let us shift,” and AnaLouise Keating in her essay “­Shifting Worlds, una entrada.”

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with our students and communities. Finding refuge in each other, we grapple with the disparities that we have felt in a variety of ways. For example, feeling invisible in the arts canon, our experiences are not valued within historical or contemporary contexts. Our creative processes through the arts honor the challenges we have had to overcome and work through within nepantla, journeying as a nepantlera thus expanding the nepantla spaces as new foregrounds of nepantlando. It is because of our survival, resistances, and challenges through our lived experiences that we have been able to transform ourselves in our visual studio practice, curator roles, and as educators. In this chapter, we conceptualize nepantlando as emotional, psychological, and nostalgic memory realms as spaces of nepantla that serve as a catalyst for creative acts. In the first section, we delineate nepantlando as a curatorial practice for decolonizing situated in the lineage of testimonio work. In the second section, we create our visual testimonios as performative acts of nepantla.

Nepantlando through Borderlands y Curadora Conceptualizing nepantlando, we generate our testimonios through a­ utohistoria-​­teoría and outline the process of a curadora who crosses back and forth between barriers. Anzaldúa explains in the preface of This Bridge We Call Home that the whole picture isn’t just about displacing whiteness although that’s necessary. It is also critically examining the layers of whiteness as not only critical of white identities but of whiteness as an institutionalized way of thinking, educating, and moving in the world (­A nzaldúa et al., The Gloria Anzaldúa Reader). A process centered in art making, nepantlando highlights fragmented spaces that occur from existing ­in-​­between ­worlds—​­a space that Anzaldúa describes as ambiguous, tense, and contradictory. Nepantlando begins with the process of writing and visualizing testimonios from a feminist Chicana artist perspective (­A nzaldúa, et al., Luz en lo Oscuro). Through her conception of border and Chicana art, Anzaldúa makes productive the ambiguity, tensions, and contradictions that occur living in nepantla: Border artists inhabit the transitional space of nepantla. The border is the locus of resistance, of rupture, and of putting together the fragments. By disrupting the neat separations between cultures, Chicana artists create a new culture mix, una mestizada. (­47) Through rupture and fragmentation, a painful and anxious space, one is able to create a new wholeness. Anzaldúa refers to a point of shifting. Using art as a conduit, one passes through a threshold, becomes ­self-​­aware, and enters a place of agency and activism (­Koshy). The art mestizada (­m ixture) arises from the tense psychic, spiritual, and emotional borders that act as a catalyst for transformation through rupture and fragmentation (­A nzaldúa, et al, Luz en lo Oscuro). The border is an “­indeterminable space” wherein its inhabitants navigate multiple identities, places, languages, and states of being (­Szymanek). Importantly, border inhabitants also navigate layers of oppression. Therefore, the indeterminability of this space intersects and clashes with many parts of one’s identity including race, gender, sexuality, and more.

Testimonios: Lineage and ­Autohistoria-​­teoría We define “­­autohistoria-​­teoría” as the testimonio of theorizing lived experiences through imagined futures and underrepresented, diversified voices that can critically dismantle systemically internalized oppression to resist, challenge, and offer new possibilities for 293

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knowledge that have historically been silenced (­Bhattacharya; Navas). As a guide to decolonizing educational spaces through emergent cultures of curricula, Anzaldúa’s theory of ­autohistoria-​­teoría examines the various contexts of learning through multiple paths of ­socio-​­politicized content value and diverse environments for education. Autohistoria 3 is understood as the creation of one’s own story with the agency. Anzaldúa, through her theory of ­autohistoria-​­teoría, facilitates a coming together of fragmented lived experiences with a holistic perspective including the arts, which resists the traditional notion of art inhabiting a hierarchical privileged world. A ­ utohistoria-​­teoría is a form for moving towards self and collective healing through our wounds, pain, and trauma experienced in nepantla spaces. We engage our roles of curadora using Anzaldúa’s theory of a­ utohistoria-​­teoría as an approach to meeting in nepantla and create visual art through our lived experiences. ­Autohistoria-​­teoría is a process and path to rewrite histories and cross borders with new knowledge and methods for theorizing. ­Autohistoria-​­teoría is a way to navigate ­in-​­between spaces and to critically look at situations and their contexts (­revealing their underpinnings) in “­forming our own categories and theoretical models for patterns we uncover” (­A nzaldúa, Making Face xxv). It is important, however, to clearly note that the models we seek to uncover are ourselves and others like us in our artistic and educational communities as an effort to resist and challenge the historical narratives of whiteness4 coming to our aide that would further reinforce a colonizing framework. Pitts (­2006) explains the creative m ­ eaning-​­making process of ­autohistoria-​­teoría as entangled when she explains “­autohistoria is presented as a difficult task, and one that involves critically interrogating one’s own social position within embedded frameworks of ­meaning-​­and ­k nowledge-​­production” (­364). We extend Pitts’s interpretation of autohistoria beyond embedding “­frameworks of meaning” to an embodiment of knowledge production and modes of meaningful frameworks. Nepantlando is, therefore, a decolonizing feminist approach to modeling embodiment as a curadora.

Curadora: Situate Curating through Lived Experience ­ utohistoria-​­teoría is a form of ­curando—​­the Spanish word for healing. We situate curadora/­ A curator as a type of healer or a facilitator of a healing process that requires a ­back-­​­­and-​­forth crossing into other realms much like a nepantlera. Through Anzaldúas theories of conocimiento5 and a­utohistoria-​­teoría, we situate curadora/­curator as a healer, emphasizing 3 ­­Autohistoria-​­teoría: A decolonial feminist writing practice of testimonio conceptualized by Gloria Anzaldúa is a way to create s­ elf-​­knowledge and belonging and to bridge collaborative spaces through s­ elf-​­empowerment. Anzaldúa offers a p­ roto-​­definition of autohistoria as a term to “­describe the genre of writing about one’s personal and collective history using fictive elements, a sort of fictionalized autobiography or memoir: and ­autohistoria-​­teoría is a personal essay that theorizes” (­A nzaldúa & Keating 2009, 578). 4 Anzaldúa explains in the preface of This Bridge We Call Home that the whole picture isn’t just about displacing whiteness although necessary, but also critically examining the layers of whiteness as not only critical of white identities but of whiteness as an institutionalized way of thinking, educating, and moving in the world (­A nzaldúa & Keating, 2002). 5 Conocimiento, the Spanish term for knowledge or consciousness, is a theory developed by Anzaldúa through the process of grappling with her own identity, history, heritage, and feelings of not belonging (­A nzaldúa & Keating). Conocimiento, according to Anzaldúa, can be described as a type of spiritual inquiry toward s­elf-​ l­ove and validation (­A nzaldúa & Keating). Anzaldúa was “­d riven by the desire to understand, know, y saber [and know] how human and other beings know. Beneath your desire for knowledge writhes the hunger to understand and love yourself ” (­A nzaldúa & Keating 121). Conocimiento’s transformative acts can be interpreted to symbolize the seven chakras or energies which, according to Eastern philosophy, hold our mind, body, and

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the curatorial practice through creative acts towards healing and transformations. Curating educational spaces bear the possibility of transformation and healing because la curadora, the healer, is creating or conjuring an environment that is intentional in facilitating dialogues, curiosities, and for learners to engage as they are. In other words, a curator conjures up, earnestly, into existence a new or different perspective. Curadora is a Spanish word, meaning someone who heals. In Latin, curadora means guardian or trustee. We use this term to include artist, curator, and facilitator/­educator as the practice of curator as contributing to the production of knowledge, theorizing, creating worlds, suggesting hypotheses, and proposing a form of narration or testimonios in turn generating a new perspective. A curadora is occupying multiple spaces with an aim to heal. We situate healing as a process that is needed as a holistic approach after experiencing nepantla. The ­in-​­between space that exists between nepantla and other realities is what we engage as nepantlando, an activated rajadura (­g ap) for transformation or awakened consciousness.

Nepantlando: Performing and Crafting Our Visual Testimonios This section is a visual and performative practice nepantlando. Theorizing nepantla spaces of ­autohistoria-​­teoría, we become curadoras. Through writing performatively as an act, we form our visual testimonios, a residue of the act. The process for meaning making through creating art is an enactment between the viewer, the subject/­object, and, by extension, the artist. Anzaldúa repeatedly comes back to the idea of our stories, testimonios, and autohistorias as performances paralleling the artworks/­­making—​­a collaborative effort between the reader and writer, or artist. In other words, performative writing is a feminist act of ­creativity—​­an embodiment of the self through visual text. We define the act of feminist performative writing as a methodology of decolonizing the self and knowledge by activating our ­autohistoria-​­teoría through testimonios that, in turn, result in visual testimonios. Engaging in image, letters, and characters, we navigate tense and shifting borderland spaces emotionally, psychically, and metaphorically. Letters and characters become a mix of text and images. As it is customary in academic formatting to italicize a word in another language, we do not do this so as not to exotify Spanish or our translanguaging, using two or more languages together. In curating transcultural spaces as curadoras, we occupy multiple spaces critically while acknowledging fluid intersections towards new knowledge building and transformation. As we are visual artists, our native language is to craft through objects and socially engaged spaces. However, as art education scholars, we are expected to write. As a form of agency and reframing for ourselves, we write and simultaneously make visual work through our testimonios. In our visual testimonios, we performatively craft through letters, spaces, and characters through the visual medium of typing. Leslie: You were born in this country. You are an American citizen. soul in balance (­A nzaldúa). Anzaldúa explains that the seven transformative acts are within each other and the struggle between the knower and the shadow places that exist in us, places that are dark, repressed, and full of pain. The transformative acts are processes of dying and being reborn within oneself repeatedly and various places in our lives.

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Remember that. Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss sss s ssss ss sssss sssssssssssssss sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssss  ssssssss ssss sssss sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss Sssssssssss  xssssss sssss  ssssss  sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss I began college for the first time when I graduated high school a year early at the age of 17.    I remember walking onto the university campus for the first time feeling disconnected…….reminding me of when I was a young girl moving from a predominantly Hispanic, Spanish speaking neighborhood in New Jersey to a predominantly ­non-​­Hispanic, English speaking neighborhood in eastern Pennsylvania.    Trees replaced city buildings, ­multi-​­colored concrete and plastic turned into shades of lush green woods and sprawling green acres dotted with flowering trees. In the evenings instead of hearing cars, sirens and city noises, I thought I heard the ocean waves crashing against the ­shore-​­-​­it was the sound of the winds weaving between the trees, whispering to me. Walking around the college campus, I again felt like I was on another planet and didn’t quite belong. I only lasted there barely a year, failing out and deciding it would be better for me to marry my teenage sweetheart at 18:  I remember my father taking me with him to the dean’s office to dis    cuss my situation. I have no recollection of what was said as I sat in his office, but I remember feeling invisible, not belonging anywhere. I can hear the shattering of what I thought was reality, a deep desire for something more had been building up in me. After more than a decade from that day, a deteriorating marriage that I needed to leave, and three children later, at age 31, I walked onto a new predominantly White campus, again, feeling like I didn’t belong. During my first year as an adult learner pursuing my bachelor’s degree, I needed to take an elective. One of the only classes that would fit my tight schedule that was hyphenated with motherhood was an Introduction to Women’s Studies course. I had no idea what the class was or that there was even a field with this name: w ­ riter-​­(­M)­­other-­​­­daughter-­​­­partner-­​­­artist-­​­­curator-­​­­educator-­​­­researcher-­​­­scholar-­​­­human-­​­­friend-​­-­​­­queen-­​ ­­matriarch-­​­­abuela-­​­­lover-­​­­woman-­​­­latina-­​­­female-​­creator I grew up in a traditional home, where my papi worked outside of the home and my mami stopped working outside of the home once she gave birth to me, her first child. I was shocked on the first day of my Introduction to Women’s Studies undergraduate course, as a Latina woman walked into my class and introduced herself as the professor for the course. This

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event radically changed my life. For the first time, I was witnessing what a Latina could be other than a mother, and I began to learn about my history as a Latina in the United States. From that day forward, I have aimed to curate my life through learning about my heritage, ancestry, U.S. context, and understand why I have lived with a strong sense of not belonging. It was in the Introduction to Women’s Studies class that I first heard the name of the Chicana feminist writer, Gloria Anzaldúa, among others: Cherríe moraga Chela sandoval Maria Lugones Mariana ortega Norma Alarcón Linda Martin Alcoff Kimberlé Crenshaw Patricia Hill collins bell hooks Sojourner truth Frances beale Deborah king Ana julia cooper Analouise keating Rosario morales Liliana wilson Esther hernandez Ana mendieta Coco fusco Many of the testimonies I read in This Bridge Called My Back (­2002) resonated with me. Anzaldúa, through her writings, urged and inspired me to prioritize goals and practice the life I wanted as an artist; and to honor my story, which initiated a journey of ­self-​­empowerment and a sense of belonging to myself: Spanish is my private language, I cross the threshold into English. However, I quickly realized that this Introduction to Women’s Studies class was unique. I sought to take every class from the small pool of Latina/­o Studies classes available. In doing so, the stark reality became apparent, ­again—​­I felt I didn’t belong in most of my other classes because the curriculum taught excluded experiences and voices of people of color from education, art, and curating: I became aware of the things I did not possess; knowledge of myself, my history, art training, or a language and vocabulary to articulate myself through. English is, after all, my second language. When I was five in public school kindergarten, one day my mother was furious. I remember fragments as she angrily pulled me out of a meeting at the end of the school year with teachers: I remember her saying; “­Mi hija nacío aquí, ella es Americana!!” (­my daughter was born here, she is an American!!) and I never returned the following year. Instead she registered me to begin in a private ­all-​­English speaking and teaching Catholic School. Later, I would understand what happened. My mother was offended that the public school I was attending was beginning to introduce the concept of Bilingual English as a second language class because of the changing local community from predominantly White to Hispanic. The elementary school implemented a trial program of pulling students out of the classroom for ESL classes. My teacher thought I would be a good candidate for this course since I was Hispanic, and Spanish is my first language. My parent’s perspective was that at home we spoke Spanish, and outside of home my brother and I would pick up English in school, maintaining a bilingual practice. However, the school forcefully suggested the ­pulling- ­​­­out- ­​­­of-­​­­t he-​­class for strategic ESL classes: My mother did not agree. 297

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She thought it was a horrible offense for the school to even suggest that I should take a Bilingual English course: I remember having a difficult time understanding my ­English-​­speaking friends and teachers in Kindergarten. I had attended a P ­ re-​­Kindergarten school with predominantly Spanish speaking teachers and students. My whole world was in Spanish until Kindergarten, where I still had some Spanish speaking friends. My life consisted of family, friends, neighbors, church, and school as predominantly Spanish speaking. Ironically, the elementary school, Horace Mann, in North Bergen, New Jersey that I had attended briefly, changed their mission a few years after my mother pulled me out of the school. The elementary school developed a T ­ wo-​­Way Bilingual program where all curriculum is taught in both English and Spanish simultaneously. In 1997, the school received a grant for the program, radically changing the education and curriculum narrative to be facilitated in both the English and Spanish languages, and by 2002 becoming the exception of a pure ­dual-​­language magnet school: Sink or swim: I looked up at their faces, I did not know them. They spoke, sounds came out of their mouths, but I could not hear them. It is silence: dead silence. I felt small, holding my classmates’ hand who didn’t understand english either. When I arrived at my new private school, it was a major culture shock: I remember being scared and not knowing how to communicate with the other kids and the teachers who were English speaking nuns. Eventually I did learn English, but I always felt that I didn’t belong. Monica and Manuel, I didn’t see them again after I moved. We colored and made drawings together. Everything about me and my life felt completely different. The way my mother did my hair, the shoes I wore, my lunches, and our extracurricular activities. For example, I wasn’t in cheerleading and did not know what that was: I remember in fifth grade, my hair was turning curly, unlike everyone else’s in my school. They pointed and laughed. Because the education I received in elementary through high school failed to include me, and when they tried to include me, it resulted in outrage from my mother, I grew up living ­in-​­between and feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere: People of color have been required to: assimilate look speak act White--ness>passing>>>>passing whom?>>>>>keep moving>>>>>> Next, college courses failed to theorize and include experiences like ­m ine—​­again: 298

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I was feeling an all too familiar feeling that I have felt throughout my whole life, not belonging. with other Latino/­a students: where we became vulnerable: through our testimonios: changed my life. I know the value of sitting in the classroom seats witnessing a Latina enter the room open a window into testimonios, poetry, listening and sharing lived experiences: rarely voiced.



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Prompts and Resources How to write a visual testimonio: • • • • • • • • •

• •

Curadora: What experience has changed you in some way? Nepantla: How do you find yourself living between two worlds? Autohistoria: Create a.docx file to tell your story. Teorizar/­­autohistoria-​­teoría: How does nepantla relate to your lived experiences? Decolonize: Do not write in academic paragraph form. Coyolxauhqui: Write in fragmented thoughts. Translanguage: Use two or more languages/­d ialects simultaneously; languages can be spoken, written, and/­or visual. Collectivity: Share your visual testimonio. Rhizomes: Mexican American Art since 1848: https://­rhizomes.umn.edu/­home Repeating the metaphor of rhizomatic roots, the initiative Rhizomes of Mexican American Art since 1848 is a complex, ­multi-​­institution collaboration to generate an ecosystem to broaden intellectual content and networks, enhance visibility, and support the discovery of the visual art of Mexican America. Each of the three components of the Rhizomes Initiative employs collaborative and redistributive methods to reconcile the intersectional, structural inequities that erase or obscure Mexican American art and visual culture. PDF copy of Gloria Anzaldúa’s (­1987) text: Borderlands/­L a Frontera: The New Mestiza. http://­ users.uoa.gr/~cdokou/­TheoryCriticismTexts/­­A nzaldua-­​­­borderlands-­​­­la-​­f rontera.pdf Clelia Rodriguez: Seeds for Change. https://­w ww.seedsforchange.ca/­­learning-­​­­w ithout​­borders

Works Cited Anzaldúa, Gloria. Making Face, making soul: Haciendo Caras: Creative and Critical Perspectives by Feminists of Color (­1st ed.). Aunt Lute Books, 1990. Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands: La Frontera: The New Mestiza (­2nd ed.). Aunt Lute Books, 1999. Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands: La Frontera: The New Mestiza (­4th ed). Aunt Lute Books, 2012. Anzaldúa, Gloria, et al. The Gloria Anzaldúa Reader. Duke University Press, 2009. Anzaldúa, Gloria, et al. Luz en lo Oscuro: Rewriting Identity, Spirituality, Reality. Duke University Press, 2015. Anzaldúa, Gloria, and AnaLouise Keating, eds. This Bridge We Call Home: Radical Visions for Transformation. Routledge, 2002. Bhattacharya, Kakali. “­Performing Gender as ‘­­Third-­​­­World-​­Other’ in Higher Education: De/­ colonizing Transnational Feminist Possibilities.” Creative Approaches to Research, vol. 6, no. 3, 2013, ­pp. ­30–​­43. Nepantlera-​­ Activism in the Transnational Moment.” ­Re-​­Membering Anzaldúa: Koshy, Kavitha. “­­ Human Rights, Borderlands, and the Poetics of Applied Social Theory: Engaging with Gloria Anzaldúa in Self and Global Transformations (­P roceedings of the Third Annual Social Theory Forum April ­5 –​­6, 2006, UMass Boston). Ahead Publishing House (­imprint: Okcir Press), 2006. Pitts, Andrea. “­Gloria E. Anzaldúa’s Autohistoria-Teoría as an Epistemology of S­ elf-​­Knowledge/­ Ignorance.” Hypatia, vol. 31, no. 2, 2006, ­pp. ­352–​­369. Szymanek, Angela. “­Haptic Encounters: Margarita Cabrera’s Space In Between.” Art Journal, vol. 79, no. 3, 2020, ­pp. ­70–​­79.

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34 CRAFTING CRITICALITY INTO MY WAYFARING JEWISH ANCESTORS’ COLONIAL TRADE CONNECTIONS Esther Fitzpatrick Assembling It is 1844. Imagine a small room inside a merchant’s storeroom, on a hill in the centre of what was quickly becoming Auckland city. Further up the hill, the English barracks are being built under the careful watch of George Graham (­Fitzpatrick and Bell ­6 –​­29). There is a smell of mud that has oozed under the storeroom door from the crude road outside. Ten men are gathered, skull caps on, rocking back and forth chanting; it is a Jewish prayer meeting, one of the earliest to occur in ­Aotearoa–​­New Zealand. The men have both Sephardic (­I berian roots) and Ashkenazi (­East European roots), and their families originate from diverse parts of the world. They share an ancient Jewish tradition and lifestyle of family, religion, and trade. They all arrived in Auckland via London, some had spent time in Sydney, Australia, and in the Bay of Islands of A ­ otearoa–​­New Zealand, a place significant to early colonial settlement and the signing of a treaty with Indigenous Māori. But this is not a chance meeting. This chapter focuses on the ­arts-​­based approach I used to research my Jewish ancestors depicted in the above scene. My particular interest here is their history as traders, and how they travelled across and between countries as part of the colonial/­colonizing project. In researching this ancestral past, I employed ­arts-​­based methods in collaboration (­see St Pierre 2014) with the theoretical framework of Critical Family History. Together they proved to be powerful tools for exploring the possibilities of decolonizing practice for dominant group members like myself. To interrogate the way horizontal connections between colonies operated (­Ballantyne), I generated “­small stories” of my Jewish trader ancestors to better understand the “­big picture” of these networks and how the dynamics of power played out. Crafting a papier mâché “­g lobe” of these trade networks was a vital part of navigating the complexity I encountered. Drawing on the embodied practice of map making (­cartography) through the arts requires working in tension with the historical practice of mapping as a colonizing strategy and simultaneously revelatory. As Saraceno argued, “­Cartographies can assist us in reflexive and deconstructive endeavours … to bring to the surface how a dominant Western ontology rooted in whiteness and coloniality is embedded in the systems and structure” (­­248–​­249). 308

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Below, I continue to set the scene for the chapter by explaining the dominant White identity term Pākehā (­European) in the context of ­Aotearoa–​­New Zealand. I also provide an introduction to Critical Family History methodology (­Sleeter, “­Multicultural Curriculum” and “­Critical Family History”) and its usefulness to my evolving research engagement with decolonizing practices as an educator. Craft, a productive ­arts-​­based research strategy, is increasingly recognized as important in decolonizing work (­see Fitzpatrick and Riley ­i-​­xvi; Fitzpatrick and Bell ­6 –​­29). In the second half of the chapter, I demonstrate how craft, or “­m aking things,” helped me to begin making sense of the densely knotted meshwork (­Ingold ­29–​­43) of trade and travel that is part of my Jewish heritage.

Pākehā Is a Māori Word An academic interest of mine is ethnic/­cultural identity, and importantly how in settler colonial societies we make sense of dominant White identities. My teaching of ­pre-​­service teachers and supervision of postgraduate students is likewise focused on developing pedagogical and methodological strategies that disrupt traditional Eurocentric systems and provide embodied, decolonial, and critical perspectives. My argument being teachers themselves first need to know their own histories and develop criticality in their practice. As Malcolm X stated: “­We can’t teach what we don’t know, and we can’t lead where we won’t go” (­as quoted in Howard 6). In ­Aotearoa–​­New Zealand, I am known as Pākehā, an Indigenous Māori word for colonial settler. Pākehā and other terms, such as European New Zealander, categorize a diverse range of colonial settlers into an imaginary homogenous ­ethnic–​­cultural group (­Fitzpatrick ­43–​­51). Many White colonial settlers, such as Pākehā, struggle to articulate a clear e­ thnic–​­cultural identity instead defaulting, for example, to a “­national” or dominant identity such as Canadian, American, New Zealander, and Australian (­Bell; Fitzpatrick ­43–​­51). This serves to perpetuate the belief that White settler identities represent the norm, and all other identities are “­Othered.” Increasingly, these identities are being challenged, resulting in discomfort and furthering stereotypical behaviors and racism. The negative responses to #Blacklivesmatter in 2020 with #Alllivesmatter are just one example (­Fitzpatrick “­A year of encounters”). A recent study has again demonstrated the multitude of ways Pākehā families do not engage their children in developing connectedness to their culture (­Fitzpatrick and Webber).

Decolonizing through Critical Family History (­CFH) CFH involves the process of layering the personal story alongside the wider historical and social story, and alongside stories of other peoples who are entangled in our becoming (­Sleeter; Bell). Cognizant of Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s influential work on decolonizing methodologies, CFH illuminates the power dynamics embedded in family histories like my own. How do I as a Pākehā enact a methodology of decolonization? Do I, as suggested by Leonardo, become a “­race traitor” (­96)? Or, as suggested by Tuck and Yang, do I reject a settler future and instead consider “­opening the possibility of other futures” (­36)? Critical family history has the potential to provide a way for ­non-​­Indigenous people to begin engaging with decoloniality when in collaboration with critical theory. I suggest a­ rts-​­based methods enable researchers to connect with difficult knowledge in productive ways. Pākehā identities emerge between country/­ies of origin and country of birth, entangled with Other. As s­ elf-​­ascribed “­betweeners,” Diversi and Moreira created a decolonizing methodology using critical autoethnography to “­evoke collective hope instead of individual 309

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blaming” (­207), resisting and challenging ideologies of domination. I too work toward a decolonial imaginary, actively making and writing to emotionally connect readers to issues of power. I do so, believing, as Stacy Holman Jones argues, “­that words matter and writing toward the moment when the point of creating auto ethnographic texts is to change the world” (­765). Decolonization work is both difficult and contested (­Greenwood). Significant to my role as an educator is the recognition that “­settlers” often have difficult histories. CFH enables me, like Te Punga Somerville, to “­think about the very complex ways in which one might simultaneously critique a colonial state, stand in solidarity with Indigenous brothers and sisters, and benefit from ongoing forms of dispossession” (­297). The important ways CFH works as a form of decolonization are through making colonial structures visible, being truthful, unsettling the dominant narratives, and resisting hegemonic discourses; CFH can provide context to difficult conversations and address material change (­see French et al.; Flores). Understanding that the settler and colonized are both mutual constructions of colonization, I am particularly interested in how structures of colonization were established and continue to exist, positioning people in a way that advantages a dominant elite (­Smith). The imaginary construct of whiteness, perpetuated through the process of colonization, has worked to homogenize a range of diverse White ethnic groups into a single entity for the purposes of racial domination (­Leonardo ­86–​­98). Hence, those of us who are described as White must recognize the important historical connotations and impact of whiteness on cultural identity. Smith comments on how “[t]he binary of colonizer/­colonized does not take into account…the development of different layering which has occurred within each group and across the two groups” (­27). Coming to know the past, the telling of alternative histories and alternative knowledges are all part of the critical pedagogy of decolonization (­Smith). Such a pedagogy also underpins the purpose of the CFH work featured in this chapter. As Pākehā, the convenience of forgetting our own histories of colonization enables the ongoing claiming of space and place (­Snelgrove et al. 1­ –​­32). In support of decolonizing practice, my project is one of remembering, paying attention to “­stolen” land, and shedding light on the political and social conditions that contribute to the processes of colonization (­Snelgrove et al. ­1–​­32). ­Non-​­indigenous researchers like myself should, I argue, also engage in decolonizing methodologies and understanding that our identities are a “­collection of all stories we’ve inherited from those that have come before” (­Ballard and Ballard 73). By applying a historical lens, I am exploring what Giorgio describes as “­absent memory” and interrogating my past through the relationship of “­I and the Other” (­419). For my family, being Jewish had been lost/­forgotten before I was even born. In my writing and making, I bear witness to memories that I have not experienced. As Anne Harris asks, “­How do you perform an identity you have never known?” (­70). My memories are gleaned from family stories, artefacts, and historical records. These memories are “­felt like a ghost’s presence” (­Giorgio 418). My CFH work aims to thread these particular stories together and link them to the social, political, and historical context of the time to show how they shape my personal story. In doing so, I hope to provide a c­ ounter-​­story to the sanctioned, dominant stories of our Pākehā histories to which my ancestors have contributed.

Re/­membering through Making In an earlier work, I explored the relationship of my early Jewish settler family with the local Indigenous Māori of Auckland, A ­ otearoa-​­New Zealand (­Fitzpatrick and Bell 6­ –​­29). At that 310

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­Figure 34.1 Arpillera of my Jewish trader ancestors in early colonial Auckland.

time, I had only just come to know of my Jewish ancestors. To re/­member this story, I used the embodied ­a rts-​­based method of crafting an ­arpillera—​­a traditional Chilean tapestry (­see Fitzpatrick and Bell 6­ –​­29). In creating the arpillera (­­Figure 34.1), I was engaged in a method that involved researching historical artefacts and re/­membering the story of early Auckland. I was restoring the “­small stories” (­Georgakopoulou ­122–​­130) that had been consigned to the shadow world, evoking the senses through the arts and recreating cultural memory. I was writing with my scholarly ghosts, who always question what I do, and add to/­edit/­inspire my writing and my making; they are indeed ­a lways-­​­­present-​­absent collaborators (­St Pierre ­374–​ ­379). This ongoing conversation with art making, writing, and my ghosts relates to what Jackson and Mazzei describe as “­­reading-­​­­the-­​­­d ata-­​­­while-­​­­thinking-­​­­the-​­theory as a moment of plugging in, of entering the assemblage, of making new connectives” (­4). It is through the embodied act of plugging into making, in collaboration with my stories and theory, that a deeper sense of connection with theory and of growing theory occurs. An a­ rts-​­based practice is a “­doing,” an embodied making, crafting, writing, painting, acting, creating (­the list goes on), and thinking with theory about those issues that haunt our scholarly work. Gauntlett and Holzwarth (­83) stipulate that there is potential to engage thoughtfully and reflectively on our identities and experiences when methodologically involved in creatively making things. There is a difference between “­k nowing from the inside” and learning about something from text (­Ingold Making). For Ingold, in making something we are engaged in “­transformational” rather than “­documenting” learning (­­2–​­8). I had an inkling that the phenomenon of colonial trading connections could be illustrated and better understood through exploring my ancestors’ stories. Making as method, I believed, would again serve to address the complexity of the stories and enable an embodied felt experience of otherwise fragmented and distant histories. I’ve always loved maps and simultaneously been aghast how imaginary boundaries can be so problematic. With an attitude of both 311

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playfulness and scholarly attention, I decided to create a papier mâché globe tracing the trade routes of my Jewish ancestors, whom I briefly introduce next.

A Jewish Trader Family Story The narrative vignette that opened the chapter featured my Keesing ancestors and their familial trading group participating in a Jewish prayer service in 1844. In that same year, the Keesing family had settled in Auckland providing enough men to form, for the first time, a ­M inyan—​­the ten males needed for the inaugural service in a new land to take place (­Agnew and Agnew). At the moment of this prayer meeting, a handful of Jewish men had already made their way to Auckland prior to my great grandfather Hartog Keesing’s arrival: Thomas Phillips, David Nathan, Joel Samuel Polack, and John Israel Montefiore. The latter two were the first Jews to partake in the colonization of A ­ otearoa-​­New Zealand (­Daalder). How my Jewish Keesing family made their way to A ­ otearoa-​­New Zealand was no accident. Rather, it was through family trading connections, and it was a strategic move. Hartog Keesing was part of an Ashkenazi Jewish merchandise family in Amsterdam who as a young man had travelled through Europe visiting its chief commercial cities. Hartog was conscripted into Napoleon’s army, and afterwards, in 1813 he migrated to London. Amsterdam was reeling from an economic crisis, and London was the place of opportunity. He married Rosetta Barand Kasner in 1816 in the Great Synagogue, London, and then “­commenced a successful course of business” but was unfortunate when a “­bubble bank” he invested in failed (­Agnew). Hartog and Rosetta emigrated with six of their children to Auckland. Their eldest son, Barnet, was already there with a small number of other Jewish traders and renting land from Joel Samuel Polack (­K ahn and Mendelsohn). Barnet is described as selling ginger beer from a tent on the Auckland foreshore, as well as trading between Auckland and nearby Waiheke Island. There with my ancestors on Auckland’s waterfront is where I wanted to begin. My thoughts turned first to the idea of mapping their trading connections in the Pacific and Australia. I made a papier mâché balloon (­­Figure 34.2) and painted it orange. My original idea grew. I had a second strong n ­ otion—​­to map onto the balloon all the travels across time of my colonial Jewish trader ancestors. The orange balloon sat for a ­long-​­time waiting. I didn’t know where to start. In the meantime, I kept generating data.

Horizontal Connections and the Network of Trade I had a hunch my Jewish family trade networks represented the concept of horizontal relationships between colonial countries (­Ballantyne). However, I underestimated just how significant and complex these connections were. I was impressed with the amount of travelling these early colonial “­settlers” ­achieved—​­hardly settled at all. For instance, my Keesing ancestors had, by 1860, completed at least 31 trips ­to-­​­­and-​­fro between Australia and ­Aotearoa–​ ­New Zealand. My hunch resonated with the literature where I found evocative metaphors for how my trading ancestors lived and moved around the globe. The network of trade that developed throughout various eras of colonization exemplifies the notion of multiple connections (“­k nots”) and the practice of wayfaring envisioned by Ingold as binding people and place: [L]ives are led not inside places but through, around, to and from them… wayfaring… describe[s] the embodied experience of this perambulatory movement. It is as wayfarers, 312

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­Figure 34.2 Papier mâché balloon for mapping the travels of my Jewish ancestors.

then, that human beings inhabit the earth… human existence is… p­ lace-​­binding. It unfolds not in places but along paths. Proceeding along a path, every inhabitant lays a trail. Where inhabitants meet, trails are entwined, as the life of each becomes bound up with the other. Every entwining is a knot, and the more that l­ife-​­lines are entwined, the greater the density of the knot. (­37) Considering the imperial metropoles and peripheries, Lester argues that “­the cultural glue which held together this British world consisted not only of sentiment and shared institutional values but also of a plethora of networks [emphasis added]” (­130). Ballantyne compares empires to “­webs” and suggests that like webs, they “­were fragile…yet also dynamic, being constantly remade and reconfigured through concerted thought and effort: the image of the web reminds us that empires were not just structures, but processes as well” (­133). He urges the reader to consider how both the “­horizontal” (­connection to other colonial settler countries) and “­vertical” (­connection to “­mother” country) existed in the development of colonial New Zealand. Importantly, Lester also points out that these colonial webs were “­layered on top of ­pre-​­colonial networks, adding new levels of complexity” (­134). There was a moment here when I paused and pondered whether to stop. A pandora’s box of forgotten stories lays in wait. My genealogical research and DNA data whispered about these horizontal connections, but did I want to speak with these ghosts? Derrida advises that, for the sake of justice, I should “­speak with my ghosts.” I could see the names and family branches reaching back into a history, an earlier history of colonies and colonization, of trade, of conquistadores, and of slavery. This is the difficult knowledge Britzman speaks ­of—​­the coming to terms with how simultaneously your family can be persecuted because of ethnicity and religion and yet persecute and erase other peoples’ stories (­­95–​­117). I continued to generate the s­ tories—​­layered, entangled, reaching back to the earliest stories of colonization. I struggled to see how they would all map onto my orange papier mâché globe. Using what was at hand (­Fitzpatrick 6­ 1–​­73), I drafted a plan on a t­wo-​­dimensional scroll of 313

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­Figure 34.3 Mapping out and generating family and trade connections.

brown paper on my dining room table with string, tape, and ­post-​­it notes. After drawing a rough sketch of the key places my family came from or had lived, a colleague and I then began to plot onto the paper the names, dates, and, sometimes, the occupations of these relatives. Feelings of discomfort would run through my body, and I would busy myself with something else for a while. Who am I to tell this story? There were questions beginning to form as I plotted out these stories. I learnt about “­Port Jews” and wondered if and how my family were associated with them. I went back to the historical archives, with several tabs open on my computer, including my DNA results. Scribbles were hastily written down onto p­ ost-​­it notes and attached to the paper roll (­­Figure 34.3), sifting through, digging down deep, and getting to the essence of the story.

Travelling Jewish Traders and the Golden Triangle Jewish peoples, due to their belonging to an ancient diasporic society, forbidden often from settling permanently in one place, became experts at trade and money lending, education and religion, structures of political involvement, and the ability to speak in many languages. Frequent expulsions forced a widening of their connections (­Thulin 24). I found myself going back to the orange globe and painting a background of the many “­countries” my extended ancient familial relations had lived, travelled, and visited. I plotted out the ports with golden pins and found a golden thread to map out the story. A difficult story. I wanted the “­gold” to show, not be hidden, to demonstrate the complexity and heartache of the story. It was not beautiful; it became an ugly tangled knot of threads (­­Figure 34.4). The anguish I felt at reading these histories materialized on the globe. 314

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­Figure 34.4 The Golden Triangle of ­Trade—​­Portugal, Brazil, West Africa, Amsterdam.

My Sephardic Jewish connections were involved in trade in Spain, Morocco, India, and Africa (­K looster ­129–​­145). During the Spanish inquisition, they shape shifted, packed their bags, and changed their names often. Some of them on the “­outside” were good Catholics, but behind closed doors continued their Jewish traditions. Many were caught, punished, hidden away in prison, and burnt at the stake. These families shifted to the port towns of Italy and Portugal. Swetschinski notes how “[d]uring the sixteenth century [they] became active along Portugal’s major trade routes, first in Africa, then in East India, and finally Brazil” (­217). This era of trade became known as the “­Golden Age of Amsterdam’s Portuguese Jewry” as established connections in Portugal’s former colonial empire, and “­d aughter” communities in Hamburg, Rouen, and London enabled them to expand (­Swetschinski). Klooster (­­129–​­145) describes the development of a “­commercial network that tied together Portugal, northeastern Brazil, and Amsterdam into a neat triangle” (­130) (­see ­Figure 34.4). When Brazil’s doors closed (­due to political upheavals), Jewish communities quickly shifted to various islands in the Caribbean.

Port Jews As I wound colored wool across the papier mâché globe, and twisted it round and round the pins on the map, the knots of connection physically grew between significant port towns. Plotting their movements on the map highlighted how my Jewish trader families became “­Port Jews” (­­Figure  34.5). “­Port Jews” “­were travelers, strangers, b­ oundary-​­crossers and cultural brokers … purveyors of products … between far and near” (­K looster 129). Examining these trade relationships across time, and across the globe, the interwoven nature of 315

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­Figure 34.5 Port Jews of Livorno, Trieste, Lisbon, Gibraltar, Tangier, Antwerp, Amsterdam, London, and Hamburg.

connections materialized. Mapping out my family relationships demonstrated how “­Jews used kinship ties for business purposes… consistent with Amsterdam Sephardic Jews’ practice of dispersing family members in strategic places for business purposes in the seventeenth century” (­Brito 37). In the sixteenth century, connections between the Sephardic and Ashkenazi also began to evolve ( ­­JCR-​­UK).

The Cousinhood of Trade I now needed to stretch out my thread reaching further across the globe to show new connections between my Ashkenazi and Sephardic families illustrating “­the cousinhood of trade” in action (­­Figure 34.6). The cousinhood of trade describes a coming together in the late 1700s of significant Sephardic and Ashkenazi merchant Jews to strengthen old institutions and maintain control over affairs in London, and the “­realms of the British C ­ rown – ​­Dublin and West India … more important were its connections to the colonies of Barbados and Jamaica” (­Barnett 47). Evidenced in history, and in my family tree, prominent Jewish families from Portugal and Amsterdam involved in trade, finance, and law established the “­cousinhood” of Sephardic Jewish aristocracy of London (­Bermant). Maintaining connections with relatives in Amsterdam, Hamburg, and elsewhere resulted in an extension of the trade network connecting the old Mediterranean routes with the new Atlantic economy (­K looster 130). These Jewish networks, as Thulin argues, “­embody the very conditions and experiences of Jews in the ‘­d ialectic of assimilation’” (­27). 316

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­Figure 34.6 The cousinhood of trade: Sephardic and Ashkenazi business and marriage unions (­Rothschild, Montefiore, Cohen, Goldberg, Salomon, and others).

A Meshwork of Trade Perhaps what can be understood from the entangled and complex wayfaring of my Jewish traders’ story is that their networks act more like meshworks (­­Figures 34.7 and 34.8). The ebb and flow, the temporal nature of connections, and the threads of family that gathered into knots, as Ingold (“­Against Space”) eloquently suggests, are “­neither classified nor networked, but meshworked” (­41). Ingold talks about complexity woven into the fabric of wayfaring gatherings. In this way, the Jewish traders’ connections are: a tangled mesh of interwoven and complexly knotted strands … [where] every strand is a way of life, and every knot a place. Indeed the mesh is something like a net in its original sense of an openwork fabric of interlaced or knotted cords. (­37) Following my stories through time, the tangle of thread and knots began to travel “­­down-​ ­under” into the Pacific during the late 1700s. Some of those standing in the prayer room at the beginning of this chapter had extended family who invested in the colonial business venture known as The New Zealand Company, through which they later supported less wealthy Jews to settle in the first waves of colonization. At the time of my ancestor Hartog Keesing’s arrival in Auckland (­1844), the settlement of the colony had already been imagined back in ­England—​­cities had been drawn up on parchment paper, and ­not-­​­­yet-​­seen land had been sold to potential Jewish settlers. The threads had now knotted to create a meshwork of trade across the globe. On my own papier mâché 317

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­Figure 34.7 Meshwork ­1—​­familial connections reaching down under to Australia, New Zealand, and the Pacific Islands.

globe, the threads of familial connections meshworked and knotted across the seas, threading my story and the story of these ancient Jewish traders back to the beginning of the colonial trade story. Like my DNA family connections, my globe illustrates the complexity of many White identity stories.

An Unfinished Business of Unsettlement The family stories I have so far managed to ­fi nd—​­confusing, wonderful, and ­terrible—​­bring me again to questions about ­inheritance—​­physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I remind myself that the work of decolonization is an ongoing project speaking to the ghosts of our histories, which are interrogating, disrupting, and dismantling the systems and structures of our present and imagining a more just future. My Jewish trading family’s history demonstrates an identity not based on place but rather on connection. They had an unsettled/­ unsettling history. Yet here in ­Aotearoa-​­New Zealand, many of them found a place to settle. The story of my Keesing ancestors exemplifies how these early minority settlers worked hard to “­fit in” with the dominant settler culture, while maintaining their own identity (­Fitzpatrick and Bell 6­ –​­29). They changed their names, for example, Hartog to Henry (­see Fitzpatrick and Fitzpatrick), attempting to assimilate into the colonial culture. Over time, they earned a certificate of “­naturalisation” and eventually became known as ­Pākehā—​­their minority history hidden from sight. Critical Family History as a decolonizing methodology provided a framework for my explorations of Jewish trader networks and the colonization of ­Aotearoa–​­New Zealand. 318

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­Figure 34.8 Meshwork ­2 —​­established familial connections strengthened in Europe, the Americas, Britain, and elsewhere.

­A rts-​­based methods enabled me to re/­member these histories, respecting the complexity of such identity stories, to analyse difficult knowledge and unsettle the dominant stories of homogeneity and reveal the practice of assimilation. Examining the interactions between, or rather connections along, the different trading pathways where Jewish families wayfared highlights one of the ways horizontal colonial relationships were actualized. The a­ rts-​­based research method I deployed in the form of crafting my ­three-​­dimensional papier mâché globe provided a creative and critically reflective way for me as a Pākehā researcher to engage with the history of my Jewish ancestors as settlers in the colonising project. Re/­membering our particular histories as members of dominant White communities is an important step in decolonizing work that seeks to inform just relations with Indigenous peoples in the present. The material act of crafting my globe helped me to deal on a practical level with the screeds of complex data I had generated, to carefully sort and sift, and to find the essence of what I was noticing. Art making also became a safe way for me to be with difficult knowledge, to hold the “­good” and the “­ugly” carefully in my hands, to speak with these ghosts, not to judge (­Derrida), but to make sense of the past. Importantly, it provided a way for me to demonstrate the complexity of the horizontal trade networks/­meshworks, their ancient layered histories, and the ability of people like my Jewish ancestors to shift with the political storms and find another port to anchor in gaining strength in familial and cultural connections. My ­ otearoa-​­New ancestors were first wayfarers, and then in the instance of the colonization of A Zealand, they became settler colonists. However, that is for another story: It’s a forever, ongoing, speaking with the ghosts. And these ghosts of mine are like shape shifters. To survive they spent lifetimes of shifting, of hiding. Hiding behind different names, different religions. Travelling, forever ready to pack up their bags and go.

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Esther Fitzpatrick I have been travelling back through the years, Travelling down the roads, across maps, down ally ways, Across seas and oceans, to the knots where their paths met, Ancient cities, trade markets, mountain villages, Island plantations, and many many port towns. I can be sure of nothing except they are my history.

Prompts and Resources • • • • • • •

How can engaging in making provide the possibility to be vulnerable? What does engaging in relation with the materials of the craft draw the researchers’ attention to? How can engaging in settler family history through the arts invite a decolonial perspective? And what does this require? CEAD: Contemporary Ethnography Across the Disciplines. https://­w ww.facebook.com/­ groups/­iCEAD/ Critical Autoethnography: https://­w ww.facebook.com/­g roups/­708668335919178/ Arts and Creativities Research Group (­University of Cambridge): https://­w ww.facebook.com/­g roups/­1343972935951938 ARTS & ABER: https://­w ww.facebook.com/­g roups/­a rts.cacs

Works Cited Agnew, Annabel Keesing. Keesing Family History. A. K. Roderick Agnew, 1990. Agnew, Annabel and Roderick Agnew. “­Keesing, Henry.” Dictionary of New Zealand Biography, Te ­A ra – ​­the Encyclopaedia of New Zealand, 2017, teara.govt.nz/­en/­biographies/­1k5/­­keesing-​­henry. Ballantyne, Tony. Webs of Empire: Locating New Zealand’s Colonial Past. Bridget Williams Books, 2012. Ballard, R. and S Ballard. “­From Narrative Inheritance to Narrative Momentum: Past, Present, and Future Stories in An International Adoptive Family.” Journal of Family Communication, vol. 11, no. 2, 2011, ­pp. ­69–​­84. doi:10.1080/­15267431.2011.554618. Barnet, Lionel, D. Bevis Marks Records. Part One: The Early History of the Congregation from the Beginning until 1800. Oxford University Press, 1940. Bell, Avril. “­ Dilemmas of Settler Belonging: Roots, Routes and Redemption in New Zealand National Identity Claims.” Sociological Review, vol. 57, 2009, ­pp. ­145–​­162. doi:10.1111/­j.­1467–​­954X. 2008.01808.x. —​­—​­—​­. “­Reverberating Historical Privilege of a ‘­M iddling’ Sort of Settler Family.” Genealogy, vol. 4, no. 2, 2020, ­pp. ­1–​­17. doi:10.3390/­genealogy4020046. Bermant, Chaim. The Cousinhood: The Anglo Jewish Gentry. Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1971. Brito, Nadia Francisca. “­Merchants of Curacao in the early 18th century.” Master’s thesis, College of William and Mary, 1989. doi:10.21220/­­s2-­​­­b1z5-​­xg21. Britzman, Deborah, P. “­Between Psychoanalysis and Pedagogy: Scenes of rapprochement.” Curriculum Inquiry, vol. 43, no. 1, 2013, ­pp. ­95–​­117. doi:10.1111/­curi.12007. Daalder, Marc. “­ The Secret Jewish History of New Zealand.” The Forward, 2017, forward. com/­scribe/­373322/­­the-­​­­secret-­​­­jewish-­​­­h istory-­​­­of-­​­­new-​­zealand/. Derrida, Jacques. Spectres of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International. Translated by Peggy Kamuf. Routledge, 1994. Diversi, Marecelo, and Claudio Moreira. Betweener Talk: Decolonizing Knowledge Production, Pedagogy & Praxis. Left Coast Press, 2009. Fitzpatrick, Esther. “­A Story of Becoming: Entanglement, Settler ghosts, and Postcolonial Counterstories.” Cultural Studies ↔ Critical Methodologies, vol. 18, no. 1, 2018, p­ p. ­43–​­51. doi:10.1177/ ­1532708617728954. —​­—​­—​­. “­A Year of Encounters with Privilege.” Handbook of Autoethnography, 2nd ed., edited by Tony E. Adams, Stacy ­Holman-​­Jones and Carolyn Ellis, Routledge, 2021.

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Esther Fitzpatrick Snelgrove, Corey, et al. “­Unsettling Settler Colonialism: The Discourse and Politics of Settlers, and Solidarity with Indigenous Nations.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, vol. 3, no. 2, 2014, ­pp. ­1–​­32. jps.library.utoronto.ca/­i ndex.php/­des/­a rticle/­v iew/­21166 St. Pierre, Elizabeth. “­A n Always Already Absent Collaboration.” Cultural Studies ↔ Critical Methodologies, vol. 14, no. 4, 2014, ­pp. ­374–​­379. doi:10.1177/­1532708614530309 Swetschinski, Daniel, M. “­Conflict and Opportunity in Europe’s Other Sea: The Adventure of Caribbean Jewish Settlement.” American Jewish History, vol. 72, no. 2. 1982, ­pp. ­212–​­240. maritimeheritage.org/­news/­israelites.html Te Punga Somerville, Alice. “­OMG Settler Colonial Studies: Response to Lorenzo Veracini: ‘­Is Settler Colonial Studies Even Useful?’”. Postcolonial Studies, vol. 24, no. 2, 2021, ­pp. ­278–​­282. doi:10. 1080/­13688790.2020.1854980 Thulin, Mirjam. “­Jewish Networks.” European History Online (­EGO). Institute of European History (­I EG), 2020, ­ieg-​­ego.eu/­en/­threads/­­european-​­networks/­­jewish-​­networks Tuck, Eve and Wayne K. Yang. “­Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, vol. 1, no. 1, 2012, ­pp. ­1–​­40. jps.library.utoronto.ca/­i ndex.php/­des/­a rticle/­v iew/­18630

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35 DECOLONIZING BLOOD, BODY, AND BRAIN From the Visual Practices of Jonathan Kim Boram Lee and Jonathan Kim

This chapter is based on narrative inquiry and a process of dialogic collaboration between ­Korean-​­born Australian artist Jonathan Kim, a “­storyteller,” and Boram Lee, a Korean researcher working in Australia, a “­story analyst.” There is no simple dichotomy between the respective perspectives of the two authors; each acted as storyteller and story analyst but with the roles continually shifting between the two and helped develop a shared story for the chapter (­Coffey and Atkinson). Narrative inquiry is a method of interpreting oral, written, and visual texts which share a storied form in common. It seeks to interpret the ways in which people perceive reality, make sense of their worlds, and perform social actions (­R iessman 11). In the narrative inquiry, we initially focused on personal contexts, especially the “­wheres” (­e.g., place), “­whens” (­e.g., time), “­whats” (­e.g., interest), and “­hows” (­e.g., approach) when constructing stories out of our lives ( ­Josselson). Kim is a contemporary artist in his 40s who was born and raised in South Korea and spent most of his 20s in China and 30s in Australia. In 2016, he matriculated as a BA student in Visual Art, majoring in sculpture. Following his graduation in 2019, he won a residency at the British School in Rome, supported by the prestigious Helpmann Academy Residency. Lee is an academic in her late 30s also born and raised in South Korea. She moved, aged 20, to Scotland to study and spent around 15 years there and has recently moved to Australia for work. Both authors spent the first half of their lives in South Korea and lived in different countries before encountering each other in Australia. They realized that their stories were not only personal but also social and cultural, having been shaped by sociocultural backgrounds (­R iesmann). Their respective senses of self hood have heavily influenced the narratives of their daily lives, professional practices, and social interactions. The narrative inquiry of this chapter revolves around Kim’s 42cm: The Cultural Distance, his contribution to the collective exhibition “­On Being an Artist,” presented at praxisARTSPACE in Adelaide, Australia, from July 30 to August 21, 2020. He accepted one of the proposals by the curators: “­Action 3: Practice the embarrassed silence of cultural distance. Use up to 15 objects without hierarchy, no transcendence, that reveal everything about themselves.”1 In the 12 months following Kim’s exhibition, we held a series of discussions via ­face-­​­­to-​­face, online, email, and text messages that related to concepts of cultural DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-39

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distance and hierarchies, postcolonization, decolonization, and intercultural collaborations. Kim shared his artist statements for previous exhibitions, published interviews, an exegesis, and research notes. This chapter is formed from these key materials together with visual images of his artworks and dialogue between the authors. Based on our narrative inquiry, we interpret Kim’s artwork using a postcolonial lens and dissect the process of decolonization at the personal, social, and cultural levels by developing a conceptual framework. We challenge the notion of social generalization deeply embedded in media and education systems. In doing so, our approach is reflective of the views of the revolutionary social critic Guy Debord (­­1931–​­1994) who, in his book La société du spectacle (­the Society of the Spectacle), criticized mass media as “­the everyday manifestation of ­capitalist-​ ­d riven phenomena.” Informed by the philosophy of artist Lee Ufan, by whom Kim is particularly influenced, we envision a decolonization process grounded in Maurice ­Merleau-​­Ponty’s The Phenomenology of Perception, which argues that perception teaches the true conditions of objectivity. The decolonization process, which we recognize as transforming and transcending the existing rules of colonization, starts from our “­blood,” where we restore our own cultural identity; to “­body,” which objectively channels the information from the outer world; and then finally to “­brain,” which is inherently biased and requires an “­unlearning” of colonial thoughts. Finally, we discuss the role of artists and how their practical acts of decolonization can activate a social imagination and action that is e­ quity-​­driven and creates intersectional understandings of decolonization in the contemporary world.

The Artist After studying engineering, completing two years of military service, and running a business in international trade and economics, Jonathan Kim moved from South Korea to Australia with his wife and awoke a o ­ nce-​­dormant creative flair. Seeking something new that fulfilled his creative desire that had, until now, been denied by societal pressure, Jonathan began creating art. In 2018, he graduated from UniSA with a Bachelor of Contemporary Art with honours in art and design. Jonathan also spent time studying and practising art at the British School in Rome, Italy. Currently undertaking a residency at ACE Open, Jonathan’s works revolve largely around ­post-​­Minimalism, and he excitingly blends his Western involvement of art and study with his South Korean cultural upbringing and experience. (­Massolino 2020) Drawing from his nomadic life, Kim’s artworks encapsulate various cultural elements based on ­practice-​­based research using phenomenological exploration, in particular, exploring the materiality and spatiality of objects and their environmental interactions with other objects, space, and audiences. Kim states he is influenced by Chinese historical philosophies such as Taoism and Buddhism. In his 2018 exegesis, “­A study of the phenomenological exploration of the spatial nature of artwork: Focused on ­Mono-​­ha and Dansaekhwa,” he reflects on his belief in “­the Way,” which involves special attention to the pervasiveness of process and change in the face of temporal human experiences (­K im 5­ –​­6). Kim expects audiences to recognize their own being and experience objects in the surrounding landscapes, as well as the peculiar energy (­or “­Gi” in Korean) of and between objects, space, and viewers that transform relationships as an invisible force (­K im 2­ 1–​­22). In his practice, the reconstructed structures of everyday materials reveal various interactive relations, and the cultural elements allow a differentiated approach to audiences with 324

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diverse cultural backgrounds, thereby creating ethnic sentiment. Quite distinct from the concept of nationalism, this may facilitate audiences to form ethnic associations, resulting from references to cultural distinctiveness linked with personal experiences, childhood sentiments, or nostalgia prompted by the style or materials of artworks. Kim’s interest in the relationship between objects and mediums is influenced by the Encounter theory of Korean artist, critic, and philosopher, Lee Ufan (­born 1936), who initiated discourse on Asian and European arts in Korea and Japan in the 1970s, specifically, on nature and industrialization, and confrontation and compromise (­Havens). He has profoundly influenced the Japanese a­ vant-​­garde sculptural movement ­Mono-​­ha (­School of Things) and Korean Monochrome painting, Dansaekhwa (­Kee; Morley; Holmboe). Lee Ufan lived as a Korean in Japan, a country that colonized Korea from 1910 to 1945, and was improbably celebrated at the height of the Japanese ­avant-​­garde movement before gradually becoming an outsider (­Kee 421). Lee Ufan communicated his ideas through his series “­From Point” and “­From Line” that emphasize the Encounter between the material painting and physical eye and body of the viewer. In Lee Ufan’s theory of Encounter, relationships are formed by the interactions between different subjects, and the phenomenon of the interactions becomes an invisible structure that reflects spatiality, or in some cases, placeness (­Roquet). This phenomenological structure is continuous, variable, and arbitrary and is influenced by many dynamic factors such as light, temperature, weather, or audience fluctuating over time. Lee suggests that to perceive these interactions or relationships audiences must use all their senses without prejudice or stereotype as impromptu perceptual experience. Memory or prior information is argued to interfere with accessing the nature of the interaction and to distort the perceptual experience (­Roquet). Reflecting on his birth in South Korea and his subsequent migration to Japan and Europe, Lee Ufan’s aesthetic search for a “­way beyond objectification” is informed by his personal experiences of colonialism and the cultural inequality of discrimination and marginalization. According to Roquet, Lee Ufan sees modernity as imposing inequality between subject and object, which can be experienced in numerous ways. Firstly, through artists’ manipulation of materials to express their own interests; secondly, in the subjugation of the natural world to human control, and thirdly, in the colonial inequalities that give power to some groups through the objectification and manipulation of others: My early art was inspired by a Korean artist Lee Ufan’s theory M ­ an-​­Nam (­Encounter), which focuses on the relationship between things. In Lee’s theory, relationships are formed by interactions of different subjects, and the phenomenon itself becomes a structural work. In my study, this structure is called ­Gong-­​­­gan-​­seong (­spatiality), but in some cases, it can be interpreted as placeness. This phenomenological structure is continuous, variable, and arbitrary. Interaction is a continuous phenomenon, not a static scene. (­K im 2020) Kim’s works consist of various combinations of materials and show a strong correlation with those of Lee Ufan in his search for his own identity and reflections on the artist’s own world. In the exhibition, Inner via Outer (­2020) at West Gallery Thebarton, South Australia, Kim explored the relationship between internal and external structures through refined ­three-​­dimensional wall works and a series of small, minimalist paintings. Kim, reflecting on Lee Ufan’s philosophy, emphasized the relationship of his works to the gallery space and the audience, not only to elements within each of the works. Kim also believes that 325

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his works should embrace social interest and responsibility and that facilitating audiences’ access to diverse aesthetic experiences constitutes an appropriate personal response to media stereotyping.

The Artwork Action 3: Practice the embarrassed silence of cultural distance. Use up to 15 objects. Objects are without hierarchy, no transcendence, that reveal everything about themselves. The artwork by Jonathan Kim, 42cm: The Cultural Distance (­see F ­ igure 35.1) is a response to a proposal by eDuard Helmbold and Gabi Lane, curators of “­On Being an Artist.” Kim released the following artist statement: According to the Cambridge Dictionary, the definition of culture is the way of life, especially the general customs and beliefs, of a particular group of people at a particular time, and the distance is the amount of space between two places. The cultural distance, a combination of these two words, is used as a negative rather than a positive meaning. Meetings of two different cultures in human history often caused conflicts, and the experiences made people defensive. Therefore, being forced or experiencing different cultures can be embarrassing or unpleasant. However, cultural distance has become an issue of overcoming as this world is changing into a multicultural society. So how far would it be if the gap could be metered? I still live indoors barefoot and sleep on the floor with a thin bed like many people in Korea. So, the difference between sedentary and standing culture is an ­on-​­going issue for me. When I first lived abroad, the cold floor, soft mattress and the tall dining table were not comfortable. Starting with cutting off the legs of the existing dining table, a part of my home has changed to fit the sedentary life. A sedentary lifestyle is not just a matter of sitting or sleeping on the floor. Not only does the living environment change

­Figure 35.1 Jonathan Kim, 42cm: The Cultural Distance, 2020, © Sam Roberts.

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to suit the lowered e­ ye-​­level, but it also affects bones and muscles due to the sitting or sleeping position. However, some of it was still in its original form. As a result, I had to go back and forth between two worlds with different e­ ye-​­levels several times a day. The distance is 42cm, as long as the length of the cut of the leg. It may be distant or close, but it is not hard for me. I hope that silence in the face of other cultures is not a preparation for defense but a deep breath for overcoming it. In his artist statement, Kim separately discussed the definitions of the key terms, “­culture” and “­d istance,” arguing that when the two words are combined as “­cultural distance,” a negative connotation of “­unknown,” “­unfamiliar,” or “­foreign” results. Confronting different cultures can be embarrassing or unpleasant; Kim shared his experience of cutting table legs for his own comfort and consequently measuring the “­cultural distance” as 42cm, the length of the cut leg. He says that because his body and muscles are shaped by his upbringing in Korea, he changed the furniture around him to accommodate his house design, lifestyle, and perspectives. Nevertheless, as a K ­ orean-​­Australian living in Western society, his immediate world requires him to travel the cultural distance of “­42cm” numerous times a day. Some in a similar situation may feel the distance too far or close at times, but the more frequent one travels between cultures, the easier the journey becomes. The objects used in Kim’s work as shown in F ­ igure 35.1 are intended to be without hierarchy, with no transcendence, thus revealing “­everything” about themselves. Although the artworks exhibited include only the objects when there are subjects included, such as the woman and the man in the image, there is also intersectionality. When combined with individual identities, different modes of discrimination and privilege are precipitated, depending on what is mainstream or openly accepted, demonstrating a power imbalance. BORAM LEE:  Obviously these objects have different heights, and that might indicate some

sort of hierarchical relationship between them. What about audiences, do they think there is a hierarchy? JONATHAN KIM: If people see hierarchy between these objects, they are biased. When viewed through a postcolonial lens, however, it is apparent that hierarchy between these “­objects” exists and those representing Western culture or ­so-​­called European civilization overpower the n ­ on-​­Western objects. Despite Kim’s interpretation of his own installation, he states that some audiences have suggested apparent hierarchies between objects portraying the power dynamics of inequality. Jack, Westwood, Srinivas, and Sardar (­277) define postcolonial as “­a broad rubric for examining a range of social, cultural, political, ethical and philosophical questions that recognize the salience of the colonial experience and its persisting aftermath.” Although the prefix “­post” is a contested and controversial term in many histories as it signifies a temporal disjuncture or an ending of colonialism, Jack et al. (­279) argue that the postcolonial should be viewed as “­problematically obscuring continuing colonial oppression.” Such continuing colonial oppression is cemented by “­representation” as discussed by Edward Said (­1978) in his book, Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient—​­a seminal work challenging the purity and neutrality of serious scholarship and scientific research. Said’s work reveals the relations of power inherent in systems of representation ( ­Jack et al). According to Jack et  al. (­279), Orientalism justified missions to “­civilize the natives,” or broadly speaking, to bring European modernity to colonies by means of economic, cultural, 327

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and military imperialistic interventions. Said’s (­1978) Othering processes are based on classifications, categories, images, and organization by binary “­opposites,” particularly of the Orient (­the n ­ on-​­West) and the Occident (­the West). The epistemological practices of Orientalism form part of an exercise of power by which an active Western subject knows and masters a passive ­non-​­Western subject ( ­Jack and Westwood 489). Given the differences in power relations, the former proactive entity, which is considered superior, civilized, moral, and scientific, dominates the latter passive entity, which is described as inferior, uncivilized, backward, immoral, and superstitious (­Said). Adopting a postcolonial mindset, Scott (­12) describes “­the decolonization of representation” as the decolonization of the West’s theory of the n ­ on-​­West. Arguing against postcolonial stereotypes, Kim points out how audiences see may depend on their cultural or ethnic backgrounds. For example, in many traditional Asian cultures, only a person with authority may sit on the ground. Ironically, Kim argues the status in the hierarchy may be the reverse of an outsider’s perception depending on his or her cultural familiarity. Audiences are bound to consciously interpret artworks based on what they know or what they remember from their past experiences. Thus, Kim disrupts audiences by inviting them to experience his artworks with their body. During his exhibition, Kim invited audiences to take photos seated in his installations, and all participants received a small artwork gift. Audiences were invited to touch and feel the artworks and to experience sitting in turn on the chair and the cushion to gauge the change in eye line. Audiences are given opportunities to interact with the artworks, space, and other people sharing the experience. JONATHAN KIM:  It is important for audiences to experience the artworks with their body

and not only with their eyes. Human instinct and desire seek to touch and feel but it is also the case that a bodily experience based on the interaction of all the senses enables them to see things objectively with fresh eyes. Kim’s practices have also been influenced by Lee Ufan’s reference to Maurice M ­ erleau-​­Ponty’s The Phenomenology of Perception, which “­teaches us the true conditions of objectivity” (­25). Lee Ufan states that, according to M ­ erleau-​­Ponty, perception does not reduce knowledge to sensation but assists in the birth of knowledge. Consequently, Lee stressed his role as an instrument of encounter mediating between the “­idealized” and “­real” worlds, facilitating perception in whole or part (­Lee 126). Lee also states that “­the body is covered by the ­self-​­consciousness known as ‘­I’ at the same time, that it is connected to that other, the world of the outside” (­Debailleux 18; Kee 423). ­Merleau-​­Ponty (­1945) defines phenomenology as the study of “­essences,” including the essence of perception and of consciousness, as a method of describing the nature of our perceptual contact with the world. According to ­Merleau-​­Ponty, Lee Ufan argues, “­pure consciousness” is concerned with the “­perception of the body” rather than recognition by rationality and intellect (­Lee). Thus, Lee argues the philosophy of Descartes’ “­cogito ergo sum,” translated as “­I think, therefore I am” fails to account for how consciousness influences the spatiality of a person’s own body and, accordingly, Lee Ufan claims that artists should perceive perceptual spatiality through their bodies rather than cognize objective entities by reason. The philosophy underlying M ­ erleau-​­Ponty’s (­1945) phenomenology and the practices of Lee Ufan and Jonathan Kim suggest that our brains are deeply biased; humans are predisposed to a range of foibles with idiosyncratic neurological, hormonal, and cultural propensities. The moment our perceptual experiences reach our brains, they become memory. Due to prejudice, our recorded memories can differ from actual experiences, and distorted memories may pollute subsequent experiences that lead to altered value judgments. In the

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next section, we discuss how we might break free from prejudice through the body’s intermediary role.

Decolonizing Our Blood, Body, and Brain Following on our interpretation of the artwork, 42cm: The Cultural Distance (­2020), by Jonathan Kim, using a postcolonial lens, we dissect the process of decolonization on a personal level by developing an appropriate conceptual framework to consider the essence of “­decolonization.” We began by reflecting on Korean history, central to our understanding of Japanese colonization that is based on aggression and conquest, followed by annihilation (­minjokmalsal jungchaek) (­M in; Kim). The end of the physical occupation of conquered territories does not mean the end of colonization, as demonstrated by the history of Korea. If we include the political, social, cultural, and economic fields, the process of decolonization seems long and complex. For example, in her historical overview, Park finds that Korean art education was predominantly based on Western aesthetic concepts and reflected mainly the movements and concepts developed in Europe and the United States between the 1920s and 1950s. Park argues that due to the modernization of Korean society during Japanese colonization, Korean art education, from its inception during the implementation of the new public education system, was largely based on European and American pedagogy models and practice. Park argues that current art curricula fail to reflect the realities of ­t wenty-​­first century Korea and do not address issues of cultural diversity and pluralism. Colonialism and its aftermath have resulted in various environments and geographies all characterized by highly asymmetrical power relations. In Contrapunteo Cubano del Tabaco y el Azúcar, the Cuban anthropologist Fernando Ortiz first coined the term “­transculturation,” which describes the mechanisms that take place during cultural encounters (­Hoeg). Ortiz himself introduces the term “­t ransculturation” as follows: I am of the opinion that the word transculturation better expresses the different phases of the process of transition from one culture to another because this does not consist merely in acquiring another culture, which is what the English word acculturation really implies, but the process also necessarily involves the loss or uprooting of a previous culture, which could be defined as a deculturation. In addition, it carries the idea of the consequent creation of new cultural phenomena, which could be called neoculturation. (­Ortiz ­102–​­103) Ortiz describes “­transculturation” as a process of mutual and plural interactions based on multilateral and reciprocal exchanges between members of different cultures and which consequently produces “­a new reality, compound and complex; a reality that is not simply a mechanical conglomeration of characteristics, nor a mosaic, but rather a new phenomenon, original and independent” (­Malinowski 658). Transculturation is also recognized as an example of the concept of “­contact zone,” introduced by Mary Louise Pratt (­36), and which signifies social spaces where cultures “­meet, clash, and grapple” with each other. Ashcroft argues that transformative exchanges occur in contact zones. A problem occurs when aesthetic engagement becomes culturally based aesthetic judgment, privileging the dominant class or culture as the universal, elitist, or ideal standard of “­t aste” (­A shcroft). Thus, Ashcroft argues that constant invitation to ­cross-​­cultural openness, anticipation, and expectation of

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the “­wonder of the world” is critical to a postcolonial aesthetic, one based on both cognitive and ­non-​­cognitive apprehension. The concept of transculturation is particularly important for understanding aesthetic engagement in postcolonial creativity, which has been ubiquitously produced and “­consumed” in a variety of cultural contexts (­A shcroft 410), especially given the emergence of new media and its f­ ar-​­reaching effects on society and culture. The development of communication technologies has resulted in the words “­d igitalization” and “­informatization” becoming slogans of the t­ wenty-​­first century. In particular, the virtuality and anonymity of online spaces cause discrepancies between the “­real” world and virtual reality. When we think about colonization at the personal level, the rules of individual colonization might have something to do with social generalization. In contemporary society, the act of colonization reflects the ideas of particular social groups and promotes their interests. Through the media and education system, people are forced to generalize, and individual identities are extinguished. We challenge the notion of social generalization, deeply embedded in media and education systems in accordance with Guy Debord (­­1931–​­1994), a founding member of the Situationist International, an organization of ­avant-​­garde artists, intellectuals, and political theorists (­Debord). Critiquing contemporary consumer culture and commodity fetishism that led to cultural homogenization and class alienation, Guy Debord, in his book The Society of Spectacle published in 1967, claimed that capitalism uses images of fabricated information to manipulate public consciousness for its own benefit (­Debord). Debord warns that authentic social life has been replaced by its representation, “­a ll that once was directly lived has become mere representation,” and describes modern society as the “­h istorical moment at which the commodity completes its colonization of social life” (­Debord 42). Referring to images that influence our daily lives and beliefs, Debord argues that “­t he spectacle is not a collection of images; rather, it is a social relationship between people that is mediated by images,” thereby altering human interactions and relationships. People’s sensory perceptions can be distorted by v­ isual-​­centric media, which are contemporarily ubiquitous and able to be exploited for the benefit of a particular person or group (­McLuhan 79; Debord ­39–​­42), thereby creating unanticipated social problems and ethical issues. Consequently, Debord’s intention to “­wake up the spectator who has been drugged by spectacular images… through radical action in the form of the construction of situations… situations that bring a revolutionary reordering of life, politics, and art” (­Ford). The term decolonization has been widely defined in various disciplines, histories, and geographies. In this chapter, we define it as “­t ransforming and transcending the existing rules of colonization.” The decolonization process begins by removing prejudices and perceiving through our bodily experience, independent from judgments, the b­ y-​­products of social generalization deeply embedded in media and education systems. By restoring our “­blood,” i.e., individual cultural identity, and our “­body,” by exercising all senses and developing them in a balanced manner, the information from the outer world is channeled in ways that allow us to objectively collect data. Finally, decolonization restores our inherently biased “­brain,” requiring an “­unlearning” of colonial thoughts. Prominent communications theorist Marshall McLuhan (­1967) argues in Understanding ­Media-​­T he Extension of Man that ­media-​­biased sensory experience could negatively influence people’s attitudes and behavior towards different cultures. As a solution, he suggests that serious artists who enjoy a “­balanced sense” through repeated art practice with a wide range of sensory experiences, should provide society with balanced experiences through their artworks. He saw the role of an artist as a mediator to restore the “­d istorted sensory balance” of 330

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individuals that results from biased digital media sensory experiences. McLuhan argues that artists with greater balance as a result of training their senses through artistic activities have a social role with artworks designed to stimulate the audience through sensory experiences: The serious artist is the only person able to encounter technology with impunity, just because he is an expert aware of the changes in sense perception… He is the man of integral awareness. The artist can correct the sense ratios before the blow of new technology has numbed conscious procedures. He can correct them before numbness and subliminal groping and reaction begin. (­McLuhan 27, 76) McLuhan’s thinking aligns with Jonathan Kim’s practice, who similarly focuses on ­de-​ ­emphasizing vision as the omnipotent perceptual mode by which audiences perceive his artwork, 42cm: The Cultural Distance (­2020). Instead, Kim asks to experience his work through multimodal sensory experiences irrespective of their visual background. He believes that when audiences experience his artworks through multiple senses, they achieve greater understanding of the story than when a single sense is utilized. The artist Lee Ufan also describes a “­human being” as a “­bodily being,” emphasizing the role of the body as a passive and active intermediary between the self and the other. Both artists promote intercultural interactions and dialogues that potentially are able to correct misconceptions about others and eradicate prejudices. Ashcroft argues that: where the production of presence becomes central in understanding a postcolonial aesthetic space is in the notion that there are ways of experiencing, responding to, of “­understanding” the world apart from structures of meaning…for the concept of presence privileges the aesthetic moment. There exists in this moment a ­non-​­cognitive apprehension, what we might call a form of knowing that lies beyond interpretation (­419) Thus, decolonization may provide opportunities for artists willing to exercise practices in ways that transform and transcend the existing rules of colonization. Such artists may provide the public with different perspectives that inform other peoples, cultures, and histories and that challenge existing notions of social generalization, constituting a powerful decolonizing strategy.

Conclusion This chapter is grounded in interactive narrative inquiry between the two authors, whose respective roles continually switched between “­storyteller” and “­story analyst.” The exchanging of oral, written, and visual texts prompted by Kim’s artwork 42cm: The Cultural Distance was interpreted according to personal, cultural, and social contexts of decolonization, arising from stories of our lives, as a practicing artist and a scholar, respectively. Our journey towards a fuller understanding of decolonization began by recognizing the apparent hierarchical ranking of Western and n ­ on-​­Western cultures inherent in systems of representation and feature highly asymmetrical power relations (­Said; Jack et al.). Criticizing modern society where the notion of “­the commodity” colonizes social life, Debord and McLuhan both warn how images are often exploited for the benefit of capitalism, thereby creating significant and ­long-​­lasting detrimental effects. We draw attention to the dangers of social generalization deeply embedded in contemporary media and education systems, which constitutes continuing colonial oppression. 331

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Based on the philosophy underlying M ­ erleau-​­Ponty’s phenomenology, and the practices of Lee Ufan’s Encounter theory, Kim stressed the importance of the “­perception of the body” rather than recognition by intellect and the removal of prejudices, which are the product of social generalization. Kim’s intention to create bodily experiences for his audiences to activate their senses holistically when encountering his artwork to move away from ubiquitous v­ isual-​­centric media promotes intercultural interactions and dialogues and helps audiences develop authentic understandings of the story behind the artwork. In this chapter, we define decolonization as “­transforming and transcending the existing rules of colonization.” By restoring our “­blood,” i.e., individual cultural identity, and our “­body,” by exercising all senses and developing them in a balanced manner, the information from the outer world is channeled in ways that allow us to objectively collect data. Finally, decolonization restores our inherently biased “­brain,” requiring an “­unlearning” of colonial thoughts. Multilateral and reciprocal exchanges between different cultures produce an original and inclusive new phenomenon, more than simply a mosaic of different characteristics (­Malinowski, 1991). Such effort is important in order to create inclusive societies that embrace all marginalized communities. The process of decolonization only begins once individuals are enabled to truly celebrate inclusive and unique cultural and political identities and promote social diversity. Societies will transform themselves and transcend the existing rules of colonization thus writing different and richer histories.

Prompts and Resources •

• •

• • • •

Looking at ­Figure 35.1 Jonathan Kim, 42cm: The Cultural Distance—​­what do different heights of the objects indicate? Are we biased? Is there any hierarchical relationship between different cultures? In this chapter, we define decolonization as “­t ransforming and transcending the existing rules of colonization.” How would you define decolonization? What is the role of artists and how their practical acts of decolonization can activate a social imagination and action that is e­ quity-​­driven and creates intersectional understandings of decolonization in the contemporary world? Jonathan Kim Artist Website: https://­w ww.jonathankimart.com/ Lee, Ufan, Art of Encounter. Lisson Gallery; Revised edition. 2018. Korea under Japanese rule: https://­w ww.britannica.com/­place/­Korea/­­Korea-­​­­under­​­­Japanese-​­r ule Jonathan Kim, The Artwork: https://www.praxisartspace.com/jonathan-kim-action-3/

Note 1 Action 3 is a conceptual work created by eDuard Helmbold as part of the series of 11 Actions inspired by Michael Craig Martin’s text “On Being an Artist.” These 11 Actions were originally conceived and performed at Arts Letters and Numbers in New York in 2018.

Works Cited Ashcroft, B. “­Towards a Postcolonial Aesthetics.” Journal of Postcolonial Writing, vol. 51, no. 4, 2015, ­pp. ­410–​­421. Coffey, A., and P. Atkinson. Making Sense of Qualitative Data. SAGE. 1996. Debord, G. Report on the Construction of Situations and on the International Situationist Tendency’s Conditions of Organization and Action. Translated by Ken Knabb. Paris. 1957.

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Decolonizing Blood, Body and Brain Debord, Guy. The Society of the Spectacle. 1967. Translated by Donald ­Nicholson-​­Smith. Zone Books, 1994. Ford, S. The Situationist International: A User’s Guide. Black Dog Publishing, 2004. Havens, T. R. H. “­10. Art, Money, and Politics.” Radicals and Realists in the Japanese Nonverbal Arts: The ­Avant-​­Garde Rejection of Modernism. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2006, ­pp. ­205–​­217. https://­doi.org/­10.1515/­­9780824842048-​­015. Hoeg, J. “­Cultural counterpoint: Antonio Benítez Rojo’s Postmodern Transculturation.” Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies, vol. 6, no.1, 1997, ­pp. ­65–​­75. Holmboe, R. D. “­L ee Ufan, the Hidden Face of the Moon.” Third Text, vol. 34, no. 2, 2020, ­pp. ­291–​­310. Jack, G., R. Westwood, N. Srinivas, and Z. Sardar. “­Deepening, Broadening and ­Re-​­asserting a Postcolonial Interrogative Space in Organization Studies.” Organization, vol. 18, no. 3, 2011, ­pp. ­275–​­302. Josselson, R. “­Narrative Research and the Challenge of Accumulating Knowledge,” Narrative Inquiry, vol. 16, 2006, ­pp. ­3 –​­10. Kee, J. “­Points, Lines, Encounters: The World According to Lee Ufan.” Oxford Art Journal, vol. 31, no. 3, 2008, ­pp. ­403–​­424. Kim, J. A Study of the Phenomenological Exploration of the Spatial Nature of Artwork: Focused on ­Mono-​­ha and Dansaekhwa. University of South Australia, 2018. Kim, S. S. H. C. “­Korean ‘­Han’ and the Postcolonial Afterlives of ‘­The Beauty of Sorrow’.” Korean Studies, vol. 41, 2017, ­pp. ­253–​­279. http://­w ww.jstor.org/­stable/­4 4508447. Lee, U. Lee Ufan. Bijutsu Shuppansha, 1986. Lee, J. “‘­The Beginnings of Art’ by Lee Ufan, with a Focus a Phenomenological Interpretation.” Journal of Korean Modern and Contemporary Art History, vol. 30, no. 1, 2015, ­pp. ­167–​­196. Malinowski, B. “­Fernando Ortiz”, in Historia y critica de la literatura hispanoamericana, vol. 2, ed. Translated by Cedomil Goic. 3 Vols. Crítica,1991. Massolino, C. Imagine: Jonathan Kim, Verse Magazine, 2020. https://­versemag.com.au/­m agazine/­­i magine­​­­jonathan-​­k im/. McLuhan, M. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. Sphere Books. 1967. ­Merleau-​­Ponty, M. The Phenomenology of Perception, 1962. Translated by Colin Smith. Routledge, 2002. Morley, S. “­The translucence of the Transhistorical: The Case of Korean Dansaekhwa.” World Art, vol. 8, no. 1, 2018, ­pp. ­59–​­84. Park, J.-A. “­Critical Perspectives on Colonisation of the Art Curriculum in Korea.” The International Journal of Arts & Design Education, vol. 28, no. 2, 2009, ­pp. ­183–​­193. Pratt, M. L. “­A rts of the Contact Zone.” Modern Language Association, 1991, ­pp. ­33–​­40. https://­w ww. jstor.org/­stable/­25595469 Pyong Gap, M. “­Korean ‘­Comfort Women’: The Intersection of Colonial Power, Gender, and Class.” Gender and Society, vol. 17 no. 6, 2003, ­pp. ­938–​­957. https://­doi.org/­10.1177/­0891243203257584. Riessman, C. Narrative Methods for the Human Sciences. SAGE. 2003. Riesmann, C. Narrative Analysis. SAGE. 1993. Roquet, P. “­Reencountering Lee Ufan.” Octopus: A Visual Studies Journal, vol. 3, 2007, ­pp. ­85–​­98. Said, E. W. Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient. Penguin, 1978. Scott, D. Refashioning Futures: Criticism after Postcoloniality. Princeton, 1999. White, T. R., and A.-​­M. Hede. “­Using Narrative Inquiry to Explore the Impact of Art on Individuals.” The Journal of Arts Management, Law, and Society, vol. 38, no. 1, 2008, p­ p. ­19–​­36.

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36 DECOLONIZING FORMAL ART EDUCATION IN GERMANY Ernst Wagner

A Changing World For art education, evidence has accumulated in recent years that shows that we are in a phase of paradigm shift. The Indonesian collective “­ruangrupa” is curating documenta fifteen with a concept called “­lumbung,” which subverts the Western concept of “­a rt.” Monuments are toppled under the approval of the critical public, and street names are renamed because of their colonial connotations. New narratives that are explored in museums and galleries attempt to decolonize their institutions. Representatives of African states demand the restitution of looted cultural goods all while nationalist or antidemocratic politics are exploiting art and culture for their purposes. A glance at these few examples shows that societies and the cultural world are changing dramatically. Connected to this is a paradigm shift in art ­education—​­at least in a country like Germany that could be called a Western democratic society. This chapter reflects these changes from a German perspective based on experiences of transnational collaborative projects for which the author is working.

Conventional Approaches to Cultural Heritage in German Formal Art Education If one examines which topics have been given priority in German educational programmes and school curricula up to the present day, it quickly becomes clear that the latent1 canon of valuable artworks shaping German art education is created by, e.g., Picasso, Leonardo da Vinci, van Gogh, Warhol, Beuys, and Michelangelo. The selection of these artists is substantiated by the ­European-​­Western concept of “­art” and “­applied art.” At best, this is supplemented by a phenomenon of global popular culture, especially in the fields of media, fashion, or innovative types of subculture. Typical examples are Manga, the comic style originating from Japan; global design brands like C ­ oca-​­Cola or Adidas; or globalized youth cultures like hip hop, graffiti, or street art. 1 There is no official canon but a latent one based on shared convictions of stakeholders like teachers at schools, professors at universities, and civil servants at ministries responsible for curricula.

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Nevertheless, tentative openings that go beyond this Western horizon can be noted in German textbooks and curricula for art education at school. However, they usually fail because there is no selection criteria for concepts, artists, or objects outside the familiar realm. Not only is there no selection of artists and concepts, but the way of accessing them remains deeply committed to Eurocentric traditions to this day: On the one hand, reception usually means understanding the history of art, mainly understood as the development of styles, ­which—​­quite in the spirit of ­evolutionism—​­is usually conceived of as starting from a primitive, magical origin to a differentiated, autonomous, modern art. On the other hand, the examination of individual works is usually conceived as a balance between scholarly interpretation and enjoyable contemplation.2 The educational ideal behind this concept is the civilized, ­well-​­educated, and appreciative connoisseur. This approach seems lost in today’s world. The debates about the postcolonial heritage of recent years signify a radical change in art education. In a ­multi-​­perspective, globalized world, neither the selection of objects (­i.e. the latent canon) nor the modes of access or the traditional educational goals can continue to endure.

New Approaches As already mentioned, there are tentative approaches in Germany that are already trying to adapt or correct the ­bourgeois-​­Western paradigm in school education. Two new research questions are of particular interest in this context and have the potential to reopen the field. 1 How Can an “­Object” Be Understood? The Role of Cultural Interaction The first question starts from the premise that already all conventional objects of art education (­e.g. works of art and objects of everyday culture) are ultimately transcultural, i.e., they have always carried a history of cultural contact within themselves. This contact bridges differences, and the quality of this transcultural constitution depends on how “­d ifference” is understood. François Jullien, for example, speaks of distances instead of differences for good reasons (­84). The specific characteristics of the contact are crucial for the discussion as well: Interactions range from destruction, e.g., pulling down monuments to mutual, productive resonance in transcultural, third spaces, e.g., Shonibare’s artworks (­see F ­ igure 36.1). With this transcultural understanding of cultural “­objects” (­or “­expressions”),3 the interest of education also shifts, now directed from individual artifacts to processes of interaction. There is a whole bundle of fruitful terms for specifying these interactions that have been developed in cultural studies or ethnology. These include, for example, isolation,4 destruction, defense, clash, hegemony, global culture, universalism, separation, parallelism, diversity, idealization, exoticism, palimpsest, bricolage, exchange, tangency, encounter, imitation, masquerade, mimicry, mirroring, enculturation, assimilation, import, diffusion, integration, takeover, superimposition, merger, creolisation, hybridity, syncretism, translation, intertwining, ­re-​­formation, third space, transmigration, metissage, transformation, resonance, and more. 2 Immanuel Kant’s disinterested pleasure. 3 This term is used by UNESCO in order to avoid exclusion of, e.g., intangible heritage. 4 Even identitarian assertions (­e.g. of national, pure cultures, strict borders, or stereotypical assignments) have to be understood as always already related to the respective “­other.” In other words, even the assertions of purity or othering already carry transcultural mixing within them as they draw their identity from the respective “­other”—​­that they want to banish.

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­Figure 36.1 Grid used in teacher training at the Academy of Fine Arts, Munich. Credit: Ernst Wagner.

This huge diversity of possible interactions corresponds to our contemporary experience of contingency (­Luhmann) and s­uper-​­diversity (­Vertovec) shaped by migration or diversification of identity categories a­ nd—​­not to be f­orgotten—​­tourism. Understood in this way, it makes sense to note the simultaneity of the different tendencies in our time5 between globalization and local or ­g roup-​­specific assertions of identity, between cultural exchange and isolation, and between musealization and destruction. 2 The Role of Power in Art and Culture The second question that is relevant in our context focuses on the question of power. It is not a cultural issue but is interwoven with it. In the context of German decolonizing discourses, we perceive cultural issues more and more in the context of power relations. The gaze, which in traditional German art education has always been directed at quite generic “­social” contexts, focuses now on this specific a­ spect—​­the aspect of power.6 For example, the introduction of Western educational and cultural systems in the missionized and colonized territories and their implementation until today has to be seen as a means to maintain the hegemonic global ­order—​­not as an “­innocent” cultural act that helps countries at a “­lower” level of the Human Development Index (­U N) to finally move forward in their own development towards an aim that follows Western patterns. The concept of arts education as promoted by UNESCO or InSEA belongs to this (­Wimmer, O’Toole).

Systematics It now makes sense to encapsulate these two questions or perspectives into a system with two axes (­see ­Figure 36.2). The horizontal axis represents the specific quality of the respective cultural contact, ranging from destruction to mutual resonance in transcultural spaces. The second dimension (­on the vertical) deals with the question of power relation spanned between hegemonic domination and negotiation processes at eye level. Such a system can help to discuss individual objects, artists, or topics in a c­ riterion-​­led way. It also helps teachers to reduce the existing complexity for their students in a responsible manner. The destruction of the Buddha statues of Bamiyan, the global brand of ­Coca-​­Cola, the painting “­Les Demoiselles d’Avignon” by Picasso, Leonardo da Vinci’s “­Last Supper,” or ruangrupa’s concept for “­documenta fifteen” are all possible themes in German art education, which can be explored against these two criteria. However, it is dangerous to make concrete, fixed allocations since all placements in the field (­a s tentatively made in ­Figure 36.3) could look like determinations that attribute 5 We can call this “­simultaneity of the ­non-​­simultaneous” (­Ruggiero Romano). 6 Perhaps we can also see this as a response to the increasingly strong polarization in Western societies as well as internationally between different political systems.

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­Figure 36.2 ­Two-​­dimensional system of classification. Credit: Ernst Wagner.

­Figure 36.3 Application of the system to objects of visual culture. Credit: Ernst Wagner.

essential cultural characteristics to this particular object or artistic position. This kind of attribution is not possible as each object has to be understood as a boundary object (­Leigh Star). It, therefore, seems important that such classifying endeavors are used exclusively as a starting point for controversial discussions and processes of ­negotiation—​­naming criteria in a transparent manner. For example, is it justified to put the destruction of Buddha statues and ­Coca-​­Cola in the same corner (­­Figure 36.3)? From which standpoint, and from which perspective is the argument being made? Are such localizations correct in every temporal and spatial context or are there differentiations? Where can productive approaches be identified that are relevant to education? 337

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­Figure 36.4 The biography of the Benin bronzes. Credit: Ernst Wagner.

Learning from the Benin Bronzes In order to avoid the prescriptive, determining effect and to be able to take multiple perspectives into account, we can use this grid in relation to processes, i.e., in terms of time. Here is a very recent example from German discourse about the restitution of the Benin bronzes as a possible theme in art education.7 For this, we do not locate them per se in the grid, but we use time or their history observing the dynamics. This has two advantages: (­a) The objects can be viewed in terms of reception history, i.e., in terms of time and context, which overcomes a ­one-​­dimensional attribution of meaning. Meaning is transformed by the different perspectives in the respective c­ ontexts—​­there is not one reading. (­b) With this temporal dimensioning, new questions emerge that are so far new for art education in Germany and that have the potential for a readjustment of the domain. A historical summary of the Benin bronzes: In 1897, British troops conquered the Kingdom of Benin (­in ­present-​­day Nigeria) and looted thousands of works of art that had adorned the royal court there since the fifteenth century. At their auction in London in 1899, many European museums acquired objects; the best pieces remained in London, today at the British Museum. Thirty years later, representatives from Nigeria demanded their return for the first time, which all museums worldwide refused. In April 2021, Nigerian and German representatives agreed to return the more than 1,000 objects that were found in German museums.8 To this end, a museum will be built in Benin City by 2030. In the meantime, a joint group of experts is working, among other things, on the question of how the history of these works could be relayed as a common voice between African and European discourses. In the context of art education, the story of the Benin bronzes can now be visualized as a temporal process within the proposed system (­­Figure 36.4) in order to better understand and negotiate its adequacy.

7 See for example: Christoph Schmälzle. The long arm of colonialism. www.goethe.de/­ prj/­ l at/­ en/­ spu/­21653138.html, Oluwatoyin Sogbesan. The returning of the Benin bronzes to Nigeria, www.goethe. de/­prj/ ­l at/­en/­spu/­22267390.html. 8 Recently, in October 2021, France restituted another 26 objects (­Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. October 27, 2021. p 12).

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Emerging Questions for a New Approach in German Art Education This attempt makes two things clear. First, the two categories proposed here result in a sensible approach to the subject matter by providing criteria for critical discussion. This applies above all to current cultural policy decisions such as the construction of the museum in Benin City or the restitution of objects. Such c­ ultural-​­political aspects will play an increasing role in art education in the near future. Second, the application of this taxonomy to a historical process shows that this offers much greater educational potential than applying it to an object that is understood as “­static,” i.e., without locating it in its ­temporal-​­dynamic context. Talking about historical processes does better justice to the complexity of the respective topics of art education. In addition, the example also shows that new questions, at least for art education at schools ­ on-​­Western in Germany, arise. Through them, the topic becomes more complex because a n perspective comes into account, which is the voice of the descendants of those robbed in 1899. With such a step, a critical, ­d iversity-​­oriented art education becomes a decolonial project. These questions include: •

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• •

• • •

Who owns works like these bronzes? Who owns knowledge about them, and where are the archives? Can works but also bodies of knowledge be shared? Is there an option to consider knowledge as ­non-​­property? Who speaks about these works? From which perspective? Whose voices can be heard and are heard? What narratives are told in different contexts? Can the objects be understood as “­boundary objects” with different meanings in different contexts but with enough immutable content to maintain their integrity? Are such works also sensitive “­­non- ​­objects,” i.e., independently acting subjects in indigenous communities or/­and Western societies? Which language is used? In the case of the Benin bronzes, is it German, English, or Ẹ̀ dó, the language in Benin City? How does the chosen language limit not only the recognition but also the adequate contact with or handling of the objects? Which cultural ­pre-​­concepts does the respective language convey? How do we deal with the not translatable, not comprehensible? Can the works be negotiated? Can knowledge and interpretation be negotiated? What would be the task of this negotiation? Is it also about reconciliation and healing?

With the system used above, some of these questions are already addressed. On the horizontal axis, the “­culture axis,” for example, the following issues are c­ o-​­addressed: Who is heard? In what language are negotiations conducted? Then, on the vertical axis, dedicated to the question of power, other questions come into play, such as: Who owns? Who is heard? What language is used and what is excluded as a result? Is the negotiation a negotiation of equals? Nevertheless, we need these questions as explicit questions in addition to the taxonomy developed in the beginning. This means that the model has to be developed further, which is a task for the near future.

Transfer to the Practice of Art Education: The Project “­Exploring Visual Cultures” These questions will be used in the last part of this chapter to take a closer look at a specific project in art education: www.­explore-​­vc.org. It is called Exploring Visual Cultures (­EVC) 339

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(­Göltenboth), started in 2018 by international partners (­universities) mainly in Cameroon, Ghana, Germany, Kenya, and South Africa. For coordination, a joint steering structure has been established, an expert panel under the leadership of Avi Sooful from the University of Pretoria, South Africa. In Germany, the Academy of Fine Arts Munich and the University of Augsburg are partnering with museums, funding ministries, teachers, other universities, and nongovernmental organizations. The first idea for this project was born in Cameroon in 2015, together with P ­ aul-​­Henri Souvenir Assako from the University of Yaoundé I and the Libre Academie des B ­ eaux-​­arts (­LABA). At a joint workshop, we discussed the question of what shapes cultural memory in Cameroon and in Germany, and which aspects should play a role in education in our countries. Collections of objects were compiled that showed enormous and fascinating differences between Cameroon and Germany. This experience of difference with regard to cultural memory and the simultaneous experience of agreement regarding the ethical goals of education formed the starting point of our thinking more deeply about differences and similarities when transnational contact occurs. This reflection was above all a consideration of the following questions: Are there at least latent similarities and common patterns in the differences? Are there zones where the two stocks of the respective cultural memories intertwine or entangle? (­A fter all, Cameroon and Germany have a common colonial ­h istory—​­Cameroon was a German colony from 1884 to 1916.) What ideas of the “­other” arise when we perceive the differences? How do we anticipate the other when we think about our own cultural memory in such a communication context? Does the experience of mutual exchange modify the s­ elf-​­perception and the thinking about “­one’s own”? How do we think about the relation between “­us” and the “­other”? How do we understand cultural interactions? What are our joint and different ideas about past, present, and future? Starting from the fact that perception through imageries shapes cultural memory, and likewise, cultural memory shapes how we perceive and imagine ourselves, others, and the world around us, we imagined a project that should: •

• •

take a closer look at visual objects (­e.g. architecture, logos, artworks, photos, fashion, design, mass media, urban spaces, and handicraft) asking simple questions like: how can these objects develop meaning in the respective local context? How are the objects influenced and how do they influence? look for answers in transnational and transdisciplinary dialogues between artists, (­a rt) educators, (­art) historians, (­cultural) anthropologists, and students. share results with a worldwide community of researchers and educators through conferences, publications, and a website.

In September 2018, a working group from the Munich Academy of Art visited the University of South Africa in Pretoria to concretize the project. The return visit took place shortly afterwards, which included the first pilot projects that were presented at public symposia in both countries. In parallel, the cooperation with the University of Education Winneba (­Ghana) was prepared, which was also formally launched in 2019 through the signing of a memorandum of understanding. Together with further colleagues, a working conference was held in South Africa in late 2019, at which the guideline for contributions to a joint “­archive” (­a database) between the partners was defined, the “­Cape Town Model.” It took three days to negotiate it until all partners could accept them as appropriate. It follows international academic standards without being too narrow according to the goals proposed in the beginning. 340

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­Figure 36.5 The Cape Town Model. Credit: Ernst Wagner.

This model understands an object as either tangible (­e.g. an artwork, architecture, design, craft, and media) or intangible (­conceptual images, visual representations of an idea, scientific concept, beliefs, or visual representations of social practice/­of an artistic project). As the main criterion for the selection of such an object, the partners defined relevance for education in the respective country. Relevance should be related to the current and future society in the context of global ­development—​­within the normative framework of UNESCO’s “­Education for Sustainable Development.” Discussion of examples led to the conviction that the “­quality of the object” would be the second criterion, which asks: does the image communicate, represent, and/­or symbolize the meaning in a convincing way, or is it just an arbitrary illustration? Does it follow formal qualities (­contrast, lighting, sharpness, point of view, etc.)? Is it attracting attention, and does it trigger questions by learners? The methods used to understand the meaning(­s) of the object in its specific context(­s) were not specified, but they should offer a deeper insight into the transcultural aspects (­entanglements, trajectories of the object in the context of globalization, migration, and decolonization) as the main result. This should lead to sensitivity towards cultural interactions guided by tolerance and respect. An important aspect is the ­meta-​­reflection, which is answering questions like why this specific object had been chosen (­and not another one), or how it was interpreted and negotiated. This includes reflecting the research questions regarding the chosen objects and their relevance in the context of the project as well as the methods and approaches used. 341

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In the meantime, the partners in the international network have developed and launched a joint database of more than 80 objects: https://­w ww.­explore-​­vc.org/­en/­objects.html ( ­July 2022). These are explained and interpreted by p­ eer-​­reviewed chapters. The coordinating expert panel proposed that the decision about the selection of an object should be made by the respective local team as they are best placed to judge the relevance. The interpretations are completed according to jointly developed guidelines (­the Cape Town Model explained above), and they are peer reviewed. More entries are in process. The goal is to have a critical number of more than 150 items in 2023. A working group of art teachers based in Munich is developing a handbook for art educators in Germany providing guidelines on how to work with the database at school. It will be published in 2022. Moreover, the first exemplary tutorials for educational contexts have been developed, and also virtual exhibitions have been curated to encourage teachers to conduct their own teaching experiments (­https://­w ww.­explore-​­vc.org).

The Project in Relation to the Questions Developed Above The EVC project, which forms the practical reference point of this essay, can now be discussed in a brief concluding section with regard to the questions developed above when the Benin bronzes were discussed.

Who Owns? Where Are the Archives? Can Bodies of Knowledge Be Shared? The EVC website including the database is understood as a joint “­body of knowledge,” and it can be considered as the shared possession of the network as reciprocal exchange or shared property. However, it is hosted, funded, managed, designed, and maintained by the German partner. We know that this contradicts the principles of decolonizing art education. Nevertheless, in a n ­ on-​­ideal world, we have to live and work with such contradictions.

Who Speaks? From Which Perspectives? Whose Voices Are Heard? To avoid exclusion of perspectives, the ideal is a ­multi-​­perspective approach with contributions written in dialogue. There are already successful examples on the website like the writing about El Anatsui’s work “­R ising Sea,” Hokusai’s “­Great Wave,” the Ghanaian Pavilion at Venice Biennale, Uche Okeke’s painting “­Christ,” Yinka Shonibare’s work “­M rs Pinckney and the Emancipated Birds of South Carolina,” or a Veranda Post at the Museum Fünf Kontinente in Munich. In these contributions, two or more voices are heard from Europe and one from the regions the works are from. Within the project, it is difficult to review the position of the respective ­author—​­for any of the partners. After all, we hope that the partners’ findings are the result of broader discussions within the local networks. Nevertheless, the question becomes whether the respective author represents a consensus in their communities or institution, or whether they represent individual opinions. Also, the anticipation of expectations of the partners can play a role.

What Narratives Are Told? As each narrative responds to the specific local educational context, there cannot be one basic pattern. It is interesting to observe how the narratives stress different functions of the 342

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objects, e.g., social regulation (­Ghana), nation building (­Cameroon and Kenya), collective memory (­Ghana and Cameroon), or political agitation (­South Africa). We are currently experimenting with a filter function in the database to be able to find objects that answer certain questions more quickly. This includes formal aspects (­genre, time of creation, and location) as well as c­ ontent-​­related issues such as the function of the objects and their possible connection to the Sustainable Development Goals (­U N). The latter should above all facilitate the development of narratives that are particularly relevant pedagogically. How can an object be understood and used for education in the context of ecological, economic, cultural, or social future issues?

Are Sensitive “­­Non-​­Objects” Represented? No, not as such. In this respect, the project still works with a claim that is indebted to the European Enlightenment, which is based on a separation of art and magic, work and viewer, and ultimately the separation of subject and object. Nevertheless, a selective change in the format resulted in surprising changes. Colleagues from Ghana were invited to discuss objects from the Museum Fünf Kontinente in Munich without the otherwise agreed Cape Town Model being required. This immediately resulted in alternative forms of contributions. These are now narratives that bring close personal connection with the object. They thus no longer place it at a distance as a scientific object, but they make it possible to become alive and meaningful as for example in connection with the personal experience of death. Similar understandings bridging the gap between object and agent were already indicated in connection with political activism when, for example, objects first have to be worn as a ­T-​­shirt on the body in order to unfold their effectiveness. Or when it is about one’s own body as a space of decolonization. This observation must be discussed with the partners in the future.

How to Deal with the Not Comprehensible? Taking narratives into account also makes it possible, if necessary, to encounter the n ­ ot-​ ­understandable in a way other than shrugging one’s shoulders. Where we can no longer understand the Western scientific perspectives, we can still listen to the narratives.

Which Language Is Used? English is used within the transnational collaboration for pragmatic reasons. Even people from francophone Cameroon use English. In a few cases, Fante or other local languages are used for naming the objects. However, it is not reflected whether there are differences between the word of origin and its translation into English. The question of limitations with respect to the recognition of the objects and which cultural ­pre-​­concepts are conveyed through the chosen language could not be reflected up to now. M ­ eta-​­research would be needed to understand what is lost or transformed through translation into other languages. This also includes the question of dealing with the not translatable, not comprehensible. This field also includes the necessary sensitization within one’s own language towards discriminatory terms or linguistic stereotypes. 343

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Can Knowledge and Interpretations Be Negotiated? At the moment, any proposal delivered by a team is accepted, a ­peer-​­review process makes it possible that the author understands how his/­her text is perceived by a reader. There was one example in which a negotiation was not possible due to different normative frameworks. The example was about gender construction as shown in an interpretation. Incompatible ideas clashed. In order not to jeopardize the cooperation as a whole, the conflict was not made transparent. The text was modified by the editorial team and published.

What Is the Goal? Is It Also about Reconciliation and Healing? Ultimately, at least from the German perspective, the goal is about overcoming colonialism, i.e., coming to terms with one’s own problematic past, which is analogous to coming to terms with the Holocaust after the liberation from the Nazi regime in Germany (­Vergangenheitsbewältigung). The hope is for a form of reconciliation and healing.

Conclusion This text methodically started from three points of reference. This seems particularly fruitful with regard to the question of this book. It marks a paradigm shift for German art education, not only for the development of theory and practice, but especially for the shaping of the discourse in the future. One point of reference is the social and political relevance of the respective issue, which was addressed with the question of the restitution of Benin bronzes. This bundling of public energies shows that the subject unfolds in a specific resonance space. As such, it must also have the potential for art education. This can be seen in the questions developed at the beginning that could not emerge in art education’s own context but have proved enormously fruitful for reflection. These questions are s­harpened—​­and this is the second point of r­eference—​­by current discourses outside the discipline, a point that could not be dealt with specifically within the limited space here. In terms of content, the two dimensions named above, cultural contact and power, have already been addressed. Nevertheless, a few leading concepts will be named, each with a reference author, as the most influential in Germany: Othering (­Edward Said), Essentialisms (­Gayatri Spivak), Third Space and Hybridity (­Homi K. Bhabha), Transculturality (­Wolfgang Welsch), and Decentralization (­Dipesh Chakrabarty). The third point of reference is explorative experimental practice. Observation shows that in Germany, the discussion on decolonization is mainly led by theorists and remains exclusively in the academic world. A connection to pedagogical practice (­in creation, communication, and collaboration) is almost ­non-​­existent, and when it does exist, the view in practice is deductive. Therefore, practice always comes off badly (­Schnurr 2020). That is why the EVC project is so important. As a grounded theory in the social sciences, an important point of reference for research in art education is about taking practice s­eriously—​­also in its resistance to theory. The necessary and critical reflection of the practice as the EVC project shows is how practice can make a productive contribution if it can be brought into a relationship of tension with theory. This results in a simple model (­­Figure  36.6), which encourages embedding decolonization in the education and training of art teachers as well as the further development of

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­Figure 36.6 The methodological approach of this essay. Credit: Ernst Wagner.

research. Important questions lie ahead for research: How do the adaptations of s­ubject-​ ­specific competency models such as the “­Common European Framework of Reference for Visual Literacy” (­Wagner & Schönau) look in relation to this specific topic? How will the content as well as the overall goal change? How can skills be readjusted? What process models and methodologies need to be developed? What will the evaluation of the outcome look like? Much work remains to be uncovered.

Works Cited Göltenboth, Natalie. Decolonization of Art Education? Exploring Visual ­Cultures – ​­A Transnational Project. www.goethe.de/­prj/­lat/­en/­ide/­22157609.html. Accessed 9 July 2021. Jullien, François. Es gibt keine kulturelle Identität. [There Is No Such Thing as Cultural Identity]. Suhrkamp, 2018. Kirschenmann, Johannes  & Schulz, Frank (­ Eds.). Begegnungen. KUNST GESCHICHTE ­U NTERRICHT – ​­Vol. 2. Kopaed, 2021. Leigh Star, Susan. This Is Not a Boundary Object: Reflections on the Origin of a Concept. In: Science, Technology, & Human Values. Vol. 35, No. 5. Luhmann, Niklas. Soziale Systeme. Grundriß einer allgemeinen Theorie. Suhrkamp, 1993. O’Toole, John. Good Intentions and Multiple Voices. In Teunis IJdens, Ernst Wagner and Ben Bolden (­Eds.). Arts Education around the World: Comparative Research Eight Years after the Seoul Agenda. International Yearbook for Research in Arts Education. Vol. V. Waxmann, 2017. ­ rzählungen – ​­Zu einer postkolnialen AuseinSchnurr, Ansgar. Verborgene Bilder und dominante E andersetzung mit dem ­Making-​­Off des kulturellen Gedächtnisses. In: Kunibert Bering (­Ed.). Kunstunterricht und ­Bildung – ​­Kulturelles Gedächtnis, Globalität, innovative Üerspektiven. Athena, 2020. United Nations. THE 17 GOALS. https://­sdgs.un.org/­goals. Accessed 9 July 2021. United Nations Development Programme. Human Development Reports. http://­hdr.undp.org/­en. Accessed 9 July 2021. Vertovec, Steven. ­Super-​­Diversity and Its Implication. In: Ethnic and Racial Studies. Vol. 30, No. 6, 2007, S. ­1024–​­1054. Wagner, Ernst. Welche Kunstgeschichte sollen wir betreiben? Content im Horizont der Globalisierung. Auf dem Weg zu einer transformativen Kunstpädagogik. In Kirschenmann & Schulz. Kopaed 2021. Wagner, Ernst  & Schönau, Diederik, Common European Framework of Reference for Visual ­Literacy  –​ ­P rototype. Waxmann, 2018. Wimmer, Michael. From The Seoul Agenda to Another Road Map for Arts ­Education  – ​­Why a UNESCO Document Causes Not Only Inclusion but Exclusion. In: Teunis IJdens, Ernst Wagner and Ben Bolden (­Eds.). Arts Education around the World: Comparative Research Eight Years after the Seoul Agenda. International Yearbook for Research in Arts Education. Vol. V. Waxmann, 2017.

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37 TOWARD FRONTIERS OF DECOLONIZATION IN CONTEMPORARY NIGERIAN ART MARKETS Samuel Egwu Okoro and Soiduate O ­ goye-​­Atanga Introduction Previous studies on notions of decolonization and its historiography expound on its ideological framework as an evolving process entangled with histories of empire which marked the colonial era. These later transmuted to anticolonial struggles of freedom, nationhood, and its aftermath. Decolonization points us toward a complex chronology of change in the history of European empire building by noting the intellectual legacies of imperial domination and its diverse manifestations through major institutions existing in the ­post-​­colony. Hence, beyond the gaining of political independence from colonial rule, the subject of decolonization remains contingent with the new era by attending more inclusively to contemporary schemes that seek equality in issues of global participation. Collins (­17) while narrating the historiographies of African decolonization noted that “­decolonization was not a discrete process that marked a shift from empire to national independence but a multilayered, multifaceted phenomenon.” And that while decolonization had specific causes and effects in different African settings, it was also shaped by wider, structural dimensions of empire that may be seen as systemic. The systemic structure of empire provided constructions of political and economic relationships between imperial core and colonial periphery. It is within the above frames of reference (­imperial core and colonial periphery) that the global art market is structured, as it bears similar Eurocentric ideologies of control inherent with the colonial era. Vitali Shchutski noted that the structure of the global art world is characterized by demarcations of a clear center consisting of the United States and the five biggest EU countries (­Germany, France, the UK, Italy, and Spain) and a clear ­semi-​­periphery and periphery, consisting of countries outside this group. This is a condition that describes n ­ eo-​ ­capitalist movements where a few influential contributors such as buyers, collectors and art patrons govern the opportunities open to artists at the regional, national, and international levels. These influential contributors function from within art institutions in the art world and account for the commissioning, licensing, and distribution of artworks. From this positionality, they contribute to the economy of symbolic goods (­the work of art) defined by diversity, identity, and critique. They also invariably hold control on pricing, availability of materials, and selection of art forms, genres, themes, and style of the product to be promoted; and this defines ­neo-​­colonial structures that are suspect for the subject of African decolonization. 346

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-41

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This chapter, as the title suggests, expounds on notions of decolonization and its manifest elements within the burgeoning Nigerian art market space. It examines feasible decolonizing performances exhibited by institutions of art in African ­post-​­colonies and their intersections with the hierarchical structure of the global and segmented art market. Hence, we question: how do the institutions of art appreciation and ­t rade—​­such as art fairs, biennials, auction houses, galleries, museums, and a­ rtist-​­curator relationships practiced interdependently within the ­post-­​­­colony—​­provide an analysis for the subject of decolonization? Considering that the principal objective of decolonization is to decenter the existing ­center-­​­­to-​­margin structure, how do the market reports from art bodies operating in the p­ ost-​­colony reflect the strength of the market as a space for decolonization? And how does it implicate the objective of democratic participation or the subject of global citizenship? Activities of bourgeoning art fairs and biennials overseen in the demarcated African periphery such as “­A rt X Lagos,” and “­Lagos Biennial,” happening in the city of Lagos, provide statistics that unveil the socioeconomic status of the African/­Nigerian art market. The activities of galleries and gallerists that have, in collaborative terms, enabled African art and artists to gain global visibility and participation in the international art world and market do the same. Arthouse Contemporary, an auction house, and Rele Gallery emerge as effective spaces in Lagos with records of promoting the works of modern and contemporary regional artists to gain global visibility and appreciation in sales. This is of crucial importance as the data obtained from the reports discussed later in this chapter reveal the behavior of the art market, the repositioning of regional artists, and the extent to which such shifts manifest as frontiers for African decolonization. The chapter concludes with discussions that highlight Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri’s notions of empire that propose liberation from the nation state and old forms of sovereignty and global domination in order to create new forms of community and cooperation. These new forms of community and cooperation are seen as alternatives with the potential to break up Western domination as they provide opportunities for rewriting art, political, and economic histories on a global scale. Other theoretical foundations used to support the conceptual suppositions are explicitly understood within Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of class and capital systems, Karl Marx’s theory of the economy as central to the critique of capitalism, as well as Antonio Gramsci’s notion of cultural hegemony to address the c­ enter – ​­margin structures of the art world.

Protagonists of the Nigerian Art Market as Paragons of Decolonization The Nigerian art market is presented as a prospective frontier of decolonization within the global art market based on notable shifts in structural reconsolidation by Nigerian art market protagonists. Although the artist remains primarily responsible for producing symbolic goods for the art market, other protagonists such as dealers, gallerists, critics, curators, collectors, museums, and public institutions remain major players that spin the economic wheel of the art market globally. The focus on these privatized art institutions further contributes to the growing conviction of how structural shifts occurring in the p­ ost-​­colony offer discursive spaces or alternative possibilities that challenge inequalities inherent with Eurocentrism. Again, Western domination is tackled within a postcolonial discourse by intellectuals who, according to Gyan Prakash, rethink and reform forms of knowledge and social identities authored and authorized by colonialism and Western domination. For Homi Bhabha, they take a hybrid position of practice and negotiation, while Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak described their function in terms of “­catachresis” which implicates reversing and displacing, as well as seizing the apparatus of value coding (­a s a result of misrepresented identities). The objective 347

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thus takes into consideration the shifts in structural reconsolidation propagated by the protagonists as intellectual activism occurring beyond theoretical analysis to more practical interventions that enable the Nigerian art market and the extent to which it counterbalances hierarchical structures of the global art market.

Indigenous Collectors and Institutional Initiatives for Decolonizing Spaces Arts and Culture editor, Nwakunor, together with Sowole, had noted in The Guardian that collectors drive the art world and provide narrative reports of wealthy art collectors in Nigeria who have contributed to a robust trajectory of art collecting and appreciation. The bulk of art collected over time further inspired the opening of privately funded museums for proper preservation, exhibition, and display of the artworks. Among the private museums established in Nigeria to preserve art collections is “­The Yemisi Shyllon Museum of Art” in Pan Atlantic University Lagos, which was opened in October 2019 and funded by Omoba Yemisi Shyllon. The Shyllon museum harbors over 7,000 artworks, ranking as the largest art collection in Africa. Another is the upcoming “­Chimedie Museum of Contemporary Art,” funded by the King and traditional ruler of Onitsha, HRM Alfred Nnaemeka Achebe, located in Onitsha Ado, Anambra State, and the last is the “­Didi Museum” in Lagos State, funded by Newton Jibunoh. The reports reveal that the art collectors of the aforementioned museums were often either for aesthetic appreciation, driven by investment/­support of upcoming artists, or for the need to expand art collections and reconnect with cultural heritage. The emerging culture of museum practice in Nigeria holds a potential within Donald Preziosi’s definitive frames. Preziosi (­407) noted that museums functioned as one of the premier epistemological technologies of the European Enlightenment that remained central to the social, ethical, and political formation of the citizenry of modernizing nation states. Hence beyond the roles museums served as repositories or collections of objects, they also represented a key ideological apparatus and a discipline that enabled the production of social realities and subjectivities of the modern world. Preziosi’s definition on Western museum practices as sites for producing and appraising ideological and social realities remains an archetype for harnessing cultural heritage and for structuring the various ethnic identities through indigenous art collecting in Nigeria. Preziosi (­408) also noted that art functioned as the most powerful agency (­or frame of reference) by which the discipline of museology has been successful in its virtually universal colonization of world cultures. And that art, being one of the most remarkable modern European inventions, is purposeful as one of the most effective ideological instruments for the retroactive rewriting of the history of human societies. Preziosi’s intimations provide grounds for curiosities that also resonate with Tony Bennett’s analytic responses on the political agenda of museums as technologies of governance that played a substantial role in the ­n ineteenth-​­century European constitution of the modern project. Bennett (­124) theorized the “­exhibitionary complex” to define museum practices of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when nationalism and colonialism were at the fore in Western European politics. Bennett proposed the “­exhibitionary complex” as an archetype to enable the understanding of how disciplinary power structures, visual strategies, and power/­k nowledge apparatuses of surveillance are embedded in museum practices. Museums and exhibitions were global mediums for a nation to broadcast its might to societies. However, Western museum practices within the modern project preserved African artifacts in isolation as objects without a history, or a history written by whites, academics, and observers whose perceptions of native civilizations were determined by evolutionary theories. 348

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Lotte Philipsen highlights Eurocentric discrepancies that excluded the vast majority of the world’s cultures, including minority cultures with Western states from exhibitions and from the history of art. Philipsen (­9) further presents the notion of “­New Internationalism,” a term defined by The Institute of New International Visual Arts (­INIVA) established in London in 1991, and aims at institutional inclusion of ­non-​­Western visual art. Among the ­n ine-​­point agenda in a ­pseudo-​­manifesto, Philipsen (­9) noted, “­New Internationalism” was to break prevailing Eurocentric notions of internationalism in the visual arts through a c­ ross-​­fertilization of views in contemporary visual arts. This means that issues of cultural difference and hybridity will remain a dominant discourse, thus contributing to the development of visual arts by allowing artists a choice, a subjective ­decision-​­making process based on personal experience. Although “­New Internationalism” offers a global projection of cultural pluralism or multiculturalism that introduces inclusive ways of addressing production, exhibition presentation, and interpretation, its European origin is received with skepticism that is relative to issues of bias and privilege. Hence, the emergence of indigenous and ­regional-​­based art institutions remains faced with the task of challenging stereotypes of Native peoples and cultures through exhibitions, symposia, auction sales, and scholarly publications. By this documentation of the wide variety of Native ways of life, an enabling environment that holds the creative initiative of ­self-​­definition becomes central while representing indigenous voices through time and space in mainstream art institutions.

Auction Houses, Galleries, Artist, and Western Decentering Research conducted by ­Lagos-​­based Spanish architect and art consultant Castellote, in collaboration with Fagbule, on “­Nigerian Art Market Report” presents activities of a few ­Lagos-​­based auction houses. Nwokunor (­2019) acknowledges that ­Indian-​­born and ­London-​ ­educated Art collector, Kavita Chellaram’s motive for collecting Nigerian art was primarily for aesthetic purposes, to fill the walls in her house with diverse genres from paintings to sculptures, photography, and mixed media. Alongside other Nigerian art collectors, Chellaram founded the art auction house “­A rthouse Contemporary” in 2007, which features both modern and contemporary art from West Africa. Prior to Arthouse Contemporary was the Nimbus Art Gallery run by Chike Nwagbogu, which stands as a pioneering art auction in Nigeria with a record sale of N22 million that made the headlines as a significant contribution within the Nigerian economic context in 1999. Beyond the clear success of a local market, Chelleram’s research on the dynamics of art auction houses flourished with obvious results manifesting in her success of bringing global recognition to numerous modern African and Nigerian masters, among whom include Ben Enwonwu, Kolade Oshinowo, Bruce Onobrakpeya, Ablade Glover, Yusuf Grillo, and Uche Okeke. Global recognition for these artists also meant emancipation characterized by a breaking forth from regional and nationalist spaces to global spaces of visibility which determined the artist’s success as well as the internationalization of contemporary art and market. The shift from local to global visibility is, for Arif Dirlik, a marker that characterizes the postcolonial aura when Third World intellectuals arrived in the First World academe. Dirlik (­­561–​­588) noted that the postcolonial consciousness intended to abolish all distinctions between center and periphery as well as all other “­binarisms” that are allegedly a legacy of colonialist ways of thinking. Such a consciousness, Dirlik noted, would reveal societies globally in the context of their heterogeneity and contingency. In a similar vein, Chelleram’s institutional initiative of situating an auction house in ­ ome-​­grown auctions the city of Lagos foregrounds the decolonizing project which fosters h 349

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outside the West and focuses on ­non-​­Western contemporary African art. More extensively are the opportunities it provides for Nigerian artists whose works are growing in demand at both the global and regional front of the art market. Castellote (­2014, p­ . 3) provides detailed highlights on the sale of artworks by Nigerian artist, noting that in 2013, 10 artworks by four artists, namely, Ben Enwonwu (­6), N ­ igerian-​­based Ghanaian artist El Anatsui (­2), Uche Okeke, and Kolade Oshinowo, accounted for 44% of the combined auction sales at Bonhams, Arthouse and Terra Kulture Mydrim Gallery (­T KMG). In 2014, 130 Nigerian artists accounted for 91% of the $3.27 million brought in and 79% of the 315 lots sold at auctions (­A rthouse, Bonhams, TKMG and Sogal) in Lagos and London. In 2017, 90% of the value and 64% of the volume of sales at African Art auctions at Bonhams came from works by Nigerian artists increasing to $5,539,648 from $3,794,924 in 2016 and $2,990,395 in 2015. The report also confirmed that over 70% of buyers at Bonhams designated auctions were African, while Enwonwu’s Tutu was purchased by a Nigerian and reportedly brought back to the West African nation. Considering the categorization of artists enlisted in the global art market, Nigerian artists, who comprise both established and emerging artists, belong to a category of ­pre-​­independence and ­post-​­independence generation. On the global front, the category bears a parallel timeframe with modern artists, ­post-​­war artists, contemporary artists, and artists who are alive. Below are tables (­­Figure 37.1) showing auction sale records of Nigerian artists and their artworks.

Top 10 ­Highest-​­Selling Nigerian Artist at Auction (­­2008–​­2015) The report and table below (­­Figure 37.1) show that artworks by Nigerian artists boosted the Bonhams Africa Now auction to hit $1 million for the first time since the first auction began in ­2009—​­the 52 lots by Nigerians sold at Bonham’s generated $1.76 million, accounting for 92% of sales. (­Castellote, 15) The success of Bonhams’ annual Africa auctions demonstrates the UK’s ability to source and sell artworks from outside its borders. The Nigerian art market, as reported by Artprice, is now being deemed as “­a nice new market” considering percentages in demand and domestic sales, as well as the increasing number of individual and institutional collectors. Castellote explained that the reasons for the thriving art market go beyond the search for the next emerging frontier, but more to the quality of artworks produced out of Africa that are considered masterpieces, limited and rare, and as such priced in thousands of dollars due to its increase in demand. Founder and director of Omenka Gallery in Lagos State, Oliver Enwonwu noted that the attention value quotient from the global art world toward Nigerian art draws its largest influence from a growing indigenous secondary art market. Hannah O’Leary who heads the modern and contemporary African art at Sotheby’s highlights that it is the life, work, and circumstances in which the artists were producing the works that serve as a value quotient. In qualifying the inexorable fruitful integration of Nigeria’s art market, William Mcbain makes mention of the growing market of indigenous investors and how African art is increasingly commanding high prices at the World’s auction houses which accounts for an emerging frontier in a world dominated by investors from established economies. He points to a burgeoning collector class bolstered by bankers and industrialists from growing economies such as Nigeria, Ghana, and Senegal that are pushing the market further. Castellote further provides a comparative index graph (­­Figure 37.2) showing a trajectory on art sales by Nigerian artists at African art auctions between Lagos and London from 2013 to 2017. And except for 2014, the graph shows artworks by Nigerian artists at African art auctions in London generated more sales than African art auctions in Lagos with 2017 recording the 350

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­Figure 37.1 Auction sales records. Courtesy NAMR Report, 2017.

greatest margin of $4,655,076 sales in London and $858,188 in Lagos. ­Figure 37.3 shows the value of artworks by Nigerian artists sold at African Art auctions in key auction houses from 2013 to 2017. Castellote noted that the trend of selling top artworks of Nigerian artists in London instead of Lagos intensified dramatically due to Sotheby’s entry in 2017 and their sales of modern and contemporary art from Africa. In 2017, nine auctions dedicated to modern and contemporary African art auctions included a significant number of up to 323 artworks by 140 Nigerian artists, with 225 artworks sold in Lagos and 98 sold in London and Paris. The total value of artworks sales increased to $5,539,648 in the same year, 2017, from $3,794,924 in 2016. Among the 323 artworks by Nigerian artists sold at African auctions, 106 were by modern artists selling a total of $3,574,234, and 217 were by contemporary artists with total sales of $1,965,414. Hence, modern Nigerian artworks sold represented 33% in volume and 65% in value. Castellote noted that African art auction sales in Bonhams recorded 90% of the value and 64% of the volume of works by Nigerian artists, while 37% of value and 19% of volume were recorded at African art auction sales in Sotheby’s. Again, while Bonhams focused on modern artworks, which amounted to 89% of artworks done by modern Nigerian 351

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­Figure 37.2 Artworks by Nigerian Artists at Auctions. Courtesy NAMR Report, 2017.

­Figure 37.3 Value of Artworks sold by Nigerian Artists at Auctions. Courtesy NAMR Report, 2017.

artists, Sotheby’s focused on contemporary artworks accounting for only 18% of modern works and 82% of contemporary works. A remarkable stride on sale by ­Nigerian-​­born and Los ­A ngeles-​­based visual artist Njideka Akunyili Crosby is noted to have sold seven artworks at Christie’s auctions for a total amount of $8,634,774. Among Crosby’s works, “­The Beautiful Ones” depicting her elder sister when she was younger hit an auction record at $3,075,774 at Christies in London. Another emerging s­ ub-​­sector of the art market is the increasing awareness on social media of the art world and the widespread acceptance of ­e-​­retail platforms such as OpenSea, Rarible, 352

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and SuperRare. The burgeoning ­e-​­retail ­sub-​­sector affords the Nigerian online art market a structure for art galleries, art dealers, and artists, the opportunity for expanding the consumption and sale of their art to a wider public, hence bridging the physical gap by enabling access to international audiences who appreciate contemporary Nigerian art from her local and diaspora artists.

Nigerian Art Market, Global Art Auction Turnovers, and Bourdieu’s Notion of Positions The global art market is structured by an aggregate of many unique and independent sectors often defined by artists and periods. Reviews on the regional distribution of sales in different sectors and segments of the global art market exhibit different trends and performances in terms of sales and prices. Clare (­27) noted that among the sectors and segments that constitute the global art market, fine art sales have been the most instrumental in driving trends in recent years with modern art and contemporary art accounting for the largest values and biggest growth. Subsets of the Fine Art sector include art by ­Post-​­War and Contemporary artists, Living artists, Modern artists, Impressionist and ­Post-​­impressionist artists, old masters, and European old masters. On this note, we find the Nigerian art market situated within the Modern, the P ­ ost-​­War and Contemporary, and Living artists sector. While the Modern is defined by artists born between 1875 and 1910, the P ­ ost-​­War and Contemporary is defined by artists born after 1910. Living artists are defined by artists alive and remain a subset of the ­Post-​­War and Contemporary sector. So, how do sales figures and percentages derived from the Nigerian art market suffice as a frontier of decolonization when compared to Global Auction turnovers within the modern and contemporary art segment? Ehrmann provided highlights on the Global Art Market Report, Artprice.com in 2017, stating that the art market’s new era of prosperity is for the first time in its history driven by contemporary art. And that the contemporary art segment accounted for 15% of the global turnover with the sale of an Untitled masterpiece (­1982) by ­Jean-​­Michel Basquiat (­born 1960), which fetched $110.5 million, being the 6th most expensive artwork ever sold at auction. Again, it was noted that 38,000 Fine Art lots were sold for a total of $2.2 billion in the United States and $2 billion in China with 37,900 Fine Art lots sold. Artprice.com states that every year since the Chinese art market boom, one of the two superpowers has taken a significant lead over the other. ­Figure 37.4 is a pie chart showing the geographical distribution of Fine Art auction turnovers and market share collated from Artprise.com 2017 Global Art Report and Nigerian Art Market Report 2017. The chart provides indicators of the global hierarchy determined by the value and volume of sales from Fine Art auctions in 2017. The power duel between the People’s Republic of China and the United States references the evolving patriarchal structure of the global art market. China’s booming art market remains reformative in terms of how it measures up to restructuring initial Western patriarchal models of the global art market, where the West (­Europe, United Kingdom, and the United States) take center stage while Asia and Africa remain at the ­semi-​­periphery and periphery. Artprice noted that several indicators suggest the Chinese art market remains relatively stable by its outstanding performances in Major Contemporary Signatures, which has continued to rise in auction price sales thereby maintaining its position as the global Art Market’s second power. The China Art Market’s second place position remains a remarkable shift from the mainstream Western structure of the global art market. Following the United States and China, stands the UK and other European countries with the Nigeria art market situated in the periphery within the global art market hierarchical structure. A tabular version of the pie chart 353

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­Figure 37.4 Art Market Share by Country. Data Courtesy Art Market Report, 2017, at ArtPrice.com.

(­­Figure 37.5) shows the Nigerian art market turnover alongside the global art market share, obtained especially from the ­Post-​­War and Contemporary section in 2017. The turnover and market share of contemporary artworks by Nigerian artists remain a meager and almost insignificant figure compared to countries with thriving economies, which implicates its position within the hierarchy of the global art market.

Voices from the Edge What is the edge? What memories are conjured up within its significance in a local artistic knowledge formation, and what are the parameters that offer forms of legibility to an otherwise opaque artistic visuality within the marginalities of a global art world? This section is rooted within an understanding of peripheral artistic units and participation within the thriving institutional activities that define the global south as peripheral spaces and their contributions despite prevailing North Atlantic hegemony. The art institutional activities of art fairs and biennales and how they provoke a decolonization rhetoric within a contemporary Lagosian space serve to highlight an evolving art market space whose relevance remains ­under-​­acclaimed. Hence, we evaluate the Art X Lagos as a premier West African fair, and the Lagos Biennale as a recent inclusion into the rapidly growing biennale culture, especially in the global Third World, to show voices, statements, and resistance in a North Atlantic controlled global art world. In the words of the B ­ erlin-​­based Cameroonian writer, critic, and curator Bonaventure Ndikung, there is a poignant reference to the concept of southern aesthetics within the framework of a broader artistically and culturally defined group referred to as the global 354

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­Figure 37.5 Geographical distribution of Fine Art auction turnover. Data Courtesy Art Market report, 2017, at ArtPrice.com.

south. Beyond geographies, the model of an existing global south is to be understood as framed by a state of mind, as well as fresh contestations that implicate Western conceptions of indigenous forms of modernism and nationalism that invite sovereign epistemologies and thinking beyond North Atlantic methods. Ndikung’s perspective provides a critical counter that pursues a contemporary African art utopia. Although the admittance of contemporary African art into an already fledgling gallery culture in the West is recent, a politics of artistic validity determined by the West subsists and sternly controls how value is constructed within the context of art from former Western colonies. A rise in institutional activities of the art market within peripheries therefore implicitly reacts to this imbalance from a regional scope. In the recent iterations that constitute the Lagos art market, especially Art X and the Lagos Biennale, there seems to be an awareness with a system of radical binaries framed by a Marxist dialogic that emphasize the disparities between oversea colonies and their European colonizers. The art fair shows a clear demarcation of the current concept of the global north and south, a term used to show the glancing ideological imbalance between a duopoly consisting of American and European economies, on the one hand, and those of Africa, Asia, and Latin America, on the other hand, as ­semi-​­peripheral and peripheral units. This reality is a highlight beyond mere opposites; it reveals deep global trajectories defined by imagined 355

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geographies as well as cartographical mappings that frame a rather strained global relationship between the perceived worlds of the global north and south. It speaks of the postcolonial relationships between these worlds and Marxist structures that still prevail in their skewed global exchanges amid a ravaging systemic global capitalism and ­geo-​­cultural difference. This reality is evident in a survey of global participation of galleries in the world’s art fairs, which had African and other peripheral markets apparently absent, while biennales equally seem to have taken a decolonial turn in its proliferation in the global peripheries. Apart from the construction of national identities as with biennales, there is also an attempt at making independent nationalist statements. Like in the center nations, the concentration of art economies in the peripheries follow an ­age-​­long accumulation of capital and elites within specific cities, like Venice and Rome in the past, and Berlin, London, New York, etc., in the present. Lagos like these cities is a financial center with economic infrastructures capable of sustaining a market. The art fair report by Vitali Shchutski in 2017 listed 142 art fairs organized worldwide. Of this number, only two art fairs were organized within the African continent, the FNB and the Cape Town art fairs all in South Africa. Even if Art X Lagos was in its second year of running and had been quite impactful within the West African regional space, it didn’t make the list. In the same 2017 report by Shchutski, we find a hierarchical model that prevents peripheral galleries participating with the center duopoly. Hence, there seems to be an implicit focus with Art X Lagos now in its sixth year to provide a space where peripheral galleries meet to run economies that decolonize the center. West Africa’s premier international art fair, organized annually in the first week of November by Art X Lagos in Nigeria, for the convening of artists as well as the promotion of the arts makes its third outing with an exuberant mixed participation of the local and international audience. Art X Lagos hosts institutions of art, galleries, collectors, patrons, and custodians of culture on a common ground to foster cultural exchange for multigenerational lovers of art within the global art map. On this global platform are conversations structured to address our humanness as rational beings capable of perceiving, expressing, and making meaningful judgments that shape perceptions of our encounters with the world, the self, and the other. Art is thus engaged as a social tool of communication in a panorama; as seen in the art fair, works of art are organized in spaces to produce an interactive orchestra of aesthetic experiences that are relatively intersubjective to our humanness. Discourses of difference, individuality, and universality are accommodated through mass conversations and participation that account for the future management of our shared humanity. Africa’s history is probed within postcolonial visual culture and, as such, forms that represent artistic statements become vehicles of signification evoking a dialogue that attempts to interpret the phenomena implicated. The art fair remains significant beyond engaging our human sensibilities of imagination and understanding to awakening the artists to their role as social sculptors or agents for negotiating, nurturing, and propagating a global sense of cultural community through the arts. The format of the Art X Lagos shows a mirroring of the center’s more established galleries and the cadence within which they feature in the world’s renowned art fairs. We return to Shchutski, once again, whose remark on status within the context of galleries and corresponding fairs is important. Determined by the selection and admission criteria, during its past five years, participation in the Lagos Art X has witnessed galleries majorly from the African continent and some others from the diaspora whose representation of artists’ works show proper African experiences that drive toward echoing decolonial views. It has equally witnessed a participation dominated by Nigerian galleries and artists, during its 356

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steady growth, a trend that echoes global standards in the participation of galleries at their home art fairs.

The Lagos Biennale and the Positioning of the Unseen Majority Beginning in 2017, Lagos, the financial and artistic capital of Nigeria, embraced the biennalization culture prevailing in former countries of the global south. The proliferation of this art institution within these spaces seeks to disturb colonial hegemonic structures immanent in their interlocution and representation, considering that biennales succeed in the construction of national histories and preferred ways of identity. Implicitly, this resulted in reviewing the c­ enter-​­periphery structure, as well as decentering the center. This is something Roland Kob et al.1 put forward as a means of decentralizing the West in the cultural field. They propose models of cultural crossovers, the merging of layers of subjectivation, and differentiated models of knowledge production, as well as instruments of imaginary reproduction of national or regional identities. Named after the cities that host them, Kob et al. view newly founded biennials as vehicles for city branding, modernity, democratization, and internationalization, often initiated with an urge to show off economic, political, and social development prowess and to create new cultural spheres where translations of cultural knowledge may potentially occur. But Oliver Marchart,2 in his text “­The Globalization of Arts and the ‘­Biennials of Resistance’: A History of the Biennials from the Periphery,” suggests fresh reimaginations of the biennale using the 3rd Havana Biennale in 1989 as a model. Marchart observes a leap away from the traditional biennale’s structure to one that permits peripheral units as entering the center, calling for the unsettling of previous conceptions within its ­center-​­periphery relationships. Rebecca Hamid 3 observes that the art world accentuates the importance of economic rewards over symbolic rewards, where few powerful participants from limited countries dominate artistic production and consumption. A point worth considering is that, by fueling what Hamid has referred to as high art, along with its proliferation and connections, it allows for forms of occlusion of a huge majority of artists, as well as for regional ­a rt-​­related activities to thrive. Furthermore, as she notes, the rise of art fairs as exclusive and sophisticated ventures for the proliferation of high art supports its excesses and dominance. The biennale as a parallel art world culture tackles this with its counter exhibitionary stance within international communities. “­The tension between the homogenising and a­ nti-​­homogenising forces of globalisation is captured in the biennial, as it foregrounds both international and local art, and highlights the complex relays between them” Hamid (­2015:10). Beyond its role as a counter to art fairs and its logic of glamour, Thomas Fillitz4 notes that biennales provide avenues for the direction of future practices within ­open-​­ended structures where curatorial control is minimal. This places them within experimental, radical, and innovative spaces of artistic production, thereby opening new grounds for future directions. More so, they facilitate communication exchange and connectivity between local, urban and international communities dislocated and unheard in the global art world. They are less likely to be tied up by High Art dictates and art market forces, themes, definitive displays, 1 Ronald Kolb, Shwetal A. Patel, eds., On Curating/­Issue 46 Draft: Global Biennial Survey 2018 ( ­June 2020). 2 Oliver Marchant, “­T he Globalization of Art and the ‘­Biennials of Resistance’: A History of the Biennials from the Periphery,” World Art vol. 4, issue 2 (­2 014). 3 Rebecca Hamid, ­Chapter 7, Art and Money, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2015. 4 Thomas Fillitz, The Booming Global Market of Contemporary Art, F ­ ocaal-​­Journal of Global and Historical Anthropology vol. 69 (­2 014), 8­ 4–​­96.

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and strong curatorial control (­Hamid, 11). Yacouba Konate (­2009)5 is apt in his submission regarding African arts and artists in the global space. For him, the periods of the ­n ineteen-​ ­n ineties marked a phase characterized by a play of forces in the arts, which supported relative optimism. It marked a period of globalization discourses that would permit African (­Nigerian) inclusivity within the global systems of contemporary artistic production, exhibition, and recognition. Accordingly, for example, over a hundred years of the Venice Biennale, the oldest biennale never featured African artists, only beginning to feature them in the m ­ id-​­eighties. Beginning with South African artists in 1986 and two editions later, Konate (­243) opines that the signal to feature more African artists became stronger and led to the inclusion of a number of artists, especially from the ­sub-​­Saharan region. These artists include three Zimbabwean artists, namely, Tapfuma Gutsa, Henry Makembera, and Muyarase, a Ghanaian El Anatsui, and a Nigerian Bruce Onobrakpeya, following where Mustapha Dime was invited to Venice in 1992 and Ousmane Sow was invited to Venice in 1998. These rare invitations were to stimulate African artists to pursue the elusive global visibility. However, like Konate’s rhetorical inquisition, could it be said that the call for an African biennial was driven by the desire to make up for the lack of visibility of African artists? While responses to this issue raised by Konate would provide grounds for an African biennale, it works even deeper to establish an important point, “­A lack of visibility does not mean only that Africa is not sufficiently shown. It also implies the dubious nature of those infrequent presentations in which Africa is poorly shown and inappropriately named” (­243). It, therefore, feels comfortable in fashioning new biennales that not only correct the lack of sufficient visibility, but the resistant narratives they embody and the stories they provide, which gives abundant space to look at the Western biennale format and to chart new ways where identities and adequate participation occur. However, vestiges of center biennales prevail within conceptions of space and artists selections, which expectedly invited a major African representation in the Lagos Biennale and other countries that fall within the s­emi-​ ­peripheries. The shows were held in multiple locations, as was in Documenta 11 curated by Okwui Enwezor, and within spaces of imperial histories and postindustrial locations, as well as an international conference like in the Havana Biennale. But there is still a lofty sense of a global Lagos art focus, like what is expressed by its artistic director Folakunle Oshun, when he remarks that: Lagos should be a hub for critical thought and international exchanges. The city should embody a more globalized approach to the subject of art, and not be driven by Afrocentric ideologies but rather it should embrace the unifying simplicity of the human experience.6 The international curatorial team consists of Amira Paree, a ­Paris-​­based Egyptian/­Dutch artist, and Perpetuum Mobile, a curatorial platform ­co-​­directed by Ivor and Stodolsky and Marita Muukkonen. In the curatorial statement to the biennale titled, “­Living on the Edge” by the artistic director, there is a poignant reference to rethinking and reimagining within the context of decolonization. “­It may be savvier to investigate the realities of the losers in ­ orld-​­the unseen majority who are pushed to the brink of their the societies around the w

5 Yacouba Konaté, The Invention of the Dakar Biennial (­2 009), Oncurating, vol. 46 (­2 020), 2­ 36–​­244. 6 Contemporaryand.com/­m agazines/­­a nnouncing-­​­­t he-­​­­Ist-​­edition of the lagos ­biennialliving -­​­­on -­​­­t he -​­edge.

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existence…” 7 By implication, these words beyond rethinking current realities of the global art world provide an imperative to begin a reimagination of the modus operandi that has, at its crux, the marginalization of people whose echoes remain drowned in the chatter of a minuscule group at the helm of the global art worlds and to make the voices of the unseen majority count. Also “…to embark on a journey to explore multifaceted scenarios…and the interconnectedness of our universe.” In achieving this aim via the biennale, there is an apparent reference to a sense of shared globality rather than an Afrocentric or Afropolitan reality, an opening up of boundaries in place of closing of boundaries. An envisioning of globality as a novel regime that provides grounds for a historical restart where the colonized and the colonizer assume a sense of equity. The second edition of the biennale held about the same fervor and continued within the conceptual reality of a Lagosian cosmopolitan urbanity and an equally intense focused attention to the intersection of an aesthetic of built form and its relativity with the concept of power. The theme of the event, “­How to Build a Lagoon with just a Bottle of Wine,” offers metaphorical allusions to the urban expansion of Lagos from just a lagoon to a cosmopolitan commercial hub. There is a reference to the symbolic character of a particular kind of wine predominant and peculiar to previous Third World parts of Africa, South and Southeast Asia, and Latin America. It is called the palm wine, which is tapped from a wide variety of palm tree species abundant in Lagos. The theme draws inspiration from the lines of Akeem Lasisi’s poem titled “­A song for Lagos.” Held within the premise of the Independence House, a ­25-​­story office building west of the famous Tafawa Balewa Square in Lagos, it ran from October 26 to November 23, 2019, with 40 artists and collectives across a multimedia platform. C ­ o-​­curated by Antawan Byrd, Onyindamola Fakeye, and Tosin Oshiniwo, there was an emphasis on the conceptions of architectures as making power and hegemonic statements, on the one hand, and its symbolic disempowerment, on the other hand. The Independence House remains indexical to the British relationship with her former colony, Nigeria. As a monument to the colonial relationships between the two countries, it represented not just goodwill support but also evidence of colonial technological power. Its height of 25 stories, a rarity at ­post-​­independence, piercing the Lagos skies reminds us of colonial power. However, decades later, the space became repurposed to serve as headquarters in the m ­ id-​­eighties of forces that represented power and control of the spatiality of Nigeria. Its reinforced concrete structure accentuates the already fearful impression of impenetrability beyond the physical structure but equally of the powers held within. Beyond certain biennale formats of purposing architectural relics with significant historical relevance, the choice of using the old railway quarters at the Yaba, as much as the Independence building by the organizers, gestures toward dismantling established power systems. The Independence House building for example begins to symbolize the rise of a new power system rooted in intellection and funded by decolonization. Beyond giving face to a city steeped in rich histories of colonialism and multiculturalism, along with its baggage, the biennale provides a voice by its insistence on generating local narratives that reverberate within global circles funded by a city in flux. The criticality of imagination, memory, and recollection and how it empowers a reimagination of the human experience sustain the verve and the biennale’s impact within a rapidly rising momentum within art market collectives in the global south. It is therefore important to locate these strides, manned by young local and diasporic scholars, to a sense of a globalist rhetoric in the ways it informs a collective 7 Contemporaryand.com.

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decolonization agenda. A politics of dissolution is therefore imminent: a dissolution of neither the peripheral provinces nor the centrality of Western art; and a dissolution that recedes the boundaries conditioning the production of art and its possible accruable value, a state of equality, or a contextually inclusive approach in method. Beat Wyss’8 observations stay true regarding this reality, when he said: By the dissolution of Western art, the habitual distinction between center and periphery becomes obsolete. The hierarchy of the poles is inverted: the peripheral as an aesthetic phenomenon constitutes the discourse. The local idiolect of an artistic position, the fact of a specific ethnic provenance is the message. (­477) In Beat Wyss, we find a politics that has defined these relationships in the interim, albeit a symbiotic one. The artist has to acknowledge his peripheral status where he is given a platform to operate on the center should he vie for global attention. Equally important for Wyss is the emergence of new economies in Asia and Africa who are still maintained under the control of the West. But the continued rise in large format exhibitions globally, especially within peripheral economies, in the meantime, contends with first a reconfiguration of the contexts of participation. The Art X Lagos as well as the Lagos Biennale fits within this economy. While they begin to represent the West African s­ub-​­region’s significant inclusion in a compendium of global contemporary art, they also succeed in highlighting the divide in the contemporary art worlds and how to negotiate it. In Bourdieu’s discourse on the general structures, laws, and mechanisms of the complex art world, he addresses the notion of “­positions” within the artistic field. Bourdieu argues that positions refer to spaces occupied by art organizations or individuals serving as social agents existing in hierarchical relationships with one another. In other words, positions are structural relationships between social agents in terms of their interdependence and mutual hierarchy. However, the hierarchy that exists among positions in the artistic field stems from how specific capitals (­power, resources, or other aspects) are distributed that enable the winning of specific profits, which are at stake where symbolic goods such as artworks are produced. The profits won in the artistic field take the form of symbolic capital that is concurrent with the artistic prestige of positions within the field and its relationship with other fields. Hence, the distribution of this capital or artistic prestige among positions and the struggle to win more remain central to the hierarchy or structure of the field at a given moment.

Bourdieu’s Notion of Cultural Capital as Frontiers of Decolonization Bourdieu’s notion of specific capital distribution that determines the structure of the artistic field provides a dynamic for ranking the Nigerian art market position in relation to the global art market. Amid countries with the strongest presence in the global art world such as the United States 42%, China 27%, the UK 17%, and some European countries, the Nigerian art market for 2017 mirrored a meager percentage share of 0.09%. Within Bourdieu’s notion of artistic positions, countries with the strongest presence represent dominant participators endowed with a certain amount of economic and social capital that determines the positions of various nationalities in the global art market field. From a global competitive index perspective, the Nigerian art market remains with the dominant class of artistic position in the 8 Beat Wyss, Globalization of the Periphery: The Venice Biennale Project, Oncurating, issue 46 (­2 020), ­4 62–​­478.

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global art world. Buttressed, within Bourdieu’s notion of the field, how do the institutions and actors driving the Nigerian art market define it as a frontier of decolonization? In framing the Nigerian art market as a frontier of decolonization, Bourdieu identifies two types of relationship that c­ o-​­exist and govern the dynamics in the field. One is the struggle for dominance between positions in the field, while the other is the relationship of elements in the field to elements in the environment, especially as it concerns the field of power. While the struggle for dominance between positions is determined by capital in all its forms, the relationship between elements in the field is determined by a symbiotic exchange. Hence, the artistic field functions similarly within the field of power and the field of class relations. Dominance between positions in the artistic field is characterized by differences in forms of capital available to different nationalities, which determine the hierarchy of artists and countries in the world of contemporary art. Available capital invariably reflects the activities of flourishing economies such as the United States and China that remain dominant in the global art market field of power and class relations. For Willi Bongard, artist reputations are based on an objective measure of the artistic aesthetic value, which is determined by sets of judgments made by contemporary art experts rather than prices in the contemporary art market. Bongard presupposes that beyond economic capital as a determinant to artistic prestige, social capital will often play a role in transforming symbolic capital into economic winnings. Hence, although the Nigerian art market obviously lacks economic capital to occupy dominant positions within the art world market, it remains a burgeoning frontier of decolonization within the field of aesthetic evaluation and reception. Within this field of aesthetic reception, the activities of art gallerists, collectors, and dealers of artworks produced by artists from countries in the periphery remain the catalyst for international recognition of Nigerian artworks and artists in global contemporary art auctions. Aesthetic reception thus demonstrates the heterogeneity of taste, values, ideas, and conceptions that could challenge the status quo and orthodoxy to a gradual decentering of economic valuations of artists and artworks. We wish to acknowledge our mentor Frank Ugiomoh, Professor of Art history and Theory at the University of Port Harcourt History of Art School, who provided a background for this enriching research.

Works Cited Bennett, Tony. The Birth of a Museum: History, Theory, Politics (­Culture: Policy and Politics). London, England: Routledge, 1995, ­p. 124. Castellote Jess and Fagbule Tayo. “­The Nigerian Art Market Report 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017”, Foundation for Cotemporary and Modern Visual Arts, 9th Mar 2018. https://­fcmva.org/­­the–­​­­n igerian–­​­­a rt–­​­­ market–​­report/. Clare, McAndrew. “­The Art Market 2018”, An Art Basel & UBS Report, 2018. https://­d 2u3kfwd92fzu7. cloudfront.net/­A rt%20Basel%20UBS_The%20Art%20Market_2018.pdf. Collins, Michael. “­Nation, State, and Agency: Evolving Historiographies of African Decolonization”, Britain, France, and the Decolonization of Africa, edited by Smith, Andrew W. M. and Jeppesen Chris. University College London, 2017, ­pp. ­17–​­42. Dirlik, Arif. The Postcolonial Aura. “­T hird World Criticism in the Age of Global Capitalism”, edited by Desai, G. and Nair, S. Routledge, 1998. Ehrmann, Thierrry. H1 ­2017 – ​­Global Art market Report, by Artprice.com, https://­w ww.artprice. com/­­a rtprice-​­reports/­­g lobal-­​­­a rt-­​­­m arket-­​­­i n-­​­­h1-­​­­2017-­​­­by-​­a rtprice.com. Enwonwu, Oliver. “­The Rising Value of Nigerian Art”, Business Day, 14 Nov. 2020, businessday.ng. Fillitz, Thomas. “­The Booming Global Market of Contemporary Art”, ­Foocal-​­Journal of Global and Historical Anthropology, Vol. 69, 2014, ­pp. ­84–​­96, https://­doi.org/­10.3167/­fcl.2014.690106. Hamid, Rebecca. “­Positioning Artist Internationally”, edited by Peter Stupples, The Market and the Artist, University of Otago, Dunedin, 2015, ­pp. ­89–​­120.

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Samuel Egwu Okoro and Soiduate ­Ogoye-­Atanga Konate, Yacouba. “­The Invention of the Darkar Biennial (­2009) – ​­On Curating”, Contemporary Art ­Biennials – ​­Our Hegemonic Machines in Times of Emergency, Vol. 46, June 2020, ­pp. ­236–​­244, https://­ www.­on-​­curating.org/­­issue- ­​­­46-​­reader/­­the-­​­­g lobalization-­​­­of-­​­­a rt-­​­­a nd-­​­­the-­​­­biennials-­​­­of-­​­­resistance-­​ ­­a-­​­­h istoy- ­​­­of-­​­­the-­​­­biennials-­​­­f rom-­​­­the-​­periphery.html. Maanen, van Hans. “­Pierre Bourdieu’s Grand Theory of the Artistic Field”, How to Study Art Worlds. On the Societal Functioning of Aesthetic Values. Amsterdam University Press, ­pp. ­53–​­79, https://­w ww. jstor.org/­stable/­j.ett46n0p3.6. Marchart, Oliver. “­The Globalization of Art and the ‘­Biennials of Resistance’: A History of the Biennials form the Periphery”, Contemporary Art ­Biennials – ​­Our Hegemonic Machines in Times of Emergency, Vol. 46, June 2020, p­ p. ­22–​­29, https://­w ww.­on-​­curating.org/­­issue-­​­­46-​­reader/­­the-­​­­g lobalization-­​ ­­of-­​­­a rt-­​­­a nd-­​­­the-­​­­biennials- ­​­­of-­​­­resistance-­​­­a-­​­­h istoy-­​­­of-­​­­the-­​­­biennials-­​­­f rom-­​­­the-​­periphery.html. Nwakunor, Gregory A. and Sowole, Tajudeen. “­Nigeria: Welcome to the Intriguing World of Wealthy Art Collectors”. The Guardian, 1st Mar 2019, https://­a llafrica.com/­stories/­201903010210.html. Philipsen, Lotte. “­Globalizing Contemporary Art”, The Art World’s New Internationalism, Aarhus University Press, 2010. Preziosi. Donald, “­Collecting/­Museums”, Critical Terms for Art History, edited by Nelson Robert S. and Shiff, Richard. The University of Chicago Press, 2003, ­pp. ­407–​­418. Kolb, Roland. Patel, Shwetal A. and Richter, Dorothee. Editorial. Contemporary Art B ­ iennials – ​­O ur Hegemonic Machines in Times of Emergency, Vol. 46, June 2020, ­pp. ­8 –​­17, https://­w ww.­on-​­curating. org/­­i ssue- ­​­­4 6-​­reader/­­t he-­​­­g lobalization-­​­­of-­​­­a rt-­​­­a nd-­​­­t he-­​­­biennials-­​­­of-­​­­resistance-­​­­a -­​­­h istoy-­​­­of-­​­­t he-­​ ­­biennials-­​­­f rom-­​­­the-​­periphery.html. “­Shchutski, Vitali. “­International Contemporary Art Fairs Worldwide in 2017: A New Measure of the Internationalization of the Art Market”, https://­w ww.academia.edu/­38454017/­International_ Contemporary_Art_Fairs_Worldwide_in_2017_A_New_Measure_of_the_Internationalization_ of_the_Art_Market. Smith, Linda. T. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. University of Otago, Dunedin, 1999. Wyss, Beat. “­Globalization of Periphery: The Venice Biennial Project, On Curating”, Contemporary Art ­Biennials  – ​­Our Hegemonic Machines in Times of Emergency, Vol. 46, June 2020, ­pp.  ­462–​­478, https://­w ww.­on- ​­c urating.org/­­i ssue- ­​­­4 6-​­r eader/­­t he- ­​­­g lobalization- ­​­­of- ­​­­a rt- ­​­­a nd- ­​­­t he- ­​­­biennials- ­​­­of-­​ ­­resistance-­​­­a-­​­­h istoy- ­​­­of-­​­­the-­​­­biennials-­​­­f rom-­​­­the-​­periphery.html.

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38 HISTORIES AND PEDAGOGICS FROM THE UNDERSIDE(­S) OF MODERNITY Dalida María Benfield and Christopher Bratton

A group of people winds down a dirt road, then follows a path across fields and through the bush to the river, Enkare Nairobi, cool water. Some know these roads and paths and others do not. It is a place named Ongata Rongai, narrow plains. We are gently led, with no imposed tempo. But there is a direction towards which we are collectively moving, although each of us takes a somewhat different route. We all move towards the water. We listen along the route and upon our arrival. This is an exercise in considering the difference between listening and hearing. As we walk, then, with this shared intention, we think about what it is we are hearing and ask ourselves if this is in fact listening. We hear our own and each other’s footsteps, and the rustling of the grass. Eventually, we hear the rushing water, and when we arrive at the river, we are silent. We each find a place in near proximity or distance from one another. We work to listen. Some of us take notes, and some close our eyes. We think about the sound of the river, the sound of the distant city of Nairobi, and the sound of our recent conversations. To learn to listen to the complexity of a place, any place, is the first opening of the senses to a decolonial way of being. As we begin this essay, we underline our commitment to doing theory and practice together, and the interrelation of experience, knowledge, and action. We acknowledge the multiple worlds of sense of our readers and hope to share with you the many worlds of sense that inform the collective work of the Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research (­CAD+SR), an ongoing experiment in decolonial arts and design education, research, and activism. The words that follow evoke, but do not fully capture, the complex alterities, visualities, auralities, and other communicative and sensorial experiences of the people and collectives that make up the Center. While we engage theoretical approaches to decolonial thinking and doing, our work is in relation to but not identical with existing explanatory frameworks. We, therefore, invite you to read this as ­words-­​­­in-​­process, ­stand-​­ins for words that are forthcoming as an acknowledgement of emergent knowledges and practices, as well as the many forms of knowing and doing that remain outside of academic discourses of decoloniality.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003190530-42

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­Figure 38.1 De/­Archive East Africa, Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research Residency, Ongata Rongai, Kenya, 2020.  Photograph courtesy of Adam Sings In The Timber, 2020.

Siting Modernity and Its Underside(­s) The role of institutions of education in repressing forms of knowledge while sustaining and reproducing the modern/­colonial/­capitalist ­world-​­system1 has been widely discussed and analyzed by diverse theorists, situated in very different contexts. With much nuance and methodological differences, decolonial thinkers understand education as a primary site of the reproduction of key characteristics of modernity/­coloniality.2 This includes the deliberate project of producing knowledge hierarchies that mirror and reproduce g­ eo-​­political, racialized, and gendered social hierarchies. This project is multidimensional, causing the division of the sciences from the arts and humanities that intensified in the ­post-​­World War II period and now structures institutions, geographies, and fundamentally forms the disciplines (­Wallerstein). It is also reflected in the reproduction of domination that is the central goal of compulsory schooling, which emerged in the twentieth century and was “­universalized” alongside projects of colonial and imperial occupation (­I llich). On a continuum with plantations, workcamps, barracks, and prisons, schools are explicit in their exercise of the surveillance and domination of human bodies, undermining the agency of students and instead creating dependency on systems of control. To sum up these decolonial critiques, education is a set of social practices that marginalize the ways of knowing of the oppressed (­Freire). An understanding of the geopolitics of ­k nowledge—​­the positioning of knowledge production in a global hierarchy of political power that has divided the world according to North 1 We are indebted for the theorization of the modern/­colonial/­capitalist ­world-​­system to the collected works of Grosfoguel, Mignolo, and Quijano, who are each, in turn, indebted to Wallerstein. 2 See Fanon, Freire, Lugones, ­M aldonado-​­Torres, Mignolo, Wa Thiong’o, and Wynter.

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and South, East and West, as well as in a ­chrono-​­politics of the discourse of ­development—​­is crucial to elaborating a liberatory project. Contributing to theorizations of the coloniality of power (­Quijano) and the modern/­colonial/­capitalist ­world-​­system, Dussel posits Eurocentric modernity as the episteme that maintains the stability of the ­world-​­system (­2002). It centers itself and peripheralizes the rest of the world and its other ways of knowing. What is at stake in liberatory education, then, is challenging the social reproduction of this epistemic coloniality and its attempt to produce functional subjects within a dominating order, situated as they are in geographically, culturally, and economically diverse assemblages of contradictory elements. The positing of our collective difference, or to use Escobar’s phrase, “­­difference-­​­­in-​ ­equality” (­2000, 6), as our knowledge archive, is a challenge to the dominant knowledge hierarchies that structure existing institutions of art and schooling. We understand the strategies we employ, our iterative, critical pedagogies as being situated in a set of liberatory pedagogics that are ­co-​­constructed with our research community. Dussel’s distinction between pedagogy, understood as the science of teaching and learning, and pedagogics, the philosophies that frame the teaching and learning encounter, is useful here. All education expresses pedagogics, including contemporary schooling and its pedagogics of domination. Its practices are so deeply acculturated that they appear to be commonsensical, even natural. A critical denaturalization and recognition of historical and g­ eo-​­political specificities produces other pedagogics. This essay is situated in these other ways of knowing: the geographically, culturally, and economically diverse assemblages of molecular, mobile, and contradictory elements of modernity’s underside(­s), which we understand as multiple. We construct an assemblage of decolonial vocabularies, including those offered by Dussel (­2019), such as “­pedagogics” and “­exteriority,” and Escobar (­2020), the “­pluriverse.” As we elaborate our context of inquiry, we also draw upon the knowledges and emergent terms of our research community and other practitioners.3 Through a dialogue across texts, disciplines, periods, and geographies, we sketch a methodology of our community’s pedagogics, with an awareness that our reference points and constellations are continuously in motion, affirming a plurality of worlds. The scene described above, in Ongata Rongai, Kenya, was imagined and led by Joseph Kamaru aka KMRU, a sound artist based in Nairobi and Berlin, during the De/­A rchive East Africa research residency held by CAD+SR in January 2020. The convening was focused on the politics of archives: The modern archive is both an instrument and artifact of power, no more dramatically apparent than in the recent history of East Africa, where Britain and Germany used archives as an essential foundation of colonial power. More than half a century after independence, the meaning of these colonial archives remains an area of important social contestation, one which offers the possibility of radically new understandings of the past and even more radical imaginings of the future. How have artists, writers, thinkers, and activists addressed this tension to rethink the role of archives in the East African context? How might we rethink both knowledge and memory in relation to an official record based on exclusion and silence? What might a radical archive be? (­Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research 2019) 3 We think here with varied histories and geographies. These include the intellectual, activist, and artistic interventions created under the aegis of postcoloniality, decoloniality, and ­post-​­and decolonial aesthetics as represented in works such as Benfield et al.; Gómez Moreno; Mbembe; Mignolo; Trinh; and Vásquez, to name only a few.

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CAD+SR residencies are structured by knowledge sharing, with participants invited to respond to collective research questions and to create their own workshops or learning exercises. The Nairobi meeting was c­ o-​­convened with Senior Research Fellow Syowia Kyambi, with the additional goal of creating a permanent artists residency in Ongata Rongai. In this altogether invented place, over 20 artists, designers, activists, and researchers from 12 countries gathered with ­Nairobi-​­based artists and collectives, all of whom, over the course of 10 days, led workshops along the themes of their research. KMRU’s practice, predicated on radical listening, served as an exemplary framing of the convening. We listened for those things that are wrongly understood to be silent, absences that we came to know as being present. Such research residencies and workshops are central to the Center’s work. These parallel and extend the Center’s transnational fellowship program through which arts, design, and social researchers receive funding and other forms of support for their research projects. During residencies, held both ­in-​­person and virtually, fellows gather to share their work, lead workshops with each other and multiple publics, and engage in emergent conversations and collaborative projects toward building complex communities and relationships across multiple registers of difference. While not fully capturing the complexity of their identities, the fellows’ national locations include Brazil, Cuba, China, Denmark, France, Italy, Kenya, Mexico, Pakistan, Palestine, Russia, South Africa, Taiwan, Turkey, Uganda, and the United States, constituting a radical geographic and cultural diversity of experiences and knowledges, including queer, nonbinary, and transgender identities. The residencies and workshops are migratory and, besides Kenya, have been held in Brazil, Denmark, Finland, Ireland, Italy, Mexico, the United States, and online. The Center collaborates with artists, activists, and researchers in each locality of a residency or workshop to create the conditions for people to enter into each other’s worlds of sense and place. This is both an epistemic and spatial practice of a radical intersectional traveling that María C. Lugones terms “­­world-​­traveling and loving perception.”4 A critical engagement with our worlds of place and sense infuses our approach. We understand not only physical locality but also digital technology as an important location, both spatially and epistemically. Further, we recognize the role of technology in discourses of modernization and development that reinforce the epistemic hierarchies produced by the geopolitics of knowledge, making it a space of crucial decolonial intervention.5 As a further turn in the planetary spatialization of modernity/­coloniality, ­neo-​­liberalism emphasizes a flattening of the t­ime-​­space of the planet, representing the world as wholly bounded, explained, and functioning according to its economic principles. The conceptualization of spaces of exteriority that precede, elude, and resist this universalism, not incorporated by modernity and coloniality, but on its underside, provides an entry point for imagining privileged sites of emancipatory thought at which decolonial arts pedagogics can 4 Lugones posits this notion in the context of women of color organizing. She asserts the essential necessity of traveling to each other’s world in order to build coalition: “­Without knowing the other’s “­world,” one does not know the other…By traveling to other people’s worlds, we discover that here are “­worlds” in which those who are the victims of arrogant perception are really subjects, lively beings, resisters, constructors of visions…” (­2 003, ­96–​­97) 5 The Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research hosts, amongst other research groups, the “­A ffecting Technologies” working group, focused on critical approaches to technology. This group has organized numerous transnational convenings, including hackathons and symposia, most recently resulting in a book, Afetando Technologies, Maquinando Inteligências/­Affecting Technologies, Machining Intelligences (­Benfield et  al. 2021). The group’s critical research informs the organization’s overall approach to digital media. Also, see Benfield (­2 014, 2019) on decolonial approaches to digital media and information communication technologies.

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be sited. As Dussel writes, “­exteriority is a process that takes off, originates, and mobilizes itself from an ‘­other’ place (­one ‘­beyond’ the ‘­world’ and modernity’s ‘­Being’, one that maintains a certain exteriority…) than European and North American modernity” (­2002, 234). How we conceive of the location of exteriority as a collective imaginary has consequences for our pedagogics. We acknowledge, as discussed by Dussel, Escobar, and others, the singular importance of the planetary ways of knowing of Indigenous, “­Abya Yala/­A fro/­Latino América” communities and ancestral practices of “­Earth Thought” (­Escobar 2020, 40). Our pedagogics also posit exteriorities as not a singular stable location or group of people. Exteriorities are multiply located, digitally, temporally, and spatially, crisscrossing existing planes of the arts, cultural practices, institutions, economies, geographies, nation states, and digital media. Exteriorities are dispersed across spaces of institutionalized and informal learning and culture, including art worlds and global media flows. Decolonial pedagogics define themselves in response to these heterogeneous spaces of domination and resistance, and interiorities and exteriorities. Pluriversality includes the recognition of ways of being and doing that emphasize the interconnection, always in motion, of humans and the other living beings of the earth, as well as our multiple cosmologies and places. Escobar underlines the praxical invitation of the pluriverse: “­Living in accordance with the idea that there are multiple worlds, partially connected but radically different, entails an entire different ethics of life, of being~doing~knowing” (­2020, 27). We link these questions of the pluriverse to the potential of diverse forms of cultural practices and pedagogics to disturb and upend the ontological certainties of not just art w ­ orlds—​ ­the economic and social spheres constructed by the production and circulation of ­a rt—​­but also the flat, n ­ eo-​­liberalized, mediatized world that is of a piece with modernity/­coloniality’s “­g lobal design” (­M ignolo 2012). The invitation to engage in a pluriversal approach to culture, and a decolonial pedagogics, destabilizes disciplines and demands a reformulation of assumptions about what constitutes arts, craft, design, and visual culture education. This includes rethinking scope, method, genre, form, content, and purpose, and a recognition of the multiple genealogies and histories of making that inform planetary cultures.6 In discussing her work as a member of the Arazi Collective, Senior Research Fellow Pelin Tan does just this, asking, “­How does ‘­territory’ speak to us? What is its methodology and its fiction?” She details the meanings of “­arazi” in relation to that used typically by contemporary Turkish architectural and design studios as “­project space” (­52). Its etymology, however, is more complex, an Ottoman word borrowed from the Arabic meaning “­land, country, terrain, territory, estate, property, soil, ground, agricultural land” (­52). The common usage ignores this complexity to instead suggest that whatever is to be built is on an essentially open, neglected and available space, abandoned, “­a n innocent space,” a “­r uin” (­53). As Tan writes, the work of the collective reclaims the term’s complexity by an insistent understanding that “…effects of war and the negotiation of borderlines transform our approach and the methodologies of infrastructures” to include, for example, a consideration of refugee camps and other ad hoc enforced resettlements as territories (­54).

Activating Decolonial Pedagogics and Rearranging Technologies The recognition of the pluriversality of planetary cultures is at the core of our work. This recognition occurs in the contemporary context of the arts: Institutionalized arts education 6 By invoking the term “­planetary,” we echo the call made by Paul Gilroy in Postcolonial Melancholia, for a planetary horizon of imagined collective futures.

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has been challenged by multiple pressures. Perhaps the most important among these is the increasing ­neo-​­liberalization and instrumentalization of all education, including the division of human knowledges into hierarchical disciplines and the devaluing of the domains known as the arts and humanities (­Wallerstein 1996). Culture is a site of struggle for marginalized and excluded communities, a place for emergent forms of social possibility from which to imagine the world otherwise. The projects of the Center’s research community test such ideas in situated, praxical contexts. Utopian Field (­2019) is an ongoing research project by senior researcher, artist, and filmmaker Ou Ning, on the pursuit and construction of egalitarianism over the past two centuries. It chronicles “­the ways people have invented informal politics in their everyday life and considers the roles that art, education and religion have played in these practices” (­Ning 2019). It is ­t rans-​­local and transhistorical, an imaginative rethinking of global interconnection through interviews with members of contemporary “­rural reconstruction projects, countryside art projects, hippie communes, intentional communities, ECO villages and utopian practices in different countries and regions” with other texts and images resulting from visits to historical communitarian sites around the world such as Brook Farm in Boston, Moroyama Villages in Japan, and Santiniketan and Auroville in India (­Ning 2019). In Ou Ning’s research, the emphasis on place transforms the idea of “­utopia” as a ­no-​­place into a place that is built from human activity and a commitment to other forms of living outside of modernity/­coloniality. Beyond his ­t rans-​­local research about other communities, Ou Ning was also the creative force behind the Bishan Project, a communal effort in the early 2000s that revitalized a rural Chinese village. In the Bishan Project, villagers were supported to create an autonomous series of knowledge centers, including libraries, schools, and workshops. Also, they created their own currency for cultural and material exchanges, effectively producing an alternative economic world in which to live. This praxical research created not only a lived experience that lasted over several years but also an archive of documentary reflections (­Ning 2020). In the Center’s practice, gatherings of researchers, such as Ou Ning, in residencies and workshops, constitute a threshold to study through; a matrix to connect distinct ways of understanding the world. Denaturalizing disciplines and their hierarchies and making their terms cultural artifacts for critical reflection require cultivating a respect for the skills and knowledge of others in an open field of inquiry that can accommodate diverse modes. It is to imagine diversity without separation, in equality, an idea of community that encourages heterogeneity, including dissidence, conflict, and interrelation across difference.

Underneath, External, and Inside The 33rd São Paulo Biennial and Bruno Moreschi’s project for it, Outra 33 Bienal (­An Other 33rd Biennial) (­2018), is a palimpsest, digital and, otherwise, a phantom that exists only in peripheral vision. Focus and it disappears, but there it is, underneath, external, and inside of the biennial. It is a panoply of social relations and analogue and digital apparatuses. This includes Artificial Intelligence platforms scanning and categorizing the exhibition and its multiple facets, mostly mistakenly, confusing the works of art with other things, in effect miscategorizing and ­un-​­curating the whole. Here, too, in this other version, are the voices of cleaning staff, carpenters, installers, electricians, movers, assistants to curators, and assistants to others. A graffiti collective assumes itself invited and provides a new slogan for what could be called the building’s frieze: “­Doesn’t this person deserve recognition by the art world?” It is gone in less than 24 hours. 368

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One evening, a bus arrives full of people from all over the sprawling city of São Paulo. Some of those that step off are blindfolded by others. Those that are not blindfolded lead those that are, explaining everything that is being seen, both “­art” and “­­non-​­art.” The blindfolded touch walls, ceilings, sculptures, and signs, and as the groups’ fragment, they move slower still, holding onto one another. Over several hours, the murmuring amplified by the complex spatialities of the Ciccillo Matarazzo Pavilion (­1957), designed by Oscar Niemayer in a frisson of modernization, creates its own space defined by our sense of shared intimacies and pervasive tenderness. Finally, distributed around the space, we read aloud our biographical stories written collectively the night before, and others respond with drawn interpretations and illustrations on the concrete floor. Two phases of engagement, then, marked this, the second of a t­hree-​­night workshop, “­­Entre olhares—​­Vislumbres potencialmente libertadores no Sistema da 33a Bienal de São Paulo (­Between ­Gazes—​­Potentially liberating glimpses into the system of the 33rd Bienniale of São Paulo),” held in tandem with Outra 33 Bienal (­An Other 33rd Biennial). ­Co-​­organized by the Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research and the Itau Cultural Center, the workshop engaged a group of adult participants, including artists and art educators, in a reconsideration of the meanings of biennial. It enacted a series of readings of the exhibition that included not only the physical act of unseeing and mistranslation but also the occupation and repurposing of the biennial site as a theater for our stories. Finally, with all the other pieces of the Outra 33 Bienal (­An Other 33rd Biennial), the workshop is also included in the archive, indistinguishable from and interchangeable with the official exhibition itself. Pedagogics in the “underside(s) of modernity” are constituted by such other conjunctural coordinates of people, collectives, temporalities, and ­geo-​­political localities in which knowledge is produced and social transformation occurs. Outra 33 Bienal (­An Other 33rd Biennial) created a space in which bodies marked by racial difference and multiple global colonialities could convene in reciprocity with the recognition that we have something crucial to offer each other. But the workshop is not itself, nor is the learning implied by it, the endpoint. It is both here and there, inside and outside both the biennial and its art system, and the workshop and its formal system of education. The deliberate decentering of the discursive power of the biennial as a cultural event and artifact allowed a ­re-​­centering of ­open-​­ended sociality and communication. The scopic regime of modernization and development, which figures prominently in the n ­ ation-​­building project of international biennials, was just one of the discursive systems critiqued and displaced by the project. The introduction of other voices, experiences, and knowledges effected this and other visual, sonic, and spatial displacements. Pedagogics in the “­underside(­s) of modernity” are epistemically and methodologically heterogeneous, constituted by the situated knowledges, stories, cosmologies, and imaginations of individuals and collectivities. These push against and transgress schooling, routing an altogether different trajectory, undisciplined and unbound. Pedagogical goals become only a transit point that we move across, towards one another, in a conversation between people who are excluded and subordinated, epistemically and materially. This comparative conversation is crucially important for building alliances t­rans-​­locally and transnationally, entailing a mapping of intersecting histories and building collective languages of cultural and political transformation. From this perspective, the work becomes a mobile node in a global movement of knowledge sharing and building, not only about decentering “­A merica” or “­Europe” but modernity/­coloniality itself, through which “­A merica” and “­Europe” are produced. This r­ e-​­centering of other knowledges displaces the archives of schooling, pointing to the end of the “­age of the school” itself (­Dussel 134). 369

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­Figure 38.2 Vislumbres Potencialmente Libertadores no Sistema da 33a Bienal de São Paulo (­Potential Liberatory Visions of the 33rd Sao Paulo Biennial System), a workshop by Dalida María Benfield, Christopher Bratton, Bernardo Fontes, Bruno Moreschi, and Gabriel Pereira, 33rd São Paulo Biennial, 2018. ­Co-​­sponsored by the Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research and the Itaú Cultural as part of Outra 33 Bienal (­A nother 33rd Biennial) a work by Bruno Moreschi commissioned by the 33rd São Paulo Biennial. Photograph courtesy of Dalida María Benfield, 2018.

Archipelagic Archives Linda Tuhiwai Smith discusses the construction of knowledge and the West’s cultural archive: Western knowledges, philosophies and definitions of human nature form what Foucault has referred to as a cultural archive and what some people might refer to as a storehouse of histories, artefacts, ideas, texts and/­or images, which are classified, preserved, arranged and represented back to the West. (­1999, 44) In this sense, then, the West is usefully described as a m ­ eta-​­archive, with its central claim as a repository of all human knowledge fundamentally bound up with its sense of itself. A normative praxis of the West, archiving is a colonial technology that gathers, classifies, and preserves knowledge about colonized others. Our community is produced by and produces another kind of archive driven by a relational and revelatory imaginary. The constellation of the community’s projects constructs an archipelago in the sense that Édouard Glissant details, of histories, places, and ideas that are entangled in transhistorical and ­trans-​­local relationships. Glissant’s phrase, “­commonplaces and entanglements” (­1997), is the title of our annual research residencies, evoking enmeshed and rhizomatic histories, borne from the Caribbean and its entanglements with coloniality 370

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and slavery. Further evoking these relational archives, Research Fellow Susana Pilar Delahante Matienzo speaks about the complexity of A ­ fro-​­Cuban legacies in contemporary Cuba and to yet unrealized futures: Lo llevamos rizo, the natural ­A fro-​­hair project, started as a result of my own experience in Cuban society, in public space. I am coming from a country in which almost every year, we are trying new utopias. We are trying new ways of being in the society. We are living between success, failure, and utopia, being in a space sometimes that we consider a ­non-​­space, because we consider that Cuba is out of space and out of time in relation with the rest of the world. So, for me, exploring new ways of accomplishing things, in my specific interest, which is natural Afro hair, race issues, identity, A ­ fro-​­Cuban identity…is taking as an example Cuban society itself which is society as a trial run. We are trying to bring equality, racial equality, and hair equality in Cuba from the utopian area to what we hope can really be in the society itself. (­Delahante Matienzo 2020) The Lo llevamos rizo project, a collective founded in 2018 by Delahante Matienzo, creates an international, online platform for information sharing on care for “­A fro hair.” This includes ­in-​­person workshops, recipes for hair treatments, styling h ­ ow-​­tos, and a supportive online community for tips and resources.7

Other Stories There are no teachers or students, and no classes or curricula. This is an invitation to come together in the knowledge that each one is an epistemic agent by virtue of their location(­s) as a thinker, an activist, and/­or an artist and that differences are the fundamental rationale for the encounter because it is exactly an encuentro, an encounter. It is a meeting, a confrontation, and a game. There is no telling or narrating the truth, no lectern. Instead, it is a place of mutual listening, for it is in the play between experiences that ideas take form. How to imagine the world of this school? To even speak of a North and a South, East and a West, carries a danger of reproducing a maze of dualities structured by racism and colonialism. It is our social relations that constitute this place with an integral relationship to how we understand and see the world. This “­here” is the Center’s convening in Mexico’s largest indigenous city, Mérida, and the questions of indigenous and planetary ways of knowing, of other cosmologies, but from distinct standpoints: Mayan cosmologies of the Yucatán are oriented along the axis east to west in distinction to the ­north-​­south of the US or Europe. ­East-​­west, of course, follows the path of the sun, and as you turn towards its rising, east is above, the west below. The past is in front of you, and the future behind. (­Briceño Chel 2019) And: In this feed what you see are images from the deepest space, in the order of light years from here. These images are live, but all that you are seeing as the telescope travels forward is long in the past, light from stars, billions of years old… . (­Newman 2019) 7 See the project’s website, https://­w ww.facebook.com/­L ollevamosrizo/, for more information on their ongoing programs.

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As we share these final expressions of what might be called a “­planetary” existence, shared in our gatherings, we wish to underline the porosity and incompleteness of our pedagogics. The diverse alterities, an ongoing confrontation with the Other that enables what Dussel called “­a new historical project for being human,” or the epistemological and ontological shift to pluriversalism and planetarity (­2019, 57), requires such an ­open-​­ended conclusion. We understand our work as the enabling transmission of knowledge, arriving as a “­creative revelation,” shared and owned by student and teacher alike, eliding the distinction between the two (­58). This is the practice of the school from the “­underside,” stripped of its hierarchies and ­de-​­institutionalized, both located and dispersed by its relationships of reciprocity with other people and places. It is a complex, unfinished, and i­n-​­process practice of “­d ifference in equality,” the consequence of the epistemological and ontological shift to the pluriversal and the planetary (­Escobar 2006, 13). The knowledge of our planetarity is already upon us as the common, ancestral, even if distorted, experience of our everyday lives, and its description is only somewhat encapsulated by the experiences and theoretical terms shared here. No one and no place is outside of either localities or worldly interconnection. It remains for us to critically grasp the meaning of these relations, reshape them, and create unforeseen forms of community to imagine the future otherwise. It is to create a new sense of emplacement and interrelation across our worlds.

Prompts and Resources • •

•

• • • •

Imagine schooling without schools: What new knowledges and pedagogies would that make possible? How would digital technologies figure into those scenarios? What transnational educational experiences have you had? What have they taught you, within and beyond the intended subject(­s) of the curriculum? How could those learnings be extended into new contexts for exchanges? Think of the young and old in your community. What kinds of art education contexts (­thought broadly) might be successful for bringing them together? What subject(­s) would you pose as transgenerational threads of collaboration and collective making? Affecting Technologies, Machining Intelligences: https://­book.­a ffecting-​­technologies.org/ Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research: www.centerartsdesign.org Enrique Dussel: ttps://­enriquedussel.com/­en/­home/ Highlander Research and Education Center: https://­h ighlandercenter.org/

Works Cited Anderson, Robert. “­University fees in historical perspective.” Policy Papers, History and Policy, 8 February 2016, www.historyandpolicy.org/­­policy-​­papers/­papers/­­u niversity-­​­­fees-­​­­i n-­​­­h istorical-​­perspective. Accessed May 15, 2021. Appadurai, Arjun. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Benfield, Dalida María. “­Terceras Cinematografías: Terceros Espacios. Una Genealogía de la Producción Estética Descolonizada.” Practicas Artísticas e Imaginarios Sociales: Evento Teórico, Oncena Bienal de La Habana, edited by Dannys Montes de Oca Moreda, Ediciones Cupulas/­A rteCubano Ediciones, 2014, ­pp. ­89–​­97. Benfield, Dalida María, and Christopher Bratton. “­Reasons to Kill a Poet.” Comunicazioni sociali, 2021, n. 1, ­pp. ­136–​­143, Vita e Pensiero / Pubblicazioni dell’Universitá Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, doi: 10.26350/ 001200_000121. Benfield, Dalida María, et al. “­Decolonial Aesthetics Manifesto.” FUSE Magazine, Fall 2013.

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Histories and Pedagogics from the Underside(s) of Modernity Benfield, Dalida María, editor. Decolonizing the Digital/­D igital Decolonizations, The Worlds and Knowledges Otherwise Dossier, Volume 31, Global Studies Workshop, Duke University, www. trinity.duke. edu/­g lobalstudies/­­volume-­​­­31-­​­­decolonizing-­​­­the-­​­­d igitaldigital-​­decolonization, 2009. Benfield, Dalida María, et  al., editors. Affecting Technologies, Machining Intelligences. Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research, 2021. Bratton, Christopher. “­Formas de Inutilidad.” Practicas Artísticas e Imaginarios Sociales: Evento Teórico, Oncena Bienal de La Habana, edited by Dannys Montes de Oca Moreda, Ediciones Cupulas/­A rte Cubano Ediciones, 2014, ­pp. ­231–​­236. Briceño Chel, Fidencio. Lecture Presented at “­Indigenous Planetary Ways of Knowing,” workshop held by the Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research, Mérida, Mexico, January 2019. Castells, Manuel. The Rise of the Network Society. 2nd ed., Blackwell Publications, 2000. Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research. “­De/­A rchive East Africa,” 2019. www.centerartsdesign. org, 1 June 2021. Dussel, Enrique. The Pedagogics of Liberation: A Latin American Philosophy of Education. Punctum Books, 2019. Dussel, Enrique and Alessandro Fornazzari. “­­World-​­System and “­Trans”-​­Modernity.” Nepantla: Views from South, vol. 3 no. 2, 2002, ­pp. ­221–​­244. Project MUSE muse.jhu.edu/­a rticle/­23955. Escobar, Arturo. Pluriversal Politics: The Real and the Possible. Duke University Press, 2020. —​­—​­—​­. “­Difference and Conflict in the Struggle over Natural Resources: A Political Ecology Framework,” Development, Palgrave Macmillan, Society for International Development, vol. 49, no. 3, ­pp. ­6 –​­13, September 2006. Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. Grove Press, 2008. “­Fast Facts: Tuition costs of colleges and universities.” National Center for Education Statistics, 2021, https://­nces.ed.gov/­f astfacts/­d isplay.asp?id=76. Accessed 1 June 2021. Freire, Paolo. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. 1970. Translated by Myra Bergman Ramos, Continuum International Publishing Group, 2000. Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Harvard University Press, 2003. —​­—​­—​­. Postcolonial Melancholia. Columbia University Press, 2005. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/­stable/­ 10.7312/­g ilr13454. Accessed 1 June 2021. Glissant, Édouard. Poetics of Relation. Translated by Betsy Wing, University of Michigan Press, 1997. Gómez Moreno, Pedro Pablo. Estéticas fronterizas: diferencia colonial y opción estética decolonial. UD, Editorial, Universidad Distrital Francisco José de Caldas, 2015. Grosfoguel, Ramón. “­Colonial Difference, Geopolitics of Knowledge, and Global Coloniality in the Modern/­Colonial Capitalist W ­ orld-​­System,” Review (­Fernand Braudel Center), vol. 25, no. 3, 2002, ­pp. ­203–​­224. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/­stable/­40241548. Accessed 13 June 2021. Hall, Stuart. Essential Essays: Foundations of Cultural Studies, edited by David Morley. Duke University Press, 2018, 2 vols. Harvey, David. The New Imperialism. Oxford University Press, 2003. Heilig, Julian Vazquez, et al. “­From Dewey to No Child Left Behind: The Evolution and Devolution of Public Arts Education,” Arts Education Policy Review, no. 111, p­ p. ­136–​­145, 2010. Illich, Ivan. Deschooling Society. Harper & Row, 1971. James, C.L.R. You Don’t Play With Revolution, edited by David Austin. AK Press, 2009. Lugones, María C. “­Heterosexualism and the colonial/­modern gender system.” Hypatia, vol. 22, no.1, 2007, ­pp. ­186–​­219. —​­—​­—​­. Peregrinajes/­P ilgrimages: Theorizing Coalition against Multiple Oppressions. Rowman and Littlefield, 2003. —​­—​­—​­. “­Playfulness, ‘­World’-​­Travelling, and Loving Perception.” Hypatia, vol. 2, no. 2, 1987, ­pp. ­3 –​ ­19. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/­stable/­3810013. Accessed 1 May 2021. ­M aldonado-​­Torres, Nelson. Against War: Views from the Underside of Modernity. Duke University Press, 2008. Mbembe, Achille. Necropolitics. Duke University Press, 2019. Mignolo, Walter. Local Histories/­Global Designs: Coloniality, subaltern Knowledges, and Border Thinking. Princeton University Press, 2012. Mignolo, Walter, and Vazquez, Rolando. “­Decolonial Aesthesis: Colonial Wounds/­Decolonial Healings,” AestheSis Dossier, Periscope, Social Text, 2013, https://­socialtextjournal.org/­periscope_article/ ­­decolonial-­​­­aesthesis-­​­­colonial-­​­­woundsdecolonial-​­healings/.

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Dalida María Benfield and Christopher Bratton Moreschi, Bruno. Outra 33 Bienal (­An Other 33rd Biennial). 2018. ­Multi-​­Media Artwork, Including Performance, Video, Documentary, Workshop. Documentation Accessible at https://­outra33.bienal.org.br/. Newman, Dava. Lecture presented at “­Indigenous Planetary Ways of Knowing,” workshop held by the Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research, Mérida, Mexico, January 2019. Ning, Ou. Utopia in Practice: Bishan Project and Rural Reconstruction. Palgrave Macmillan, 2020. —​­—​­—​­.”Utopian Field.” Praxis Center, Arcus Center for Social Justice, Kalamazoo College, October 25, 2019, http://­w ww.kzoo.edu/­praxis/­­utopian-​­field/. Pilar Delahante Matienzo, Susana, Guest. “­Episode 6: Utopia (­No Place),” Conversations from the Center, Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research, 1 August 2020, https://­play.acast.com/­s/­­conversations­​­­f rom-­​­­the-​­center/­­episode-­​­­5 -­​­­utopia-­​­­no-​­place. Quijano, Anibal. “­Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America.” International Sociology, vol. 15, no. 2, June 2000, ­pp. ­215–​­232, doi:10.1177/­0268580900015002005. Seltzer, Rick. “­ A rt School Shakeout.” Inside Higher Ed, 2/­7/­2019, https://­w ww.insidehighered. com/­news/­2019/­02/­07/­­a rt- ­​­­schools- ­​­­show- ­​­­signs-­​­­stress-­​­­what-­​­­can-­​­­l iberal-­​­­a rts- ­​­­colleges-​­learn. Tan, Pelin. “­Surpassing Disaster: Territories, Entanglements and Methods.” Mediating the Spatiality of Conflicts: International Conference Proceedings, edited by Armina Pilav, Marc Schoonderbeek, Heidi Soh, and Aleksandar Staničić, BK Books, ­pp. ­45–​­62. Accessed at https://­books.bk.tudelft.nl/­i ndex. php/­press/­catalog/­v iew/­764/­876/­­834-​­1 18 June 2021. Tuhiwai Smith, Linda. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples, Zed Books, 1999. Tsing, Anna Lowenhaupt, et al. “­Patchy Anthropocene: Landscape Structure, Multispecies History, and the Retooling of Anthropology: An Introduction to Supplement 20.” Current Anthropology, vol. 60, no. 20, August 2019, https://­doi.org/­10.1086/­703391. Wa Thiong’o, Ngugi. Decolonising the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature. East African Publishers, 1992. Wallerstein, Immanuel. Open the Social Sciences: Report of the Gulbenkian Commission on the Restructuring of the Social Sciences. Stanford University Press, 1996. Williams, Raymond. Raymond Williams on Culture and Society: Essential Writings, edited by Jim McGuigan. SAGE Publications, 2014. Wynter, Sylvia. “­A frica, the West and the Analogy of Culture: The Cinematic Text after Man.” Symbolic Narratives/­African Cinema: Audiences, Theory, and the Moving Image, British Film Institute, edited by June Givanni, 2000, ­pp. ­25–​­76. —​­—​­—​­. “­1492: A New World View.” Race, Discourse and the Origin of the Americas: A New World View, edited by Vera Lawrence Hyatt and Rex Nettleford, Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992, ­pp. ­5 –​­57. —​­—​­—​­. “­On Disenchanting Discourse: “­M inority” Literary Criticism and Beyond.” Cultural Critique, vol. 7, 1987, ­pp. ­207–​­244.

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AFTERWORD Manisha Sharma

The Discomfort of a Shifting Discourse Editing this companion has been an exhilarating and humbling experience. Many significant volumes have come before ours, which throw light on the developments and realities in postcolonial scholarship and decolonizing practices. For instance, art educators Christine Ballengee Morris and Kryssi Staikidis co-edited Transforming Our Practices: Indigenous Art, Pedagogies, and Philosophies (2017) bringing together perspectives on Indigenous methodologies in art education. Artist collectives like Postcommodity (“Postcommodity”; Postcommodity: About) have been casting an Indigenous lens on systemic “incongruent histories” since 2007. Since the inception of this book project, several new explorations into decolonizing efforts have come to light. In 2021, the Journal for Research in Arts and Sports Education dedicated an issue to decolonizing perspectives of art education (Martin et al.); also in 2021 and during the pandemic, NYU’s Arts Education Toward Decolonization Series was one of many symposia and panels discussing the what, why, and how of what it means to decolonize art, education, and social theory; and in 2022, a PhD student in Finland wrote a dissertation proposing the decolonization of elementary art curriculum in Uganda (Muyanja). The growing engagement with decolonization discourses, with emphasis on praxis, reiterates the desire and need for unsettling discussions on what colonization feels like for different folx. Through our engagements with authors and reviewers, and our own research in bringing this Companion to life, we have found that the need for parlay or negotiation on what is being experienced as colonization and what it would take to heal those (traumatic) experiences is far more important than establishing superior or temporal/spatially specific definitions of what decolonization means and what it looks like in practice for separate disciplines. What the essays in this book confirm is the need to listen to stories and experiences of colonization that are other to our own; to focus on the overlaps rather than the differences at where we might connect, and in listening with care, to not fight each other for space to voice our separate stories to establish hierarchies of pain and loss, in order to compete for limited resources of healing, but rather to make space together, in solidarity, both for a confrontation of our pain and the necessary healing process. The chapters of this book present insights into both first steps and radical crossings into decolonizing territory, spanning various geographies, timespans, disciplines, and languages. The thread that runs through them all is 375

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the desire to receive and provide care and love, in the presence of anger, defiance, and an awaiting of retribution for unspeakable ills committed against mind, body, land, and culture. Over the past 20 years, I have been deeply invested in postcolonial and globalization discourses, examining how to make sense of the mindsets and actions that lead people to conquer, marginalize, minimize, and erase people and their cultures. Artists are problem-posers and seekers of the imaginary; educators are problem solvers and solution seekers. As an art educator, therefore, I have also become deeply invested in the action side of this theorizing and yearn to understand what decolonization is proposed and understood as being as well as how it is evolving in thought and action. Specifically, as a response to the conditions of the postcolonial and decolonial, and to globalization and its backlash: nationalism, or pre-occupation with what Gayatri Spivak called “the nation-thing” (Spivak). To clarify, by nation-thing, Spivak refers to the sociocultural markers of belonging that make us identify as part of a nation as an imaginary, even though state-formations within a region where that nation lives may change. We are at a curious moment of disruption in the world and teetering of the edge of a change. That change might be a repetition (with difference) of the cycles of violence spurred by the desire for conquest and technological development, that is, the project of capitalism— and therefore of colonialism, both imperial and neoliberal. Or it might be a breakthrough toward a synergy of human and non-human, and of post-humanity and spiritualism, which rejects the permanent placements and organizations of state-craft into center and margin, have and have-not, productive/unproductive, and other such hierarchical binaries and dares to imagine something else. So, it is a significant time for the art and art education world to consider where we stand and where we take a stand. As I write this, the war between Russia and Ukraine has been loudly in the news and is renewing discussions of colonization and conquest, justice and belonging, of the indigenous, invader, settler, and alien…but this is not a new or extraordinary event really—such conflicts have been ongoing for decades and centuries across Eastern Europe, the many regions of Asia and Africa, and the Americas. The volume of coverage is louder now, perhaps because of whose lives are at stake, what their skin, hair and eye color is, and where, geographically, the fallout of nuclear threat is being felt. This skewed prioritization of life too is not new to people of color and others who have been made minorities permanently, or to what is still called the third world. What is different now is the rate of public involvement and response to this event, the accessibility of linguistic translation, and the speed at which change is demanded to be demonstrated, in this and other conflicts, social and military, and this is largely because of digital technologies and the access to discourse on digital platforms. Digital technologies have taken globalization to another level, enabling the possibility of discourse, and its communication to a wide audience, at a much deeper and wider scope. Speed and immediacy are associated with new technologies such as ICTs and digital technologies. We see this in our solutions for educational content delivery as well, be it in K-12 or higher education, or non-formal teaching of information. Education, however, is and has always been a slow process that percolates and develops over time. Testing as a form of assessment captures an aspect of learning, in an immediate way, in contexts of the needs of established educational and professional markets, but evidence of socio-cultural learning of morals and ethics is a long game. It takes time to test and evaluate how prepared we educators make people to encounter and live in the world, vis-à-vis professional markets. This struggle holds true in the development of artists as well. We can, as art educators, teach media-based techniques, historical facts, and movements, and test them for application in arts profession 376

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markets. But what does it mean to discuss and explore, what it means to be an artist—i.e., to think like, act like, feel like an artist—to encounter an art world vis-à-vis an art market. This is all to say that as we ponder transformational change in the world through the arts, education, and specifically art education—this is a moment to think of the juxtaposition we’re living in—of the hyper speeds at which we’re getting used to thinking, responding, communicating, and acting in, and the comparatively slower systems of sustainable education and cultural systems. And to consider how, through decolonizing thinking and solutions, we might imagine solutions to reconcile these. Current literature speaks of decolonizing not only in terms of land, space, mind, and body but also the digital. Technology is inextricable from capitalism (Appadurai, Modernity At Large; Appadurai, The Social Life of Things) and thus colonialism. Therefore, we need to find ideas and engagements with technology—whether that of basket weaving and textile crafting, or of mobile phones and online learning, or VR and NCTs and AI—that encourage discourse on human complicity in our forms of object and image making. This is so we can think deeply about the value systems involved in consumption and production of art and visual culture and education artifacts and to be aware of the consequences of our complicity as makers and consumers of art and design, whether traditional, modern, or futuristic. Equally important and valuable is to think about how indigenous methodologies and ontologies speak to interrupting exploitative technologies through acts that hack heteronormative capitalism and its educational and cultural agents. As we close this volume, I want to share two recent examples of radical changes in thinking, postcolonial and decolonization in the current moment, that I think are worth giving our attention to, as we do our work in nurturing critical art education that has growth and transcendence into holistic being, rather than a return to a lost past. In late 2020, Mahmoud Mamdani published a book titled Neither Settler nor Native: The Making and Unmaking of Permanent Minorities (Mamdani). In it, he rejects the current focus on human rights as the means to bring justice to the victims of this colonial and postcolonial bloodshed. Instead, he calls for a new kind of political imagination. Mamdani argues that the nation-state and the colonial state created each other. He presents several cases from around the globe—from the Americas to South Africa, Israel to Germany to Sudan—to show that the colonial state and the nation-state have been mutually constructed through the politicization of a religious or ethnic majority at the expense of an equally manufactured minority. He shows how the British turned differences of culture into boundaries of authority and decided what power that authority would possess. This project took advantage of two broad kinds of diversity, linguistic and ethnic, and created even within indigenous groups, narratives of settler and native. Thus, in the postcolony, it is the settlers that are turned against, rather than the colonizers. We can see examples of this in South Africa, Sudan, and the South Asian subcontinent. Neither Settler nor Native analyzes seemingly disparate political histories to illuminate the intertwined logic of colonial statecraft and nation-building, the legacy of which was the violent manufacture of permanent majorities and minorities the world over. Mamdani persuasively argues that there will be no decolonization, no democracy, and no peace until we de-link the association between the nation and state power. He thus traces how decolonization uses the tools of political engagement and negotiation to unsettle inherited identities, to convert perpetrators and victims into survivors, natives and settlers into citizens, and nation-states into inclusive democracies. The second thought provocation I want to introduce here is how we consider the indigenous in the project of decolonization. In her book As We Have Always Done: Indigenous Freedom through Radical Resistance, Simpson suggests that Indigenous resistance is a radical 377

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rejection of contemporary colonialism focused around the refusal of the dispossession of both Indigenous bodies and land. Simpson makes clear that the goal of indigenous resistance can no longer be cultural resurgence as a mechanism for inclusion in a multicultural mosaic. [Pause here for a moment to consider cases in point in your global location, to consider how that’s not really working]. Instead, Simpson calls for unapologetic, place-based Indigenous alternatives to the destructive logics of the settler colonial state, including heteropatriarchy, cultural supremacy, and capitalist exploitation. While criticality and transcendence from oppressed knowledge systems are vital to emancipation, it does lead to anger or resentment and potentially, a total rejection of colonial knowledge systems, and an imperative to return to “before times”—and political power and desire for power often decide which knowledge systems get to be privileged. I see this happening in India in the current moment and in a very different context of both native and settler populations in the United States. History nonetheless has happened, and who we are now, irrespective of nationality, is defined by the passage of colonialism. The fact that we are here, now, my writing, and your reading of these matters in (a form of ) the English language is evidence of that. As I remarked in the beginning of this afterword, the experience of assembling this Companion text has been exhilarating and humbling. The work introduced here highlights love, care, patience, and submission of ego while encountering the discomfort of those whose experiences are different than ours. For me, that is a characteristic of decolonization. My emerging understanding of decolonization as a thought system and a just practice is that it is (a) having the strength and resilience to confront and recognize the burning anger and humiliation of systemic injustice while also recognizing that a return to the past is impossible without perpetrating further violence and injustice, (b) to therefore engage in dialogue and negotiations to address specific injustices in tangible and intangible ways, and (c) to be willing and ready to face discomfort in order to lessen the discomfort and pain of those (or that, in the case of the earth and now space) who have suffered and are suffering more than us due to colonizing thought and action. Because, at the end of it, privilege is relative and we have to be ruthlessly honest with ourselves in locating our own selves and what we stand for, in the larger scheme of things, if we are to step into the praxis of decolonization.

References Appadurai, Arjun. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. 1st ed., University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Appadurai, Arjun. The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective. Cambridge University Press, 2009. Mamdani, Mahmood. Neither Settler nor Native: The Making and Unmaking of Permanent Minorities. Belknap Press: An Imprint of Harvard University Press, 2020. Martin, Rose, et al. “Decolonizing Perspectives of Arts Education.” Journal for Research in Arts and Sports Education, vol. 5, no. 4, 4, Nov. 2021. jased.net, https://doi.org/10.23865/jased.v5.3620. Morris, Christine Ballengee, and Kryssi Staikidis, editors. Transforming Our Practices: Indigenous Art, Pedagogies, and Philosophies. National Art Education Association, 2017. Muyanja, Michael. Art from Home to School: Towards a Critical Art Education Curriculum Framework in Postcolonial and Globalisation Contexts for Primary School Level in Uganda. 2022. research.aalto.fi, https://research. aalto.fi/en/publications/art-from-home-to-school-towards-a-critical-art-education-curricul. “Postcommodity.” Art21, https://art21.org/artist/postcommodity/. Accessed 21 Nov. 2022. Postcommodity: About, https://postcommodity.com/About.html. Accessed 21 Nov. 2022. Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake. As We Have Always Done: Indigenous Freedom through Radical Resistance. University of Minnesota Press, 2020. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. Nationalism and the Imagination. Seagull Books, 2010.

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CONTRIBUTING AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

Kristi Wilcox Arth is an Assistant Professor of Law and Director of Field Placements at Belmont University College of Law in Nashville, Tennessee. She earned her Master’s degree in Arts Policy and Administration from The Ohio State University in conjunction with her juris doctorate. Prior to entering academia, Professor Arth was a partner at Bradley, an Am Law 200 law firm, where she practiced in civil litigation and intellectual property. She has represented both individual and corporate clients before the US Copyright Office, the US Patent & Trademark Office, the US Trademark Trial & Appeal Board, and state and federal courts throughout Tennessee at both the trial and appellate levels. She also regularly provided pro bono legal services through the Tennessee Volunteer Lawyers and Professionals for the Arts. Her creative work has appeared in the Tennessee Bar Journal and the Cobalt Review, among others. Andrea Blancas Beltran is from El Paso, Texas. She is a 2019 CantoMundo fellow. Her work has been selected for publication in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Scalawag, About Place Journal, A Dozen Nothing, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Fog Machine, Gramma, Pilgrimage, H_NGM_N, Entropy, RHINO Poetry, Radar, Cargo, and others. (un)learning, a collaborative haibun project with Melissa Matthewson, is now out from Artifact Press. She is the associate editor for MIEL. Dalida María Benfield, PhD (Panama/USA/Finland), is an artist-researcher and theorist. Her practice is focused on decolonial and feminist re-arrangements of the geo-politics and gendered embodiments of knowledge, especially in the context of information technologies. She is the co-founder and Research and Program Director of the Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research, an international, independent NGO that supports artists and scholars in socially engaged research projects; and a Researcher in the GAIA (Group on Art & Artificial Intelligence), University of São Paulo, Brazil. Her work, often collectively produced, takes the form of scholarly research and poetic writing, digital media, and activist pedagogical interventions. She is the co-founder of numerous autonomous education, media, and publication projects, including the transnational feminist collective, the Institute of (im)Possible Subjects. Her work has been exhibited internationally and published in English, French, Portuguese, Russian, and Spanish. 379

Contributing Author Biographies

Shanita Bigelow, PhD, is a poet and educator. She is a Postdoctoral Research Associate Fellow for the Arts Impact Initiative at the College of Fine and Applied Arts, the University of Illinois at Urbana Champaign. Bigelow is a graduate of the doctoral program in Educational Leadership at DePaul University. She also holds an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and a BA in English and Studio Art. Her work can be found in Inverted Syntax, Four Way Review, Obra/Artifact, SAND Journal, Bombay Gin, New American Writing, Callaloo, Anomaly, and African American Review, among other publications. Her essay “Days like this” is in Dear America: Reflections on Race (The Geeky Press, 2017). Rebecka A. Black is an art history educator who holds a PhD in Art History and Education from The University of Arizona. She is a generalist whose art historical and art education research focuses on issues of power and identity. She currently serves on the Editorial Board for NAEA and her research in art history and art education has been published in several journals and presented at CAA, NAEA, and internationally at the Center for the Study of the Two World Wars at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland and at the Musee des Beaux Arts in Quebec City, Quebec. Black is an Associate Professor and Head of Art History at Rocky Mountain College of Art + Design. Cristina Bogdan is a researcher, curator, editor, and lecturer. She is an Associate Professor in the Department of Communication Sciences at the University of Bucharest, Bucharest, Romania. In 2014, she founded ODD, a curatorial and educational platform in Bucharest. She is director and main curator of the initiative. Cristina is also the founder and online editor of Revista ARTA, concerned with mapping Romanian contemporary art, as well as the editor of two printed issues of the magazine (2012, on British Art; 2017, on Hybrids). She has published numerous studies and articles on Cultural History and Anthropology, and has been the editor of several collective volumes in Romanian and French languages. She is the author of two books: Moartea și lumea românească premodernă: Discursuri întretăiate [Death and the Premodern Romanian World: Intersected Discourses], Bucharest University Press, 2016 (volume nominated for the Observator Cultural Awards, 2017), and IMAGO MORTIS în cultura română veche (secolele XVII-XIX) [IMAGO MORTIS in Old Romanian Culture ­(Seventeenth– Nineteenth Centuries)], Bucharest University Press, 2002. Christopher Bratton (USA/Finland) is an artist, educator, and co-founder of the Center for Arts, Design and Social Research, a not-for-profit educational project based in Boston, Massachusetts, with national and international programs. He is currently Professor and founding Director of the Transdisciplinary Arts Program in the School of Arts, Design, and Architecture at Aalto University in Helsinki, Finland. He is a former President of the San Francisco Art Institute. With an extensive background in socially engaged cultural work and media, Bratton has spoken widely on issues of art, media, and technology education and access. As an artist, his video and installation work, addressing questions of contemporary media cultures, have been widely screened and exhibited, including the Museum of Modern Art and the New Museum of Contemporary Art, and international film festivals, including Seoul, Berlin, and Havana. Sue Brown for more than 15 years has maintained a freelance career with Writing West Midlands as a workshop facilitator and performance poet. Most recently, she finished a three-year workshop “Sparks Young Writing Group” based at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford Upon Avon, just one of Writing West Midlands’ creative projects which aimed 380

Contributing Author Biographies

to promote the long-term benefit of “writing” by working with professional writers to inspire young wordsmiths with their creativity and writing. Sue has been a member of one of Birmingham’s largest writers groups “Writers without Borders.” Sue is also one of the organisers and performers on “Wednesday Mic Fever” at the Mango Lounge in Birmingham once a month. Occasionally she performs her poetry to the sound of contemporary and traditional jazz with Anthony Williams, an accomplished and well-versed jazz guitarist and together they are “Rhythm Chant.” In 2019, Sue presented a 60-minute documentary as part of a new BBC4 series that looks at The Traveling Communities in Britain. This episode looked specifically at the Caribbean community in Birmingham in the mid-1960s. Judith Bruce-Golding is currently a part-time Research Fellow with the University of Southampton. She has been a teacher for over 14 years and has experience working in mainstream, special, and further education. In 2018, Judith was awarded her Doctorate in Education and Leadership from the University of Birmingham, and she also completed the National Professional Qualification for Senior Leadership (NPQSL). Judith is passionate about mental health and well-being. She is a Mental Health First Aid Trainer and a Suicide First Aid Associate Tutor. Along with being registered as a Special Educational Needs Co-ordinator (SENCo), she also works independently with schools with well-being projects. Judith has a Master of Science in Information Technology and a degree in Media, Communication, and Spanish Studies. Judith has interests in psychology and is working towards becoming a specialist Specific Learning Difference (SpLD) teacher/practitioner. Her passions include supporting global majority voices in the community. She is the founding member of the project Nakuona “I See You” and “The Cornerstone Project” with her colleague and friend Sue Brown. In her spare time, Judith enjoys exercising, meditation, and learning sign language. Tarlia Laranjeira Cardoso is a Master’s student in Performing Arts at Universidade Federal do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UNIRIO), Brazil. Laranjeira received a Bachelor’s degree in Performing Arts from UNIRIO and a post-baccalaureate in Theater Direction, Art History, and Body Preparation in Performing Arts. Laranjeira has completed an extension course at the XVIII Scuola Internazionale Dell’Attore Comico (Italy). She serves as a faculty member at the Escola Tecnica de Teatro Martins Penna (also part of FAETEC). In this role, Laranjeira teaches scenic interpretation courses. She has received awards as Best Actress at the V Theater Festival in Rio de Janeiro (Play: Os Irmãos das Almas) and at the VII Theater Festival in Rio de Janeiro (Play: Uma Mulher Vestida de Sol). As director, Laranjeira has received awards for Lia and Patria Amada. She performed as actress in various productions, including Os Dois Menecmos, Sonho de uma Noite de Verão, Ópera Don Pasquale—Teatro Municipal RJ (2015) and Silêncio das Sombras (2017). León de la Rosa Carrillo is a pedagogue and remixologist. He is a Professor and Researcher in the Art Department at Universidad Autónoma de Ciudad Juárez since 2005, where he leads courses on audiovisual art, ethics, and contemporary image theory. His poetry is typically audiovisual and his artwork is typically poetry-based. La frontera smashed him into shape. Bianca Castillero-Vela is an art educator originally from Mexico City. She has a Master’s degree in Art History from Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM). She has over ten years of teaching experience in K-12 and college. Her work addresses the relationship between textile art and education, so she has developed several workshops and 381

Contributing Author Biographies

courses as well as various lesson plans that integrate these two practices. Her research was published by the Ibero-Amerikanisches Institut of Berlin. She has presented at the Annual Textile Festival of Mexico City and in the International Meeting of Mesoamerican Textiles, which took place in the Museo de Textiles de Oaxaca. She obtained the certification Interdisciplinary Program for Arts Teaching from the National Center of Arts in Mexico. She currently coordinates EMMA in Ciudad Juárez, an educational outreach program that works with underserved children. Agnieszka Chalas holds a Bachelor of Fine Art in addition to a Bachelor of Education (K-12 visual art) and both Master’s and doctoral degrees in Art Education. As an art educator, she has a broad range of teaching experience at all levels of education and across a wide range of formal and informal learning contexts. Rebecca C. Christ, PhD, is an Assistant Professor of Social Studies Education in the Department of Teaching and Learning at Florida International University in Miami, Florida. Her research interests include social studies education and teacher education—specifically focusing on genocide education. She is also interested in pedagogies of qualitative inquiry and in utilizing critical, postcolonial, poststructural, and posthuman theoretical concepts for inspiration and innovation within qualitative inquiry and pedagogical practice. Rebecca’s work is published in a variety of outlets, including Taboo, Qualitative Inquiry, Knowledge Cultures, and edited texts. She is also the co-author of Speculative Pedagogies of Qualitative Inquiry (2020, Routledge). Cala Coats is an Assistant Professor of Art Education at Arizona State University. She is particularly interested in curiosity as aesthetic force, using place-based, sensorial, and embodied inquiry in the classroom and the everyday. Her teaching and research examine intersections of ethics and aesthetics with an emphasis on transforming habitual ways of thinking, using critical and emergent pedagogies to explore social, cultural, and ecological interconnectedness through collective engagement. Suzanne Crowley is currently a PhD candidate at the University of Tasmania and is immersed in arts-based research (ABR). She grew up Irish in London during the 1960s and worked in the theatre there. She unintentionally migrated to Sydney, Australia at the end of the 1970s becoming immersed in feminism, gay rights, anti-racism, land rights, and anti-­ nuclear, the social movements of the time. She gained a Bachelor of Visual Arts from Sydney College of the Arts (SCA) majoring in ceramics and moved to Tasmania in the early 1990s. She found that she had to again re-invent herself if she were to survive the conservative rural milieu of the state. She has sustained her inner self working across a number of art forms. From early this century, she has begun to incorporate Tasmanian wildlife into her artwork as a way of contributing to current affairs with minimal offence. Yuehua Ding is Professor at Chongqing Normal University, Chongqing, China. Samuel Egwu Okoro is a doctoral Research Fellow of Art History with a theoretical multi-modal approach to writing, especially from an indigenous postcolonial orientation, which seeks inclusivity in art historical data and documentation. He holds BA, MA, and PhD degrees from the University of Port Harcourt in Nigeria. His work focuses on museums and cultural institutions. Okoro has published in journals like the TOJA online journal. 382

Contributing Author Biographies

Esther Fitzpatrick is a Senior Lecturer in The Faculty of Education and Social Work, The University of Auckland. She uses various critical innovative pedagogies, including writing as a method of inquiry, in her teaching and research. She has published on issues of racial-ethnic identity in postcolonial communities, Pākehā identity, critical family history, critical autoethnography and arts-based methodologies. Her current research explores emerging identities in postcolonial societies, and ‘culturally responsive pedagogy’ in practice. Esther has published in Qualitative Inquiry, Cultural Studies – Critical Methodologies, Departures in Critical Qualitative Research, and Art Research International: A Transdisciplinary Journal. She has recently co-edited two books: Fitzpatrick, E. & Fitzpatrick, K. (Eds) (2020). Poetry, Method and Education Research: Doing Critical, Decolonising and Political Inquiry. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, and Farquhar, S. & Fitzpatrick, E. (Eds) (2019). Innovations in Narrative and Metaphor: Methodologies and Practices. Singapore: Springer. Luiz Ernesto Fraga earned a Bachelor’s degree in Art Education from the Universidade Federal do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UNIRIO), Brazil, with a specialization in Performing Arts and a post-baccalaureate (Lato Sensu) in School Administration. Fraga worked for 24 years at the Fundacao de Apoio a Escola Tecnica (FAETEC), Quintino Theater School. He also served for 22 years at the Municipal Education system in the City of Rio de Janeiro. Fraga taught for three years at the Escola Tecnica de Teatro Martins Penna (Also part of FAETEC). Fraga collaborated with Patricia Alencar and Professor José Teixeira as the co-author of the chapter Escola de Teatro do CETEP-Quintino e seus Caminhos Artisticos, included in the book Historia e Memoria da Educacao Profissional no Rio de Janeiro: Coletanea de Artigos de Autores da Rede FAETEC. Christen Sperry Garcia is originally from the San Diego/Tijuana borderlands. Christen Sperry García’s visual and written work is informed by borderlands theories. García is co-founder of the Nationwide Museum Mascot Project (NWMMP) that has mascotted over 40 venues including the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo Lima, Peru; Fowler Museum at UCLA, Los Angeles, CA; Museo Jumex, Mexico City; Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego, CA; and Museo de Arte Moderno, Bogotá, Colombia. For six years, she worked for internationally known video artist, Bill Viola coordinating his exhibitions, publications, and collaborated with the artist’s galleries in New York, London, and Seoul. García has published in peer-reviewed journals including Art Education, The Drama Review, and Journal of Curriculum & Pedagogy. García received her PhD in Art Education at Penn State. She earned an MFA in Sculpture/4D from California State University, Long Beach. Currently, she is an Assistant Professor at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. Veronica Hicks, PhD, is an art teacher, arts-based researcher, and author who explores themes of gender, race, and ability through narrative inquiry and collaborative art making. As an Assistant Professor of Art Education at California State University, Sacramento, she advocates for art students from diverse populations. Hicks lectures regionally, nationally, and internationally in Africa, Europe, and Scandinavia. She holds an MA in Art Education with an emphasis on Special Populations degree from Moore College of Art and Design, and a PhD in Art Education from Pennsylvania State University. Hicks was honored as the California Art Education Association (CAEA) Special Needs Art Educator of the Year during its 2020 annual conference on November 4–7. She also became the state’s nominee for the national award. 383

Contributing Author Biographies

Jun Hu Chair of the Department of Fine Arts at HangZhou Normal University, China, where he leads a number of programs focused on social justice and sustainability issues, including art-making with diverse populations such as blind students, autistic children and incarcerated youth. He is also the director of the A/r/tography Research Center of Hangzhou Normal University, and Chair of the Asian Regional Council of International Society for Education through Art (InSEA). Lipeng Jin is a Lecturer at Sichuan Fine Arts Institute, Chongqing, China. Stephanie Jones is a Josiah Meigs Distinguished Teaching Professor in the Mary Frances College of Education at The University of Georgia. Jones’ academic and public scholarship has been published widely including in Harvard Educational Review, Teachers College Record, American Educational Research Journal, Seattle’s Child, Washington Post, the Atlanta Journal-­Constitution, and more. Her research in justice-oriented education has been recognized nationally and internationally for 20 years and continues to be recognized today as her work evolves and mutates with changing times and shifting theories and philosophies. Alongside other awards, her most recent book co-authored with James F. Woglom, On Mutant Pedagogies: Seeking Justice and Drawing Change in Teacher Education, was awarded the 2017 Outstanding Book Award by the Society of Professors of Education and by the Qualitative Research SIG of AERA. Prashast Kachru is a conceptual artist with formal training in painting, printmaking, and sculpture, from the College of Art, Delhi (India), and the Ecole Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts de Paris, Paris (France). He earned his MFA degree in Intermedia from the Arizona State University (USA), where he was also a research fellow at the Center for Philosophical Technologies. Prior to the USA, he studied, lived, and worked in India, France, and Sweden, where he exhibited his art in group and solo shows. His work explores the nature of materiality and toxicity of materials in artistic socio-cultural and socio-political spheres. His works tackle several key themes in this context including contemporary discourses on the existence of abstraction in art and visual cultures globally; lived experiences of individual and socialized aesthetics; and the relationship between images and their materiality, tackling issues of class and economics relevant to global trends. Kachru describes himself as an an-artist and interventionist. Thomas E. Keefe holds an EdD in Organizational Leadership from Grand Canyon University. Keefe’s research focuses on pedagogy and leadership, genocide education, and identity construction. He is a member of the Colorado JD1 Judicial Performance Commission and a past recipient of the Lyndon Baines Johnson Award for Congressional Interns. His recent publications include “Race, Identity, and Choice: Black Voices on Liberia and the American Colonization Society” in The African American Experience: From Slavery to Liberation, “Using Art to Trigger Memory, Intergenerational Learning, and Community” in the International Journal of Lifelong Learning in Art Education, and “Not All ‘Fake News’ Is Equal: How Should Higher Education Respond to Fake News and in the post-Truth Era” in The Liminal: Interdisciplinary Journal of Technology in Education. Jonathan Kim was born and raised in South Korea and spent most of his 20s in China and 30s in Australia. Kim’s original background was in business. However, after moving to Australia, Kim decided to become an artist. Like Kim’s nomadic life, his artwork contains various cultural elements. Although Kim’s art concept Gong-gan-seong (spatiality) was related 384

Contributing Author Biographies

to his Far Eastern background, he wants to make his art forms global with his Western educational experience. Kim was awarded the Constance Gordon-Johnson Sculpture Prize (2017) and the Linden New Art Award (2019). In 2019, Kim completed the British School at Rome Residency and the Sauerbier House Culture Exchange Artist in Residence Program. Kim is currently a studio resident at ACE Open. Kristin Klein is an Art Educator and Research Associate at the Institute of Art & Art Theory, University of Cologne. In her research, she focuses on art education in the context of digital cultures and on possible futures in contemporary art, school development, and educational theory. She has worked in the project “Transforming through the Arts” at the Berlin University of the Arts on art in the context of the climate crisis. From 2016 to 2021 she was a research assistant at the University of Cologne, and in 2019/2020, she took on a teaching position at the Bauhaus University Weimar. Previously, she studied cultural studies at the Humboldt University in Berlin; art education, German, and educational sciences at the TU Dresden; and art history, film, and philosophy at Boston University. She co-edited PIAER Texte (since 2020), the anthology Postdigital Landscapes (2019), and the Workbook Arts Education (since 2018). Maria Leake is a recently retired K-16 art educator. She worked as an Assistant Professor of Art Education for UNK’s online program for over ten years and in the Texas public school system for over 30 years. She earned a BA in Studio Art and BFA in Art Education from the University of Texas at Austin, an MA in Curriculum and Instruction from The University of Texas in San Antonio, and her PhD in Art Education with a minor in Art History from The University of North Texas. Her research explores how contemporary art and socially engaged practices can help articulate the human experience for critical reflection and inspire creative responses. Her writing has been published in Art Education, the Journal of Social Theory in Art Education, Visual Culture and Gender, Trends, and the Palgrave Handbook on Race and the Arts in Education. Boram Lee is a Senior Lecturer in Arts and Cultural Management, at UniSA Business, University of South Australia. She is specialized in the field of accounting and finance with an emphasis on behavioral studies based on psychological approaches. She has a wide range of research interests in cross-cultural and cross-disciplinary studies, covering the valuation of arts and culture, international collaboration, disability arts, cultural tourism, and artists’ career development. Prior to her academic life, she managed international tours of highly respected theatre companies, worked as a producer at arts festivals, and participated in many visual arts projects. Her professional involvement and life-long interest in theatre and the visual arts sectors led her to current active research interests. Maria Cristina Leite is a set designer with a Bachelor’s degree from the Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ), Brazil, a Master’s degree in Exceptional Student Education, and a Doctorate in Education from the University of West Florida (UWF), Florida, USA. Currently, Maria Cristina Leite, works as Coordinator of Assessment and Diversity Initiatives at the University of Florida (UF) College of Education. In this role, Leite is responsible for coordinating, monitoring, and providing support services for instructors, students, and administrators associated with the University of Florida’s educator preparation programs. She has performed at national and international conferences and currently serves on committees and professional communities in the areas of assessment and diversity. Her research interests 385

Contributing Author Biographies

include curriculum and assessment, social justice in education, theater and art education, the historical and social context of race relations, and community education. Lillian Lewis is an Assistant Professor in Art Education at the Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU). Lewis has been an artist/educator/researcher in P-12 US public schools, art museums, community nonprofits, and higher education prior to joining the faculty at VCU. Lewis’ work explores collaborative learner-led inquiry with and through materials, investigations in and of natural and built environments, and intersections of conceptual art and pedagogy. Lewis received her MA in Art Education and graduate certificate in Museum Education from the University of North Texas, and her PhD in Art Education and graduate minor in Art History from The Pennsylvania State University. Xueyin Li is a Lecturer at Southwest University, Chongqing, China. Mriganka Madhukaillya is the founder of the Media Lab within the Department of Design, IIT Guwahati. He has been Assistant Professor of New Media Technology and Cinema in the Department of Design of IIT Guwahati since 2005. His background is in quantum mechanics and communication design. Mriganka has conducted research and taught at many universities worldwide. He was a DAAD Visiting Professor at Merz Akademie, Stuttgart, in 2019 and a Visiting Professor at the China Academy of Arts in Hangzhou from 2016 to 2017. He was a member of several managing and advisory boards, including a Juror in Visual Arts at Akademie Schloss Solitude, Stuttgart. He is a founding member of the art collective Desire Machine Collective, with which he was nominated for the LUMA Award in 2011. His public platform Periferry, active between 2007 and 2013, was nominated for Visible Award 2015, Tate Liverpool. In their collaborations since 2004 as the Desire Machine Collective, Sonal Jain and Madhukaillya employ film, video, photography, space, and multimedia installations in their works. Their artworks have been exhibited at the Solomon Guggenheim Museum, New York and the Deutsche Guggenheim Museum, Berlin. Logan MacDonald is an artist, curator, writer, educator, and activist who focuses on queer, disability, and Indigenous perspectives. He is of European and Mi’kmaq ancestry, who identifies with both his Indigenous and settler roots. Born in Summerside, Prince Edward Island, his Mi’kmaq ancestry is connected to Elmastukwek, Ktaqamkuk. His artwork has been exhibited across North America, notably with exhibitions at L.A.C.E. (Los Angeles), John Connelly Presents (New York), Ace Art Inc. (Winnipeg), The Rooms (St. John’s), and Articule (Montréal). His work has been published in C Magazine, Un Magazing, Canadian Art, and more. In 2019, MacDonald was longlisted for the Sobey Art Award and was honored with a six-month residency at the Künstlerhaus Bethanien in Berlin. He is a graduate from Concordia University with a BFA in Interdisciplinary Studies and an MFA in Studio Arts from York University. He is currently vice chair of the Aboriginal Curatorial Collective and faculty at the University of Waterloo, Canada. In 2020, he was named Canada Research Chair (CRC) in Indigenous art at the university. Taylor Miller earned her PhD in the School of Geography, Environment & Development at the University of Arizona, and her MA and BFA in Art and Visual Culture Education at the University of Arizona. Her dissertation research centers on arts-led gentrification in Marseille and Tel Aviv and the aesthetics of occupation that underlie the cultural infrastructures of these cities. She has recently published work in Warscapes, Kohl Journal, The Journal of the Southwest, and 386

Contributing Author Biographies

Urban Transcripts. Her interdisciplinary creative practice enmeshes psychogeography with vernacular mapping, with particular interest in the other-than, more-than-human impacts of colonialism, neoliberalism, and the reinscription of urban space in places through which she moves. Timothy Monreal, PhD, is an Assistant Professor of Teacher Education at California State University, Bakersfield. Tim’s interdisciplinary research interests broadly include Latinx teacher identity and subjectivity, particularly in the US South, Social Studies teaching with an emphasis on Latinx history, and teacher education. He applies and develops post-­ structural and (relational) spatial theories with these topics in an effort to open up new, more just, potentialities. Tim’s work has appeared in journals such as Theory and Research in Urban Education, Latino Studies, Educational Policy, Urban Review, Journal of Latinos and Education, Current Issues in Comparative Education, and The Middle Grades Review. Anh-Thuy Nguyen is a multimedia/transdisciplinary artist, whose work spans from photography, video to performance and installation art. Her work highlights complex relationships and cultural conflicts resulting from the artist existing between cultural identities: Vietnamese and American, focusing on food and language. Nguyen’s work delves deeply into conflicting emotions, feelings, and thoughts through the portrayal of often strikingly strange yet hauntingly beautiful manifestations of gain and loss. She received a BFA in Photography from The University of Arizona and an MFA in Photography/Video from Southern Methodist University. Her works are in permanent collections of Amarillo Museum of Art, Tucson Museum of Art, Center for Photography at Woodstock among others. She is based in Tucson, Arizona, the USA, where she is the Head of the photography program at Pima Community College. Soiduate Ogoye-Atanga is an art historian, art critic, and theorist working in Nigeria. He is currently a doctoral student in Art History at the University of Port Harcourt, working on the ancestral screens of the Ijo ethnicity in Southern Nigeria. He is an Assistant Editor at The Oyasaf Journal of Art (TOJA) and instructor in J.A. Green School of Photography, University of Port Harcourt. He has published an article on “Accounting for the Trajectory of the Duein Fubara Art Object in the Kalabari Cultural Space” in The Oyasaf Journal of Art. Marianna Pegno, PhD, is the Director of Engagement and Inclusion at the Tucson Museum of Art (TMA). Since joining TMA in 2010, Pegno has worked to position the museum as a culturally responsive, interactive, and community-based institution through new programming and interpretation approaches and diversity and inclusion initiatives. Additionally, she has curated several exhibitions to integrate more critical and relevant narratives, including a forthcoming exhibition, Thuy &, by Anh-Thuy Nguyen (2021). Pegno has presented and written about multivocal narratives and community-based practices in a multitude of settings. Pegno holds a PhD in Art and Visual Culture Education and an MA in Art History from the University of Arizona and a BA from New York University. Her dissertation, Narratives of Elsewhere and In-Between: Refugee Audiences, Edu-Curators, and the Boundary Event in Art Museums, was awarded the 2018 Elliot Eisner Doctoral Research Award in Art Education from the National Art Education Association. Michael Pitblado holds a Bachelor of Arts in History in addition to both a Bachelor of Education (History) and a Master’s degree in History Education. He currently teaches History at the senior level in The York School in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. 387

Contributing Author Biographies

Raqs Media Collective, formed in 1992 by Monica Narula, Jeebesh Bagchi, and Shuddhabrata Sengupta, argues for a mode of “kinetic contemplation” that rides a restless entanglement with the world. This translates into working with moving images to unsettle ways of ordering space and time through timelines, lifelines, latitudes, and longitudes. Raqs practices across several media, including installation, sculpture, video, performance, text, and lexica. The group has been described as artists, curators, researchers, editors, and catalysts. From 2000 to 2013, Raqs spent time at Sarai, which they co-founded at the Centre for the Study of Developing Societies in North Delhi and where they were members of the Editorial Collegiate of the Sarai Reader Series. Raqs’ work has been shown in museums and exhibitions across the world, including Documenta 11, Venice, Istanbul, Sydney, Shanghai, and Sao Paulo Biennales, and in solo exhibitions at the National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi; Tate Modern, London; Museo Universitario Arte Contemporáneo (MUAC), México City; Fundación PROA, Buenos Aires; Whitworth Art Gallery, Manchester; K21 Ständehaus, Düsseldorf; and Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art, Doha, Qatar, among others. Curatorial projects by Raqs include The Rest of Now, Manifesta 8, Murcia, Spain, 2011; Sarai Reader 09, Devi Art Foundation, Gurugram, India, 2012; Insert2014, IGNCA, Delhi, 2014; Why Not Ask Again, Shanghai Biennale, 2016; Five Million Incidents, Goethe-Institut, Delhi & Kolkata, 2019–2021; and Afterglow, Yokohama Triennale, 2020. Corey Reutlinger is a doctoral candidate at Arizona State University. His research focuses on conflict-ridden communication in everyday social interactions. He employs applied mathematics to identify people’s varying communication strategies, how these choices are reflected in talk, and how this might influence negotiated responses in organizational and interpersonal contexts. His interests extend to critical disability studies and arts-based research methodologies. Amanda K. Riske is a doctoral student at Arizona State University (ASU) in the Learning, Literacies, and Technologies program. Her research interests include statistical literacy and professional development (PD) for K-12 mathematics, specifically designing PD that supports statistics for citizenship and social justice. Amanda taught mathematics internationally for over a decade. She holds a BA in Secondary Education Mathematics from ASU and an MPhil in Comparative International Education from the University of Oslo, Norway. Nupur Manoj Sachdeva is an educator and multidisciplinary artist. Through her art-based research practice she explores the themes of Identity and Belonging, Cultural Assimilation Issues, Translanguaging, and Decolonizing Theories across World Englishes. Nupur holds a Master’s degree in Painting, as well as an extensive background in Textiles and Apparel Management. She is also the founder and producer of the podcast—Art2Academia, a monthly series that invites listeners to join a global conversation about the visual culture, art education, and post-disciplinary research done by emerging artists and scholars. She is currently a doctoral student of Art and Visual Culture Education at the University of Arizona School of Art. To know more about Nupur’s work, visit Art2Academia.com. Marcio Saretta holds a Bachelor’s degree in Performing Arts with specialization in Theater Interpretation (1997) and a degree in Art Education with specialization in Performing Arts (1999), both from Universidade Federal do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UNIRIO), Brazil. Saretta has been acting as a teacher of Performing Arts for more than 20 years. He currently works at the Fundacao de Apoio a Escola Tecnica (FAETEC), Quintino Theater School. Saretta also 388

Contributing Author Biographies

teaches at the Secretaria Municipal de Educacao da Cidade do Rio de Janeiro, Helena Antipoff Institute, where he serves young students and adults with special needs. Jonathan Silverman strives to raise student cross-cultural sensitivity, environmental awareness, and global perspective through an aesthetic education lens built on authenticity, empathy, exploration, community, and humility. He chaired the Education Department, coordinated the Arts in Education program, and taught courses on aesthetics, interdisciplinary curriculum, creativity, social foundations, and environmental art for many years at Saint Michael’s College, Colchester, Vermont, USA. In 2017, he was selected as the Vermont art educator of the year. As Visiting Professor at Doshisha University, Kyoto, Japan, in the Fall of 2019, he integrated arts with holistic education. He was a North American World Counselor to InSEA (International Society for Arts Education through Art) and co-editor of InSEA’s Art Education Visual Journal, IMAG. His artistic identity is maintained by his practice as potter, watercolorist, and driftwood sculptor. His joy is maintained by baking bread, hiking mountains, and gardening. Shagun Singha is a second-year doctoral student in the Learning, Literacies, and Technologies program from Mary Lou Fulton Teacher’s College at Arizona State University, USA. She has obtained her undergraduate degree in English Literature and Master’s degree in English Literature from Madras University, India. Her research focuses on the role of play, games, and art-based methods in education. Leslie C. Sotomayor II is an artist, curator, and educator with a dual PhD in Art Education and Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Sotomayor focuses on Gloria Anzaldúa’s theory of conocimiento and autohistoria-teoría, a feminist writing practice of theorizing one’s experiences as transformative acts to guide her teaching methodology and create curriculum for empowerment and transformation to curate educational spaces that decolonize white patriarchal hegemonic academic canons. She has curated numerous art exhibitions including co-curated art exhibit Les Femmes Folles Presents: Feminists Connect (March, 2021); Let’s Pretend with Edinboro University (Fall, 2021); Hilos Rojos, a solo art exhibition in Havana, Cuba (2017); and Borrandofronteras/Erasingborders, a Cuban and Cuban-American Collaborative Art Exhibition at Penn State (2015). Sotomayor’s forthcoming book Teaching In/ Between: Curating Educational Spaces through Autohistoria-Teoría and Conocimiento (Vernon Press, 2021) discusses a feminist, social justice approach implementing Gloria Anzaldúa’s theories for teaching and curriculum design through a Latinx feminist lens. Sotomayor has numerous publications about her research work in Cuba, feminist curatorial projects, curriculum approaches, and visual arts practice. Leon Tan, PhD, is a creative practitioner, educator, and mental health consultant, whose research focuses on social expression and the public sphere. Dr. Tan is an Associate Professor and Director of Research and Postgraduate Studies in Creative Industries at Unitec Institute of Technology, Auckland, New Zealand. He is also co-editor of Public Art Dialogue (Taylor & Francis, USA) and the Routledge Companion to Art in the Public Realm. Juuso Tervo is a Senior University Lecturer and the Head of the Master’s programme in Nordic Visual Studies and Art Education (NoVA) at Aalto University School of Arts, Design and Architecture, Finland. His research and writing combine historical, philosophical, and political inquiries in art and education, drawing from fields such as literary theory, poetics, 389

Contributing Author Biographies

philosophy of education, and philosophy of history. He received his PhD in Arts Administration, Education and Policy from The Ohio State University in 2014, and since then has published in research journals and edited books both nationally and internationally. Michelle Tillander is an artist/art educator specializing in engaging art education, technology, and culture as integrated processes and approaches to expand art educational technology practice. She joined the University of Florida (UF), College of the Arts (COTA) School of Art and Art History (SA&AH) in 2006 and developed and initiated the online MA in Art Education at the University of Florida in 2010. She has published articles and chapters in Art Education Journal, Visual Art Research, Ubiquitous Learning: An International Journal, and contributed chapters in Digital Visual Culture: Interactions and Intersections in the 21st Century (Sweeny, 2011), Exploring Digital Technologies for Art-Based Special Education: Models and Methods for the Inclusive K-12 Classroom (Garner, 2019). In 2019, she was a University of Florida Anderson Scholar Faculty Honoree. From 1985 to 1991, Michelle assisted with the implementation of Virginia’s first Governor’s School for the Arts, a regional program for artistically talented high school students where she served as chair of the Visual Arts Department from 1998 to 2002. Ozi Uduma is an Assistant Curator of Global Contemporary Art at the University of Michigan Museum of Art (UMMA). Ozi is a graduate of the University of Michigan. She was born and raised in Detroit and is of Nigerian descent. Ozi is the curator of the exhibition Unsettling Histories: Legacies of Slavery and Colonialism and the co-curator of We Write to You About Africa (opening Fall 2021). Ozi’s art interest mostly focuses on modern and contemporary black artists. Ozi thinks beyond the aesthetic value of pieces to how she can champion and protect artists who are changing how we think about social issues or even the history of art itself. Her hope is to give space for curiosity to thrive such that the museum is as essential a campus destination as, say, the library. Frank AO Ugiomoh is a Professor of History of Art and Theory and Omooba Adedoyin Yemisi Shyllon Professor of Fine Art and Design at the University of Port Harcourt in Nigeria. He describes himself as an art historian and studio artist (sculpture and printmaker) who is passionate about the theoretical insights that the work of art as a system of signs can embody. His theoretical mainstay is historiography of art history. He has published widely on the subject of African art historiography. His book entitled The Crisis of Modernity: Art and the Definition of Cultures in Africa was published by the University of Port Harcourt Press in 2014. Grace VanderVliet is a curator for Museum Teaching and Learning at the University of Michigan Museum of Art. Formerly, she was a university instructor (Graphic Design History) and high school teacher (English) and still loves to combine art history and art making; text and images; and teaching and learning. Grace is an educator interested in connecting people to each other and to art. She works with teachers, students, and volunteer docents and enjoys thinking about how learning happens outside the traditional classroom. Bretton A. Varga, PhD, is an Assistant Professor of History-Social Science at California State University, Chico. His research works with(in) critical posthuman theories of race, materiality, and temporality to explore how visual methods and aesthetics can be used to unveil historically marginalized perspectives and layers (upon layers) of history that haunt the world around us. Bretton’s work has been published in International Journal of Qualitative 390

Contributing Author Biographies

Studies in Education, Taboo, Teachers College Record, Social Studies and the Young Learner, and The Social Studies. Ernst Wagner is a Lecturer and Researcher at the Academy of Fine Arts, Munich, the Institute of Art Education at the University of Augsburg, and the UNESCO-Chair in Arts and Culture in Education at the University of Erlangen. He studied art and taught visual arts at secondary schools. For eight years, he was employed by the Institute for School Quality and Educational Research, Munich (responsible for art, film, and drama education). Graduated with a PhD in Art History at Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich, his research is focused on Heritage Education, Intercultural Communication, Visual Literacy, Arts Education, and Education for Sustainable Development. He has published more than 350 articles or books and is Honorary Professor at the Hong Kong University of Education. Qianyu Wang is a Deputy Professor at Southwest University, Chongqing, China. Alice Wexler received an EdD in Arts and Humanities from Columbia University, Teachers College, graduated with an MFA and distinction at the Royal College of Art in the UK, and a BFA from Boston University, Fine and Applied Arts. She was Professor of Art Education at SUNY New Paltz from 1999 to 2015. As a researcher working in the fields of disability studies and Indigenous art, she has published in Art Education journals such as Studies in Art Education, Journal of Social Theory in Art Education, and Journal of Visual Arts Research. The most recent monograph, Autism in a Decentered World (2016), was published by Routledge. She is co-editor with Vida Sabbaghi of Bridging Communities through Socially Engaged Art (2019) and was co-editor with John Derby for Contemporary Art and Disability Studies (2020). A monograph, Art and Resistance: Stories from the Stolen Generation of Western Australia is under review. She is currently a disability consultant. Kimberley White is a full-time studio artist and Associate Professor at York University in Toronto. She is currently appointed to interdisciplinary programs in Law and Society, Social and Political Thought, and Critical Disability Studies. She has published two books and several articles on topics such as madness, criminal responsibility, histories of institutionalization, and graffiti. She received a BSc in Psychology and Neuroscience from York University, and her MA and PhD from the Centre for Criminology and Socio-legal Studies at the University of Toronto. She also has an MFA in Interdisciplinary Art, Media and Design from OCAD University. Individual artworks by White can be found in private collections and she is now beginning to show her work publicly, exhibiting in several group shows since 2011. In 2016, she launched her first solo exhibition of sculptural/projection works at the Red Head Gallery in Toronto. Tanya White (Ngāti Hineāmaru, Ngāti Whātua, Ngāti Maniapoto) is a kairaranga (weaver) from Aotearoa New Zealand. As a practitioner for many years her focus has been on the integration of health and well-being between people and the land. Tanya White’s current role is at Te Whare Wānanga o Wairaka (Unitec Institute of Technology) as Kaitiaki Taiao (Lecturer). James F. Woglom is an artist/educator and Assistant Professor in the Art Education area at Cal Poly Humboldt in Arcata, California. He received his PhD from the University of Georgia, where he developed works regarding visual arts-based research methodologies and 391

Contributing Author Biographies

socially engaged art practices. His graphic novel about social justice-oriented teacher education, co-authored with Stephanie Jones, On Mutant Pedagogies, was released by Sense Publications in 2016 and was awarded the American Education Research Association’s Qualitative Research Special Interest Group’s Outstanding Book Award and the Society of Professors of Education Book Award in 2017. Steven Zuiker is an Associate Professor and Learning Scientist in the Mary Lou Fulton Teachers College at Arizona State University. His scholarship is broadly based on the notion that ideas are only as important as what we can do with them and his research agenda explores how co-designing activities, resources, and projects illuminates opportunities and challenges for interconnecting classrooms, campuses, and communities.

392

INDEX

Note: Italic page numbers refer to figures and page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. Abiodun, Rowland 229 Abolitionist Teaching Network 250 Absolute Spirit 224, 233 Academy of Fine Arts, Munich 336, 340 accommodation approach 174 Achebe, C. 225 Adiche, Chimanda 191 Adorno, T. W. 228, 232; Aesthetic Theory 228 adult humanoid 230 aesthetics 224–233; attunement 198–203; ecological 196–203; inquiry 196–203; sensibility 192–193 Aesthetic Theory (Adorno) 228 A for alphabet 14–19, 17, 18 Africa Explores: Twentieth Century African Art (Vogel) 225 African Art 225–233, 347, 350–351, 355 African-Caribbean community 153, 155 African diaspora 147, 148, 261 Africentric approach 147 Afro-Carribean diaspora 9 Afropolitanism 10 Against the Grain (Scott) 41 Ahmed, Sara 130, 133; What’s the Use? on the uses of use 133 Alagoa, E. J. 226, 233; The Python’s Eye: The Past in the Living Present 226, 227 #Alllivesmatter 309 al-Manshiyya 59–65 Almeida, Silvio 140 alterity 4, 239–241 Alumni Memorial Hall 109 Amburgy, Patricia M. 285n12 American Suffrage movement 177 Amgott, Natalie 184

Amphora Pots 230 Anatsui, El 342, 350, 358 Andah, Bassey Wei 226 Andersen, Hans Christian 68 Andrew, Brook 237n2 Angrez chale gaye, Angrezi chod gaye 28–33 Anh-Thuy Nguyen 8, 14–16 annotations examples, 13 appearances 66–76; Documenta 11 Platform 6 (2021) 66; Emperor’s New Clothes 68; First World War 70–71; frugal migrant and open-source hacker 66, 67, 68, 68; history of photography, First World War 70, 71; Kitchener Indian Hospital 73; Not Yet at Ease 72–74, 75; psychological experiences of soldiers 71; Shanghai 68; sovereign power 70; spinal cord 72, 73; temporal habits and habitations 75; time and collisions 66; trench spine 73 anti-colonial praxis 165–172 anti-essentialist curriculum, classroom for 173–178 Anzaldúa, Gloria E. 10, 281–283, 285, 286, 288, 289, 292, 292n1, 292n2, 293, 294, 294n3–294n4, 295, 297; This Bridge Called My Back 297; This Bridge We Call Home 297n4 Anzaldúa’s Borderlands theory 10 Aotearoa–New Zealand 269–270, 275, 277, 308–310, 312, 318, 319 Apartheid system 64, 244 aphasiac exclusion 226, 227 Appadurai, Arjun 215 Arazi Collective 367 archival variant 87 Aristotle 231–232 arpillera 311, 311

393

Index art education 7; banking system 142, 143; in Brazil 142; challenges for 260–261, 263–264, 266; classroom during COVID-19 pandemic 185; creative shorts (see creative shorts); in digital technology 181, 183, 184, 257–267; enacted encounters (see enacted encounters); Exploring Visual Cultures 339–340; in Germany 334–345; higher (see higher education); historiography 280–289; institutions role of 364; for K-12 (see K-12 education); “mainstream” educational systems 41; online practices of 180; ruminative research (see ruminative research); teaching urbanization in 250–251; theater, decolonization of 138–145 art history 233; African art history 226; Grand Tour 249–250; RMCAD 175, 177; socially engaged art history 175–176; traditional approaches to 248; urbanization and 249–250 Art History (5th edition) (Stokstad and Cothren) 175 Arth, Kristi Wilcox 9, 77n1 Arthouse Contemporary 347, 349 artificial intelligence (AI) 180, 182; and moral machines 259–260 art installation: El territorio 91–92, 92; La historia 92–93, 93 artistic cartography 90, 93 artistic identity 192–193 artistic practice 87; arts-based research 28; as land acknowledgment 212–223 art museum: Smithsonian American Art Museum 77n2; unsettling colonial narratives in 108–115; The Yemisi Shyllon Museum of Art 348 a/r/tographic project 205–210 art practice, Borderlands approach to 292–307 Artprice.com 353 arts-based inquires 33; Doha, in digital social space 28–29, 29–31; Doha ki Paribhasha 29, 30; Hindi Varn Mala 29, 29; naam-name 32, 33 arts-based research (ABR) 28, 32 arts-based social engagement 219 artwork 6; African 232; contemporary 111; decolonizing 3–6; digital technologies in 214; The Grand Tour 248–250, 253–254; Kim, Jonathan 10, 323–329, 326, 331, 332; land acknowledgement 214, 217–219, 222; lutruwita/Tasmania’s fauna 45–46; materiality in 214; Nigerian artist 350–354, 351, 352; Rezaire artwork 10; Tender (2020) 182; thematic groupings of 109 Art X Lagos 347, 354–356, 360 Asante, Molefi 227, 266 Ashcroft, Bill 329, 331 Assamese harvest festival 40

assembling desire 39–43, 41 As We Have Always Done: Indigenous Freedom through Radical Resistance (Simpson) 377–378 Attia, Lucio Enrico 144n7 auctions: contemporary African art 350–351; global art auction turnovers 353–354; Nigerian artist at 350–353, 351, 352 authentic 23, 28, 29, 162, 332 autohistoria-teoría 293–294, 294n3 Autonomous University of Mexico City 92, 93 Autumn Harvesting 205 Azoulay, Ariella Aïsha 117 Bachelor of Contemporary Art 324 backstrap loom, triqui huipil woven on 89 Bahktin, Mikhail 15 Bamana divination techniques 264 banking education system 142, 143 Barad, Karen 259, 260 Barnes, Asha 152 Barnet, Lionel D. 312 Barruad, Francis 245 Barthes, Roland 239, 246 Basquiat, Jean-Michel 353 Baumgarten, Alexander Gottlieb 224 Ba-Yu Farming Museum 205, 207 BBC Mental 157 Beasley, Kevin 184 Beautiful Ugly (Nuttall) 227 Beaux Arts Building 109 Becky’s Máscar(a/illa) 132–133 Befriending Project 150 Belém, Elisa 142 Bellview Mental Hospital 149 Benfield, Dalida 10 Benin bronzes 338, 338 Benjamin, Walter 236, 236n1, 241 Bennet Coverley, Louise 152 Bennett, Tony 348 Berger, John 185 Berkowitz, Bonnie 79n7 Berry, Sharla 174 Betts, Reginald Dwayne 111 Beuys, Joseph Heinrich 334 B for Burrito 15–16 Bhabha, Homi 140, 236, 246, 347; conceptualization 139n3 Bigelow, Shanita 8 Birmingham City Council 147 Bishan Project 368 Bishop, Claire 275 Black Arts Forum 147 Black History Month 175 Black, Indigenous, People of Color (BIPOC) students 250–252, 254 #Blacklivesmatter 181, 309 Black Panamanians 243

394

Index Black, Rebecka 9 Blancas-Beltran, Andrea 9, 116, 126 Blanco, Adrian 79n7 Blank, Yishai 78n4 Blombos Stone 229 The Bluebook: A Uniform System of Citation 77n1 The Blue Sage Elephant 161 Boal, Augusto 141, 143; Theater of the Oppressed 141 Bocaiuva, Quintino 138, 138n1 Bogdan, Cristina 8 Bohr, Niels 259 Bolin, Paul E. 282n5; Revitalizing History 282n5 Bongard, Willi 361 Borderland Collective 20–21 Borderlands approach, to curating, art practice, and teaching 292–307 border thinking 4 Bourdieu’s notion, of cultural capital 360 Bourriaud, Nicolas 275 Bowie High School 120 Boyhood of Lincoln (1868) 111 Bozalek, Vivienne 181 Braidotti, Rosi 9, 166, 260 Brandberg mountain 230 Bratton, Christopher 10 Brazil: culturally relevant pedagogy 138–145; culture 142; education 142; Golden Triangle of Trade 315; religious 138; theatrical and academic history 142 Breuil, Henri 230 This Bridge Called My Back (Anzaldúa and Moraga) 297 Bridle, James 263 British colonisation 44 British Indian capital 70 British Monarchy 70 British School in Rome 324 Broken Circle: The Dark Legacy of Indian Residential Schools (Fontaine) 98, 100–103 Browne, Simone 130, 131 Brown, Sue 9 Bruce-Golding, Judith 9 Bruno Moreschi’s project 368 Bubandt, Nils 200 Buffington, Melanie 183; Whiteness Is 183 Buller, Rachel Epp 178 Burke, Vanley 152 Burnaford, Gail 99 Byrd, Antawan 359 Cabbages and Kings (Henry) 243 calls to action 81, 98 Canada’s Indian Residential Schools (IRS) 98–106, 98n1; visual arts integration with historical inquiry 99; visual essay 99–103, 104–105

Canadian History 98 Cann, Colette N. 182 Can the Subaltern Speak? (Spivak) 250 Cape Town Model 340–341, 341, 343 capitalism 5, 216, 218; economic structure of 216; hacking heteronormative 377; neoliberal reforms and 61; post-industrial 40n1; project 214; relentless 214; The Society of Spectacle (Debord) 330 Capps, Kriston 78n4 CARES Act 182 Cartier-Bresson, Henri 68 Cartiere, Cameron 275 cartography 263, 308; artistic 90, 93; embroidered maps 90, 91, 94, 94; textile 89–95 Castellote, Jess 349–351 Castillero, Bianca 9 catachresis 347 Center for Arts, Design, and Social Research (CAD+SR) 11, 363, 364, 365–366, 366n5 ceremony: Narogin’s ceremony 239; ski mask 134; sunrise 160 Certeau, Michel de 282, 289; The Writing of History 281n3, 284n8 CFH see Critical Family History (CFH) C for Cantaloupe 16–17 Chakrabarty, Dipesh 283–286 Chala, Agnieszka 9 Chamizal Dispute 120 Changing the World Starts from Eating Well 206, 208–209, 209 Charles Clore Park 61–62 Chellaram, Kavita 349 Chesnut, R. Andrew 133 Chicano community 129, 129n1 Chicanx history 129 chicken coop, Mateo drawing 197, 199, 200 children’s toys 152 Chimedie Museum of Contemporary Art 348 China Art Market 353 China’s Modern Woodcut Movement 276n3 Chongqing municipality 205, 205n1, 207 Christ, Rebecca C. 9, 129, 135 Church of St Ignatius in Rome 232 Civil War 111 Clare, McAndrew 353 classroom: for anti-essentialist curriculum 173–178; cripping 162; in/accessible remoteteaching formats 162; outside 173–178; research-creation experiment 165–172 Coats, Cala 9 Coca-Cola 334, 336, 337 co-creation 147; fine arts learning 80–88 co-equal teaching partnership 99 Cold War 1–2 collaborative engagement, arts integration as 99

395

Index collaborative project 21, 24, 25, 26, 192, 334 collected institutional encounters 166–171 Collection Ensemble 109 Collins, Michael 346 colonialism 1, 9, 140; confronting 1; epistemic project 225; project of 215 colonial language 15, 17 colonization 1–3, 6, 10, 36n1, 193, 214, 251, 317, 348, 375, 376; agenda 227, 231; of Aotearoa– New Zealand 318, 319; in contemporary society 330; digital 29, 149; discountenances 225; disrupting internalized 160; exorcising 236–247; fractures communities 93; harmful effects of 108; of human identity 7; industrial 209–210; Japanese 329; lasting effects of 148; by monopolies 206; organized 270; rules of 324, 332; structures of 310; systemic tool of 98; Zionist settlers 59; see also decolonization Colonized through Art (Lentis) 285n10 communication technologies 330 communities: African-Caribbean 153, 155; Center’s research community test 368; Chicano community 129, 129n1; contemporary Indigenous, textile cartography 89–95; curriculum through 191–192; digital arts-based education programs 147, 149, 153, 155; of knowledge 175; marginalized 130–131; Outside the Books building 174–175; Rocky Mountain College of Art + Design 173–178; sense of community 127, 153, 173, 174, 176, 189, 209; vibrant community 138; Yoruba community 261; see also specific communities Community Caregiver 150 complicity 44, 108, 157, 212, 214, 215, 217–221, 244, 281, 377 confederate monuments removal 77–79; grounded theory approach 77n1 conflict zones 62, 63 conocimiento 294, 294n5 conscientization (conscientizacão) process 143 contact zones 183–184, 329 contemporary African art, at Sotheby 350–351 contemporary Indigenous communities, textile cartography 89–95 contemporary Nigerian art markets 346–361 Contrapunteo Cubano del Tabaco y el Azúcar (Ortiz) 329 Contre Qui, Rose song 160 Cookey, Ibim 229, 230 Co-ordinates of Everyday Life 67 Corazonadas Remotas 123 Cornell, Joseph 101 Cornerstone Project 147–149; beginning session 151; children’s toys 152; Cornerstone Project Members (2020) 154; methods 150; music creation 152–153; nursery rhymes and

proverbs 151; overstanding 149; participants 150; poetry 152; preparation 151–153; sociodrama 149–150; themes 153 Coronation Park, Delhi 70, 70 Corrections to the First Draft of History 67, 69 Cothren, Michael: Art History (5th edition) 175 counter-hegemony 48 counter/storytelling strategy 20 Counting on Grace (Winthrop) 191 cousinhood of trade 316, 317 COVID-19 pandemic 11; art education classroom during 185; cultural networking, storytelling, and zoom during 147–155; digital arts-based education programs 147–155; ethno-mimesis 161; housebound by 213; in/accessible remote-teaching classroom formats 162; public access to museum 112; reunited remotely during 139; Sonoran Desert and 214, 217; virtual classroom 173–178 crafting criticality 308–320 Crawford, Kate 180 creative leaping 166, 170 creative shorts 8–9; A for alphabet 14–19, 17, 18; Angrez chale gaye, Angrezi chod gaye 28–33; annotations examples to 13 appearances 66–76; art to artifact 77–79; assembling desire 39–43; co-creating fine arts learning 80–88; critical reflections on teaching, decolonial practice 20–27; lutruwita/Tasmania fauna 44–49; Mind the Sky (or forgetting and the imposed futurity of the present) 35–38; pulverization palimpsest in Palestine 59–65; reclaiming dreams of our shared future 51–57; textile cartography, contemporary Indigenous communities 89–95; trespass 66–76 criminal justice system 111 critical autoethnography 309 critical awareness 81, 142–144 critical emotional praxis 9, 181 Critical Family History (CFH) 10, 308–310, 318 criticality 42, 183 critical reflections on teaching, decolonial practice 20–27 Critique of Judgment (Kant) 224 Crosby, Njideka Akunyili 352 Crow, Jim 175 Crowley, Suzanne 8 Cuautepec workshop 89, 89–90; backstrap loom, triqui huipil woven 89; collage of some works and moments from 91; final thoughts 93–94; initial objective 90–91; outcomes 91–92; paper map embroidery 90, 91, 94, 94; participants 94–95 cultural heritage 3, 266, 334–335, 348; in German formal art education 334–335 cultural hybridism 140–142

396

Index culturally relevant pedagogy (CRP) 9, 138–145 cultural networking, during COVID-19 pandemic 147–155 cultural syncretism 138 cultures 141; anthropology 10, 108; aphasia 226; appropriation 6, 45, 88, 92, 249; connotation 212; decolonization 226–233; distance 326, 327; engagements 224; habits 226; in human history 326; marginalized 149; multiversum narrative 224–233; non-utilitarian vs. utilitarian object of 232; planetary 367, 367n6, 372; Puerto Rican 175 Cuna figures, of San Blas Islands 236–247 Cuna General Congress 236 Cuna paradox 240 curadora 294–295 curate approaches, Borderlands approach to 292–307 curatorial practice 9, 84, 293, 295 curiosity cultivation 189–191 curriculum: anti-essentialist, classroom for 173–178; arts integration as 99; elementary art curriculum 375; mainstream 173, 178; of prescribed curriculum content 182–183; regarding technology 180–186; through empathy and community 191–192 Cutting-edge Technology for an Ancient Religion 261n4 Daichendt, G. James 282n5 Dansaekhwa 325 darshan 218–219 Darwin diary 237 D’Assumpção, José Teixeira 141 Davidson Gallery 108–110 Davidson, Mary M. 108 Davis, Erik 263 De/Archive East Africa research 364, 365 De Becker, Laura 110 Debord, Guy 324, 330, 331; La société du spectacle (the Society of the Spectacle) 324, 330 decolonial imaginary 287, 288, 310 decolonization 1–2, 4, 5, 28, 35, 36n1, 37n4, 108, 113, 127, 130, 140, 310, 318, 328–332, 377; applications 7; in art education historiography 280–289; artworks 3–6; blood, body, and brain 323–332; characteristic of 378; contemporary Nigerian art markets 346–361; Cornerstone Project 149; Critical Family History 308–310; cultural 226–233; curriculum regarding technology 180–186; digital arts spaces 148–149; elementary art curriculum 375; embedding 344; formal art education in Germany 334–345; grief and neuroqueer spirit 157–163; idea of 174; intellectual project of 130; and intersectional strategies

10–11, 80–88; Kim’s artwork 324; of prescribed curriculum content 182–183; self-determination 3, 93; of theater education 138–145; traces of 2; visualizations 9; see also colonization “Decolonizing and Diversifying Are Not the Same Thing” 108 Decolonizing Methodologies (Smith) 284n7, 286n14 deculturation 329 Deep Dive 81, 83; collective archive 83–84; create teams 83; curatorial practice 84; peer assessment 85–86 degeneralization: historical imagination 283–285; of time in art education historiography 280–289 dehumanization 148 De la Rosa Carrillo, León 9, 116, 126 Deleuze, Gilles 133, 238, 258 Delhi Durbar 70 DeMeulenaere, Eric J. 182 Department of Corrections 275 Department of Indian Affairs 101n3 Derrida, Jacques 225, 241n4 Deserted Ceremonial Ground 239 deSouza, Allan 36n1 destruction, visual essay 101–102 diaspora 4; African diaspora 147, 148, 261; AfroCarribean diaspora 9 Didi Museum 348 difference-in-equality 365 digital activism 181, 184 digital arts-based education programs 147, 149, 153, 155 digital ethnography 9 digital literacy 184 digital media 32, 180, 185–186, 366n5; in art education 183, 184; cultural conversation about 181; sensory experiences 331 digital realms 7, 9 digital social space, Doha in 28–29, 29–31 digital storytelling, COVID-19 pandemic 147–155 digital technology 40n1, 214, 259n2, 376; art education in 257–267; entangled knowledge in 257–267; materiality in artwork 214 Dillard, Cynthia B. 37n4 Dime, Mustapha 358 Dionisio, a Lança, e o Dragão 139, 139n2 Dirlik, Arif 349 dirty history 148 disability microaggressions 157 discipline-based art education (DBAE) 248 Diversi, Marcelo 15, 309 Divide and Rule policy 8, 8n1 Divine Internet 257, 261–263, 262, 266 Doha, in digital social space 28–29, 29–31 Dolphijn, Rick 263

397

Index dominant systemic thinking 212 Doshisha University 188 Do the Maths (2021) 46, 46–47 Drakensberg mountain 230 Dream A World Cultural Therapy 149 Du Bois, W. E. B. 227 Duraisingh, Dawes 99 Dussel, Enrique 365, 367; Eurocentric modernity 365 eclectic community 138 ecojustice 9, 188–194 ecological aesthetics 9; attunement 198–203; inquiry, sensorial attunement 196–203 education see art education Egwu-Okoro, Samuel 10 Eldridge, Laurie 289; An Indigenous Reframing 286n15 Ellsworth, E. 181 El Paso Museum of Art (EPMA) 120 embodied inquiry 197, 203 emotional-laden beliefs 181, 184 empathy, curriculum through 191–192 Emperor’s New Clothes 68 enacted encounters 9; Canada’s Indian Residential Schools 98–106; classroom for “antiessentialist” curriculum 173–178; curriculum regarding technology, decolonization 180–186; decolonization of theater education 138–145; digital artsbased education programs 147–155; engage with curiosity, heart, and artistic identity 188–194; grief, decolonization 157–163; imagining our neighborhood of nonhuman residents 196–203; Lozano-Hemmer’s Border Tuner 116–128; máscar(a/illa)s creation 129–136; neuroqueer spirit 9, 157–163, 161; outside classroom and books 173–178; root a/r/tography from native seeds 205–210; transgressive enactments 165–172; unsettling colonial narratives in art museum 108–115 Encounter theory 325, 332 English–Hinglish–Winglish 32 English language 14; A for Alphabet 14–15, 17, 18; B for Burrito 15–16; C for Cantaloupe 16–17 English-medium-education 32 Enlightenment 23, 23; European Enlightenment 215, 343, 348 entangled knowledge 10; in digital age 257–267; spirituality of 10 enunciation 8, 15, 140 Environment Studies 193 Enwonwu, Oliver 350 epistemic equity 182 epistemic ignorance 283 Equestrian Figure, from British Museum 230

Escobar, Arturo 365, 367 essays 11; creative shorts (see creative shorts); Kachru’s essay 10n2; methodological approach of 345; types of, four themes 6 Ethiopian National Flag 231 ethno-mimesis 161–162 Eurocentrism 4, 80, 347; art education histories 282; conceptualizations 7; educational priorities 22; epistemology 3; frames of reference 289; ideologies of control inherent 346; imaginaries 285; internationalism 349; modernity 365; narrative 174; tendencies 141 Euro-Christian supremacy 284 European and American art 108–110 European Enlightenment 215, 343, 348 exhibitionary complex 348 Exploring Visual Cultures (EVC) 339–342, 344 eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) 158 Facing History and Ourselves 100 Fakeye, Onyindamola 359 Fall semester of 2020 112 Fanon, Frantz 364n2; The Wretched of the Earth 246 Farming Museum 205, 206n2, 207, 209 Faust, David 32 Federal Government 99 Fell, Fiona 261 festival celebration 206 Festival of Winter Preservation 209 fetishization 177, 216 fictocriticism 237–239, 246 Fillitz, Thomas 357, 357n4 Fine Arts: Academy of Fine Arts 336, 340; auctions, geographical distribution of 353, 355; dialectical categorization of 224; Kant, Immanuel 224; learning, co-creation 80–88; sector subsets of 353 Finley, Susan 193 Firestone, Harvey 243 first space 144 First World War soldiers 76; from Indian subcontinent, history of photography 70, 71; letters written by 71–73; psychological trauma 71–73 Fitzpatrick, Esther 10 Flay ( James Madison) 109, 110, 114 Floyd, George 131, 173, 175 folclore (Folklore) 9, 141 followers 71, 73 Fontaine, Theodore 98n2, 100–103, 106; Broken Circle: The Dark Legacy of Indian Residential Schools 98, 100–103; life phases 100–103; visual essay 100–103, 104–105 Ford, Henry 243 Forest Young 111

398

Index Fort Alexander Indian Residential School 100–102 Foucault, Michel 36n2; The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human Sciences 36n2 Founding Fathers 110 42cm: The Cultural Distance (Kim) 323, 325, 326, 326, 329, 331, 332 fractal structures, in African architecture and design 265 frame of reference 262, 278, 282, 284–287 Frazer, George 241–242; Law of Contact or Contagion 242 Freedom, a Fable: A Curious Interpretation of the Wit of a Negress in Troubled Times (1997) 111 Freire, Paulo 20, 141, 364n2; Pedagogy of the Oppressed 139, 143 Fuegian inhabitants 237 Fundação de Apoio à Escola Técnica (FAETEC) 138, 144 Fusco, Coco 182 futurity 8, 35–38 gallant narratives 5 Games on the War on Terror (GOWT) 5 Gang, Liu 207, 209 Garcia, Christen 10 Garvey, Marcus 149, 177, 227 Gates, Sylvester James 259 Gauntlett, David 311 General Lafayette and Madame Roland Drawing a Plan for the Festival of the French Federation (1791) 111 geomancy 264–265 George Washington’s Mount Vernon 113 German art education: decolonizing formal 334–345; emerging questions for 339 Gertz, Clifford 239 Ghanaian Pavilion at Venice Biennale 342 Gikand, Simon 228 Gillon, Werner 225 Giorgio, Grace A. 310 Glissant, Édouard 10, 280, 281, 288, 370; Poetic Intention 280; Poetics of Relation 280, 281, 287 global art auction turnovers 353–354 Global Art Market Report 353–354 globalization 1, 4, 215, 225, 266, 276, 336; digital technologies 376; discourses 358; economic 2 The Globalization of Arts 357 global warming 209 The Glory of St. Ignatius 232 glyptic art 225 Golden Age of Amsterdam’s Portuguese Jewry 315 Golden, M. 226 Golden Triangle 314–315, 315 Gong-gan-seong (spatiality) 325

Goodwin, Laura 23–24, 24 Google Form® 176 Graff, Gerald 174 Graham, George 308 Gramsci, Antonio 250, 347 grand hegemony, critique of 248–255 Grand Rapids 114 The Grand Tour 248–250, 253, 254 Grant, Vera 109 Great Ocean of Kiwa 269, 278 Greene, Maxine 188, 251 Green Line registers 63 Green STEAM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Art, Mathematics) Studios 198 grief 113, 157–163 grounded theory approach, confederate monuments removal 77n1 Guattari, Félix 133, 238, 258 Guyton, Tyree 111 habitations: cultural 226; fish 197; researchcreational approach 9, 165, 166; temporal 75; toxicity of 9 Haile Selassie I 149 Hamid, Rebecca 357, 357n3 Han, Byung-Chul 39, 40n1 Harakeke 269–278, 270n2 Haraway, Donna 258–260 Hardt, Michael 347 Harlem Renaissance 175, 177 Harris, Anne M. 165, 166, 310 Haskin, Fredric 244 Hassan, I. 226 Hauer, Jean-Jacques 111 Hausman, Georges-Eugène 249 Havana Biennale 358 Hayes, Celeste C. 189 Hazel, Nanny 273 healing process 20, 148, 294, 375 Heart of the Samurai (Preus) 191 Heda, Willem Claesz 114 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 224, 225, 232, 233, 283–284, 287; The Philosophy of Fine Art 224 Heidegger, Martin 215, 216, 218 Helmbold, Eduard 326 Henry, O. 243; Cabbages and Kings 243 Herder, J. G. 225 heroic narratives 5 Herzfeld, Michael 120 Hesse, Karen: Out of the Dust 191 heteronormativity 158 Hickey, Amber 108 Hickling, Frederick W. 148, 149 Hickman, Mary J. 45 Hicks, Veronica 10 Higgins, Heather 21, 22

399

Index higher education 376; decolonize curricula in 174; neurodiverse and neuroqueer folx in 9; practice 7; see also art education Hilando Historias 89–95 Hindi Varn Mala 29 Hines, Lewis 191 Hinglish 32 An Historical and Ethnological Survey of the Cuna Indians (Nordenskiold and Rubén Pérez) 240 historical imagination 281, 281n1, 282; example of 285–288; generalization and degeneralization 283–285 Hobson, William 270 Hokai Rangi strategy 275 holistic education 189, 190 Holman Jones, Stacy 310 Holzwarth, Peter 311 Howell, Leonard Percival 149 HRM Alfred Nnaemeka Achebe 348 Huggan, Graham 238, 239, 246 Hughes, Langston 175 Huhn, T. 228 human-centered ontology 198 Human Development Index 336 humanoid adult 230, 230 Humble Tour 251–254 Hungry Listening (Robinson) 166 Hutchinson, Gerrard 148 Hwang, Laura 22, 22 hybridism, cultural 140–142 HyFlex 180, 183 identity divide 32 Ifá divination system 261–262, 262 imagination, cultivating curiosity and 189–191 imperialism 4, 10 Independence House 359 Indiana Jones film 5 Indian Residential Schools (IRS) 102, 106; in Canada (see Canada’s Indian Residential Schools (IRS)); Fort Alexander 100–102 Indigenous people (indigeneity) 4, 82, 218, 238, 286; in Canada 98, 99, 103; land acknowledgement 217; on San Blas islands 236; to Western framework of liberation 108 An Indigenous Reframing (Eldridge) 286n15 Indigenous Writes (Vowel) 88 indigitization 8 individual Máscar(a/illa) s 131, 132 industrial monocultures 41 Industrial Revolution 1 Ingold, Tim 311, 317 inhabitants 8, 42, 48, 200, 202, 218, 241, 243, 293, 294, 313; Fuegian inhabitants 237; sustainable and life-affirming mode of 278 innocence, visual essay 101

inquiry-based learning experiences 198 InSEA 336 inspiration, from Borderland Collective 20–21 Instagram 159 The Institute of New International Visual Arts (INIVA) 349 intellectual disabilities 158 intellectual project, of decolonization 130 intercultural communication 140 International Symbol of Access (ISA) 254 intersectional identities 184 intersectional strategies, decolonization and 80–88 IRS see Indian Residential Schools (IRS) Israel-Palestine conflicts 9 Israel’s Mediterranean coast 59–65 Ivory Tower 9, 160 Jack, G. R. 327 Jackson, Alecia Y. 131, 311 Jaffa 59–65 Jamaican patois 152, 152n1 Jangamuttuk mimicking 239 Japanese avant-garde sculptural movement 325 Jefferson, Thomas 249 Jewish traders 312, 314–315 Jibunoh, Newton 348 Johnson, Colin Thomas 237n3 Johnson, Eastman 111 Jonathan Silverman 9 Jones, Stephanie 8 Joselit, David 123 Joughin, J. J. 233 Journal for Research in Arts and Sports Education 375 Journal of the Royal Anthropological Society 239 Judeo-Christianity 157, 158, 162 Jullien, François 39, 335 Jungle Cruise (2021) 5 Jun Hu 9 Kachru, Prashast 10, 10n2, 213; digital contemplation 222; the essence of all science, ceramic technoscape 222; i don’t trust nobody but the land, neon and photography 221; as land acknowledgment 212–223; machines of loving grace, ceramics 220; ozymandias’ nightmare, ceramics and photography 221; reciprocal seeing, video and sound 220 Kalahari Desert 230 Kantawala, Ami 282n5; Revitalizing History 282n5 Kant, Immanuel 224, 225, 232, 335; Critique of Judgment 224 Kaphar, Titus 109, 110 Karr, Heather 237

400

Index Keating, AnaLouise 292n2; This Bridge We Call Home 297n4 K-12 education 180, 376; classroom teachers 20, 99; practice 7; students, requirement 98; see also art education Keefe, Thomas 9 Keikelame, Mpoe Johannah 148 Keskitalo, Pigga: Place and Space in Sámi Education 286n15 Kester, Grant 275 Kim, Jonathan 10, 323–325, 327–329, 331, 332; 42cm: The Cultural Distance 323–325, 327–329, 331 Kimmerer, Robin Wall 132, 201 Kimmerle, Heinz 225 kinship system 39 Kitchener Indian Hospital, Brighton 73 Klein, Kristin 10 Klooster, Wim 315 Knausgård, Karl Ove 217 Knight, Wanda B. 182 knowledge: community of 175; entangled (see entangled knowledge); mainstream curriculum 178; official 20 Kob, Roland 357, 357n1 Konate, Yacouba 358, 358n5 Kortekangas, Otso: Sámi Educational History in a Comparative International Perspective 286n15 Kostogriz, Alex 140, 144, 145 Kouros 230 Kraehe, Amelia M. 184 Krämer, Sybille 264 Kuby, Candace R. 129, 135 Kuna Mola blouse fragment 245 kunanyi (Mount Wellington) 47 Kuokkanen, Rauna 283, 284, 287 Lacy, Suzanne 275–277 Ladson-Billings, Gloria 139, 141, 142 Lagos: auction houses 349–350; biennials 357, 360; global art auction turnover 353–354; Nigerian artist, at auction 350–353, 351, 352; Spanish architect 349 Laiti, Jenni 288, 289 La Jetée 68 land acknowledgment: artistic practice as 212–223; reciprocal gaze and 216–218 Land and Space 7 Land of the Free 21, 22 Lane, Gabi 326 language learning 8, 14, 16–17 La société du spectacle (Debord) 324, 330 Lasso, Marixa 243, 243n7 The Lasting Legacy of Jim Crow 175 Latour, Bruno 233, 258 Law and Society program 166–171 Leake, Maria D. 8

“Learning is Such Sweet Sorrow” 165 Lee, Boram 10, 323 Lee, Robert E. 77n2–78n2, 78n4 Lee Ufan 324, 325, 328, 331; Encounter theory 332 Lentis, Marinella 285n10; Colonized through Art 285n10 Leonardo da Vinci 334, 336 Leonardo, Zues 309 Les Demoiselles d’Avignon 336 Leuzinger, E. 225 Lewis, Lillian 10 Liberal Arts Department 178 liberation 347; education 142; from human condition 218; intercultural relations 140; from Nazi regime 344; Palestinian liberation 347; Western framework of 108 Library in the Forest 42, 42–43, 43 The Library of Missing Datasets 184 Libre Academie des Beaux-arts (LABA) 340 lie of neutrality 110 lifelong learning 278 Ligiéro, Zeca 142 Lincoln, Abraham 111, 113 Lincoln and the Emancipated Slave (ca. 1866) 111 linguistic dominance 14, 15 Lipeng Jin 9 Liu, Yingsheng 206 Lives, Lies, and Learning (2019) 182 Loffreda, Loffreda: On Whiteness and the Racial Imaginary 88 Lo llevamos rizo project 371 Long Soldier, Layli 127 “Long time gal” 152 Loomba, Ania 282 Louisiana Purchase 1 Love, Bettina 250 Lozano-Hemmer’s Border Tuner 116–128 Lugones, María C. 364n2 lumbung 334 lutruwita/Tasmania fauna 44–49 Lydenburg terracotta heads 230 Maack, Reinhard 230 machine learning 259 Madhukaillya, Mriganka 8; Assembly of Desire 40, 41; Library in the Forest 42, 42–43, 43; Proposal for Assembly 40 Madureira 142–143, 143n4 Maghabeng Plateau 231 Magh Bihu 40 “Magiciens de la Terre” exhibition 225 Magid, Jill 182; Tender (2020) 182 mainstream curriculum knowledge 178 mainstream educational systems 41 Majuli Island 40, 42 Malcolm X 63, 63n7, 309

401

Index Maldonado-Torres, Nelson 364n2 Malpas, S. 233 Mamdani, Mahmoud: Neither Settler nor Native: The Making and Unmaking of Permanent Minorities 377 manifesto participants 24, 25 Mansilla, Boix 99 Maori weaving case study 10 Marchart, Oliver 357, 357n2 marginalized communities 130–131 marginalized cultures 149 Marker, Chris 68 Marsh, R. O. 244, 244n8, 245; White Indians of Darién 243–245 Mars, Jean Pierre 227 Martusewicz, Rebecca A. 194 Marvin H. and Mary M. Davidson Gallery 108–110 Marx, Karl 216 máscar(a/illa)s 129, 134; Becky’s Máscar(a/ illa) 132–133; Bretton’s Máscar(a/illa) 133; creation 129–136; individual Máscar(a/illa) s 131, 132; Tim’s Máscar(a/illa) 133–134 Masemann, Elisha 275 masking process 134–135; creation 131–132; surveillance 130–131 Master of the Ghost Dreaming (Narogin) 237, 238, 246 Masuzawa, Tomoko 284 Mateo drawing: chicken coop 197, 99, 200; speculative journal drawing from week 1 201 materiality 214, 217–220, 222, 324 materializing theorizations of monstrosity 169 Matisse, Henri 228 Mazzei, Lisa A. 131, 311 Mbembe, Achille 140, 227 Mcbain, William 350 MacDonald, Logan 9 McLuhan, Marshall 330, 331; Understanding Media-The Extension of Man 330 Mead, Hirini Moko 277 meaning-making process 81, 284, 289, 294 mechanical and electrical objects (MEOs) 214 Mediterranean coast: borders, barriers and rebar 64; counter-representation on 59–65 Mehl-Madrona, Lewis 160 Memory Loss 257, 264–265 mental deficits 157 mental illness 157–163 mercantilism 1 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 324, 328, 332; The Phenomenology of Perception 324, 328 Mersch, Dieter 259 meshwork of trade 317–318, 318, 319 Metropolitan Museum of Art 109, 277 Mexican Republic 90, 91 MFA thesis 170, 214

Michelangelo 334 Mickel, Jeremy 111 microaggressions: disability 157; spiritual 160–161 Mignolo, Walter D. 364n2 military occupation, imagery of 9 Miller, Taylor 8 mimesis 228, 231, 236–247 Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses (Taussig) 239 mimicry 236–247 mind and body 6–7, 9 Mind the Sky (or forgetting and the imposed futurity of the present) 35–38 Ministries of Education 98 Mischke, Dennis 237 Miss Lou 152 mixed media research artifacts 21–24, 21–24 modalities, and sociotechnical foresight 181–182 modernism, beyond veneer of 224–233 modernity 281n2 Mohanty, Chandra Talpade 184 Molas: Folk Art of the Cuna Indians (Neal and Parker) 245 Monash University (Australia) 140 Monnet, Caroline 101 Monochrome painting 325 Mono-ha 325 Monreal, Timothy 9 Monsanto Company 205 monstrosity, materializing theorizations of 169 Montefiore, John Israel 312 Montoya, Margaret E. 131 Moorish Spain 264 Moraga, Cherríe: This Bridge Called My Back 297 Moral Machines 259–260 Moreira, Claudio 15, 309 Morris, Christine Ballengee 375; Transforming Our Practices: Indigenous Art, Pedagogies, and Philosophies 375 Mother Cummings 46 mountain-Cuna Indians 244 Mount Hood from the Dalles (1871) 111 Muecke, Stephen 237, 238, 246; Reading the Country: Introduction to Nomadology 237, 238 Muir, Michelle 23, 23 multiculturalism 6, 23, 131, 349, 359 multicultural literacy 141 multilingualism 32–33 multiversum narrative 224–233 Munich Academy of Art 336, 340 Murrell, D. 228 Museum of International Folk Art 245 music creation, Cornerstone Project 152–153 Muslim Mediterranean world 243n7 mutual engagement 175, 177 mycelium 258

402

Index naam-name 32, 33 Nagar, Richa 32 Nakata, Martin 238 Nakuona Arts 147 Narmer Palette 230, 231 Narogin, Munderooro 237, 237n3, 241; ceremony 239; Master of the Ghost Dreaming 237, 238, 246; Writing from the Fringe 238 Nathan, David 312 National Day (1990) 231, 232 National Gallery 109 National Health Service 152n2 nationalism 3, 39, 215, 325, 348, 355, 376 Native American imagery 6 nature-culture-technology 257, 258, 266 Nazi subplot 129 Ndikung, Bonaventure 354–355 Ndlovu-Gatsheni, Sabelo J. 148, 153 Neal, Avon 245; Molas: Folk Art of the Cuna Indians 245 negative aesthetics theory 228 Negri, Antonio 347 Neither Settler nor Native: The Making and Unmaking of Permanent Minorities (Mamdani) 377 neocolonialism 1 neoculturation 329 neoliberalism 1 Neoplatonist philosophy 232 nepantlando 292–307 neurodiversity 9, 39, 157, 158, 160, 162 neuronormativity 158 neuroqueer 9, 157–163, 161 New Internationalism 349 Newton, Isaac 262 New World 1, 244 The New Zealand Company 317 New Zealand flax 270, 270n2 The Nicomachean Ethics (Aristotle) 231 Nigerian artist, at auction 350–353, 351, 352 Nigerian Art Market Report 349, 353–354 Nigerian art markets 361; burgeoning 347; contemporary 346–361 Nimbus Art Gallery 349 Nola’s Ark (2007) 47, 48 nonhuman residents, neighborhood of 196–203 non-self-governing territories 1 Noongar community 237n3 Nordenskiold, Erland 240, 242; An Historical and Ethnological Survey of the Cuna Indians 240 North American projects 236 Not Yet at Ease 72–74 Not Yet Diagnosed Nervous (NYDN) 73 nuchu figure 242 nursery rhymes and proverbs 151 Nuttall, S. 227–229; Beautiful Ugly 227 Nwagbogu, Chike 349

Nwakunor, Gregory A. 348 Nygreen, Kysa 181 NYU’s Arts Education Toward Decolonization Series 375 Obatala 229 Object Library 81–83, 86, 87 official knowledge 20 Ogoye-Atanga, Atanga 10 Ojibway language 103 O’Leary, Hannah 350 Olsen, Christina 109 Oluo, Ijeoma 185 Omenka Gallery 350 Omooba Yemisi Adedoyin Shyllon Foundation (OYASAF) 233 “One to Another” project 21 Ongata Rongai 363–365 online art educational practices 180 Onobrakpeya, Bruce 358 Ontario Institute for Studies in Education 253 On the Philosophy of Central European Art (Ryynänen) 288n17 Onuoha, Mimi 184 On Whiteness and the Racial Imaginary (Rankine and Loffreda) 88 Openings project 109 Ophrys apifera 259 The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human Sciences (Foucault) 36n2 Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient (Said) 327 Orisanla 229 Ortiz, Fernando 329; Contrapunteo Cubano del Tabaco y el Azúcar 329 Oshiniwo, Tosin 359 OtB see Outside the Books (OtB) Ou Ning’s research 368 “Our Backyard” (Nosso Quintal) 139, 144, 144–145, 145 Out of the Dust (Hesse) 191 Outra 33 Bienal (An Other 33rd Biennial) 368–369 Outside the Books (OtB) 173–178; analysis and connection to scholarship 176–177; challenges 177–178; community building 174–175; decolonizing curricula 174; goals for 173; literature review 173–174; methods 176; socially engaged art history 175–176 overstanding, Cornerstone Project 149 Padmore, George 227 Paetzold, H. 229 pagan savages 162 Paideia Academy 199 Pākehā 309, 318 palawa massacre 44 Palestine–Israel Conflict 64

403

Index Palette of Narmer 230, 231 Pallitorre 47n4 palm wine 359 Panama Canal 240, 243–244 Panamanian objects 10 Pan-American Indigenous Tribes 201 Pan Atlantic University Lagos 348 paper map embroidery 90, 91, 94, 94 papier mâché balloon 312, 313, 313 Parikka, Jussi: Middle East and Other Futurisms 285n13 Parker, Ann 245; Molas: Folk Art of the Cuna Indians 245 Park, J.-A. 329 Parque Chamizal en Ciudad Juárez 120 Patel, Leigh 35 Patel, Shwetal A. 357n1 The Path Emerges While Walking 214, 218–221 Peale, Rembrandt 113 pedagogical experimentation 80 pedagogical spaces 141, 144 pedagogy 251; culturally relevant pedagogy 9, 138–145; human-focused 9; Humble Tour 252, 253; pausing 134; pedagogy of opposition 142; school’s initial curriculum 141–142; theater education 9, 141–142; in United States 20 Pedagogy of the Oppressed (Freire) 139, 143 Pegno, Marianna 8, 14, 15 Pelias, Ronald J. 165 Pena, Martins 143 Penny Dreadful 129, 130, 132, 134 People’s Liberation Army 68 People’s Republic of China 353 Pérez, Emma 287 Periodization & Sovereignty (Davis) 284n8 personal variant 86–87 pervasive gaming: Humble Tour 251–254; public space valuations through 248–255 phenomenology 328; narrative-based 10; practice-based research 324; structure 325 The Phenomenology of Perception (Merleau-Ponty) 324, 328 Philipsen, Lotte 349 Phillips, Thomas 312 The Philosophy of Fine Art (Hegel) 224 Phormium Tenax 270 Picasso, Pablo 228, 334 Pilar Delahante Matienzo, Susana 371 Pitblado, Michael 9 Pitts, Andrea 294 Place and Space in Sámi Education (Keskitalo) 286n15 planetary cultures 367, 367n6, 372 planned garden design 197 plant internet 258 Plant teachers and Wood Wide Web 257–259

Plato 225, 231 Plotinus 231, 233 pluriversal co-creation 11 Poetic Intention (Glissant) 280 Poetics of Relation (Glissant) 280, 281, 287 poetry 152 Polack, Joel Samuel 312 political imagination 42, 377 popular culture 141 Port Jews 314–316 post-africanity 10, 224–233 postcolonialism 1–2 post-coloniality of language 28–33 posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) 73, 148, 157, 158, 161, 161 Pozzo, Andrea 232 Prakash, Gyan 347 Pratt, Mary Louise 183, 183n2, 329 Premium Connect 257–267; Ifá divination system 261–262, 262 Preus, Margi: Heart of the Samurai 191 Preziosi, Donald 233, 348 propaganda 1, 6 proverbs, nursery rhymes and 151 provocación 117 psychohistoriographic cultural therapy (PCT) 149 psychopolitics 40 PTSD see posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) public cultural institutions 80–81 public space: scrutiny of 168; valuations through pervasive gaming 248–255 Puerto Rican culture 175 pulverization in Palestine 59–65 The Python’s Eye: The Past in the Living Present (Alagoa) 226, 227 Q&A discussions, during OtB series 177 Qianyu Wang 9 Quijano, Anibal 140 Quintino Theater School 138, 139n2, 141, 142, 144, 145 racism 45, 148, 177, 192, 244, 309, 371; structural 259n2; systemic 149, 173, 175 Ranciere, Jacques 16 Rangimarie Pā Harakeke 272, 272–273 Rankine, Claudia: On Whiteness and the Racial Imaginary 88 Raqs Media Collective 9, 66–76; Co-ordinates of Everyday Life 67, 76; Coronation Park 70, 70; Corrections to the First Draft of History 67, 69; history of photography 70, 71; Hungry for Time 76; Not Yet at Ease 72–74; Re-run 68, 69; spinal cord 72, 73 raranga applications 269–278 Rastafarian socio-spiritual movement 149

404

Index Reading the Country: Introduction to Nomadology (Muecke) 237, 238 reciprocal gaze, and land acknowledgment 216–218 reciprocal seeing 218, 220, 220 reciprocity principles 222, 266 reclaiming strategy 20 recognition 5, 35, 45, 149, 166, 191, 201, 217–218, 233, 284, 310, 328, 332, 343, 349, 367–369 reconciliation 98n1, 99, 103 recursion 265–266 Redaction Project 111 Regan, Ronald Wilson 243 Rele Gallery 347 relentless capitalism 214 religious hegemony 157, 159 repatriation 3, 5, 108 Re-run 68, 69 research-creational approach 165–172 research processes 6; arts-based research 28, 32; De/Archive East Africa research 364, 365; mixed media research artifacts 21–24, 21–24; Ou Ning’s research 368; practice-based 324; ruminative (see ruminative research) residential schools 98–106 resilience 180, 188, 206, 378 resonant theory 166 Revitalizing History (Bolin and Kantawala) 282n5 Rezaire, Tabita 10, 257, 258, 260, 262, 263–267; Premium Connect 257–267 Richard and Rosann Noel Gallery 109 Rif kin, Mark 284, 286, 288 Rio de Janeiro 138–145, 138n1 The Road to El Dorado 5 Robinson, Dylan 166; Hungry Listening 166 Rocky Mountain College of Art + Design (RMCAD) 173–178 Roe, Paddy 238 Rogers, Randolph 111 Rolling, James Haywood 250 Roman Catholic Counter-Reformation agenda 232 root a/r/tography, from native seeds 205–210 Roots of Art Education Practice (Stankiewicz) 282n6 Roquet, P. 325 Ross, Janell 77n2–78n2 Rousell, David 261 Routlinger, Corey 9 Royal Dutch Shell 1 Rubén Pérez Kantule 240, 242; An Historical and Ethnological Survey of the Cuna Indians 240 ruminative research 10; art education and entangled knowledge in digital age 257–267; artistic practice as land acknowledgment 212– 223; beyond veneer of modernism 224–233;

contemporary Nigerian art markets 346–361; crafting criticality 308–320; critique of grand hegemony 248–255; decolonizing blood, body, and brain 323–332; decolonizing formal art education in Germany 334–345; exorcising colonialist 236–247; histories and pedagogics from underside(s) of modernity 363–372; nepantlando 292–307; socially engaged art and education 269–278; time degeneralization, art education historiography 280–289 Run on a Bank 68 Ruysdael, Salomon van 111 Ryynänen, Max: On the Philosophy of Central European Art 288n17 Sachdeva, Nupur 8 Sagkeeng First Nation 98, 101 Said, Edward 327–328; Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient 327 Salmond, Anne 276–278 Sambata, Qana 231, 232 Sámi Educational History in a Comparative International Perspective (Kortekangas) 286n15 Sanatan Dharma 218 San Blas Islands: Cuna figures of 236–247; nuchu figure, Kuna People 242 Sanjinés C., Javier 281 Santa Muerte candle 133–134 Santos, José Luiz dos 141 São Jorge 138 Saraceno, Johanne 308 Sardar, Z. 327 Scott, David 287, 328 Scott, Duncan Campbell 101n3 Scott, James C. 41; Against the Grain 41 scrutiny 36, 110, 168, 174, 238 second space 144 Secret Garden 159–161 Seed-shelf 206, 208 selective delinking 226 self-assessing 32 self-awareness 283, 287 self-determination 3, 8, 93 self-empowerment 294n3, 297 self hood 323 self-inflicted exclusion 227 self-negation 39, 43 self-organized complex systems 205 Self-portrait with Batik Florals 22–23, 22 Senghor, Leopold Sedar 225, 226 sense-making 10, 264, 284, 287 sense of community 127, 153, 173, 174, 176, 189, 209 sense of intimacy 174, 176 sensorial attunement, ecological aesthetic inquiry 196–203 A Sentimental Art Education (Stabler) 285n10

405

Index Sephardic Jews, Amsterdam 316 sestina 77–79, 77n1 settler colonialism 2, 5, 61–64, 106, 111, 135; in Canada 98; destructive logics of 378; societies 309 Sewall, Laura 188 Shchutski, Vitali 356 shifting discourse, discomfort of 375–378 Shonibare, Yinka 335, 342 Shyllon museum harbors 348 Silly Wolly (2009) 47, 47 Silverman, Jonathan 190 Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake 377–378; As We Have Always Done: Indigenous Freedom through Radical Resistance 377–378 Sinclair, Murray 98 Singh, Julietta 16, 202; Unthinking Mastery 16 Sintonizador Fronterizo public art installation 116–128 situated learning (Lave) 252 Situationist International 330 ski mask 133, 134 skyscrapers 206 Skywoman story 201 Smith, Linda Tuhiwai 5, 130, 309, 370; Decolonizing Methodologies 284n7, 286n14 Smithsonian American Art Museum 77n2 social choreography 40 social classes, reshaping of 32 social engagement, arts-based 219 social generalization 330–331; deeply embedded in media/education systems 10, 324, 330; product of 332 social justice 99, 108, 162, 173, 177, 181, 182, 184, 190 socially engaged art 10; history 9, 173–176; indigenous model of 269–278; in Tamaki Makaurau 269–278 The Society of the Spectacle (Debord) 324, 330 sociocultural marginalization and toxicity 212 sociodrama, Cornerstone Project 149–150 Socio-legal Studies 170 socio-political history 167 sociotechnical foresight: modalities and 181–182 Soja, Edward W. 140, 144 soldiers, in First World War from Indian subcontinent, history of photography 70, 71; letters written by 71–73; psychological experiences of 71 solidarity 8, 48, 217, 218, 310, 375 Solis, Juanita 78n3 Sonoran Desert 214, 217 Sotomayor, Leslie C. 10, 295–306 sousveillance 130–131 Sowole, Tajudeen 348 Sow, Ousmane 358 spatiality 324, 325

Special Committee on Decolonization 1 speculative imagining, gestures of care 202–203 Spillane, Sunny 182 spirituality: of entangled knowledge 10; microaggressions 160–161; neuroqueer 9, 157–163, 161; spiritual practice practicum 159 Spivak, Gayatri 14, 15, 250, 254, 347; Can the Subaltern Speak? 250 Spooky Action at a Distance 242 Spring Ploughing 205 Spry, Tami 36n3 Srinivas, N. 327 Stabler, Albert 285n10; A Sentimental Art Education 285n10 Staikidis, Kryssi 375; Transforming Our Practices: Indigenous Art, Pedagogies, and Philosophies 375 Stankiewicz, Mary Ann 282n6 Stanley, John Mix 111 State Department of Science and Technology 138 STEAM learning 9 Steinberg, L. 228, 231 Stokes, J. L. 47 Stokstad, Marilyn: Art History (5th edition) 175 Stravinsky, Igor 281 A Streetcar Named Desire (Williams) 142–143 student journal drawings, anticipated garden/ fish pond 196 subaltern 250, 251 Subedi, Binaya 174, 177 subject-subject relation 166 Subrahmanyam, Sanjay 283 Sudden Unexpected Death in Infancy (SUDI) 275, 278 Suffering for the Vote: Hidden Herstory 177 Summer Weeding 205 survival phase, Fontaine life 102–103 sustainability 191–193, 275 Sustainable Development Goals 343 syllable-based poetic forms 29 sympathetic magic 236, 239, 241–242 synchronicity 159 systematic self-observation 159, 161 systemic thinking 212 systemic violence 65, 215 Tafawa Balewa Square 359 Tāmaki Makaurau: socially engaged art in 269–278 Tan, Leon 8, 10, 275 Tan, Pelin 367 Tasman, Abel 270 Taussig, Michael 236, 237, 239–243, 241n4, 242n5, 242n6, 244n9, 245, 246; Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses 239 teaching: Abolitionist Teaching Network 250; co-equal teaching partnership 99; critical

406

Index reflections on, decolonial practice 20–27; in/accessible remote-teaching formats 162; K-12 education 20, 99; urbanization in art education 250–251 techno-magic wonderland 264 Te Ika-a-Māui 269 Tel Aviv, built environment of 59–65; borders, barriers and rebar 64; Charles Clore Park 61–62; final flattening of Dolphinarium 61; orange peels and vineyard vines 60; shoreline re-development 63 Te Maori exhibition 277 Te Moana-nui-a-Kiwa 269, 269n1 Tender (2020) (Magid) 182 Te Noho Kotahitanga Marae 272 Te Punga Somerville, Alice 310 Terra Kulture Mydrim Gallery (TKMG) 350 Tervo, Juuso 10 Te Waiunuroa o Wairaka 273 Te Waka-a-Māui 269 textile cartography, contemporary Indigenous communities 89–95 theater education, decolonization of 138–145; literature 139–141; methodology 139; pedagogy 141–142; teacher-student relationship 143 Theater of the Oppressed (Boal) 141 Theatre of Dionysus 139n2 themes: Cornerstone Project 153; essays type 6 third space 140–142, 144–145 33rd São Paulo Biennial project 368–369, 370 This Bridge We Call Home (Anzaldúa and Keating) 293, 297n4 Thompson, Nato 275 Three Weeks in May 275, 277 Thulin, Mirjam 316 Tiago Chicano detective 130, 133 Tikanga Pā Harakeke 269–278 Tillander, Michelle 9, 185 Time and the Other (Fabian) 284n9 time to trespass 66–76 Tim’s Máscar(a/illa) 133–134 Toohey, P. 226 Torres Strait Islander 238 totalitarianism 39 Total War 5 toxic positivity 158, 160 Trafí-Prats, Laura 203 transborder interventions 9 transculturation 10, 329–330 transformation 39, 63, 133, 141, 214, 219, 292, 293, 295 Transforming Our Practices: Indigenous Art, Pedagogies, and Philosophies (Morris and Staikidis) 375 transgressive enactments 165–172 translingualism 32–33

transposition 166 Treaty of Chicago (1821) 113 Treaty of Waitangi 270, 276 Tree of Seeds 206, 208, 208 trespass 66–76 triqui huipil woven, on backstrap loom 89 Trump, Donald 120 Trüper, Henning 283 Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) 98, 98n1, 99, 106 Tuazon, Ana 108 Tuck, Eve 5, 108, 134, 238, 309 Tuggar, Fatimah 182 Uche Okeke 342 Uduma, Ozi 9, 108; reflections and future challenges 114; unsettling education 112–114; Unsettling Histories: Legacies of Slavery and Colonialism 108–114, 110; unsettling museum 109–110; unsettling narrative 110–112 Ugiomoh, Frank A. O. 10, 226, 232 UMMA see University of Michigan Museum of Art (UMMA) Understanding Media-The Extension of Man (McLuhan) 330 UNESCO 335n3, 336, 341 unfinished business, of unsettlement 318–320 United Nation, non-self-governing territories 1 Universidad Autónoma de la Ciudad de México (UACM) 89 Universidade de Campinas 141 Universidade de São Paulo 140 Universidade Federal do Estado do Rio de Janeiro 142 University of Augsburg 340 University of California 140 University of Michigan Museum of Art (UMMA) 108–110, 112, 114 The University of Nebraska at Kearney (UNK) 20, 21, 25, 26 University of Toronto campus 253 University of Waterloo, student activity outcome 81, 83, 84 unlearning language 8 Unmaking the Archive Workshop at Owen’s Gallery 81, 85–87 unmasking process 134–135; creation 131–132; surveillance 130–131 unsettling colonial narratives, in art museum 108–115 Unsettling Histories: Legacies of Slavery and Colonialism 108, 110, 112; challenges 113; conception 114; Flay ( James Madison) 109, 110; goal in 108 Unthinking Mastery (Singh) 16 Untitled (bird cage, re-lynching) (ca. 1980–2010) 111 urbanization 249; art history and 249–250; teaching in art education 250–251

407

Index Van der Tuin, Iris 263 Vandervliet, Grace 9, 108, 110 Varga, Bretton A. 9, 129, 132–134 Venice Biennale 70 vibrant community 138 Victor Talking Machine company 245 Vicuña, Cecilia 125 View of the Fortifications at Gennep on the Maas River (1665) 111 violent events 89 virtual learning 9 Visible 23–24, 24 Visiona, Monica B. 225 visual arts 98; integration with historical inquiry 99 visual-centric media 330, 332 visual culture: artefacts 5; system to objects of 337 visual essay 100–101, 106; Charlotte 100–103, 105; destruction 101–102; Emily 100–103, 105; innocence 101; Madison 100–103, 104; Naomi 100–103, 104; project description 99–100, 106; reconciliation 103; survival 102–103 visualizations 6 Vogel, Susan 225; Africa Explores: Twentieth Century African Art 225 Vowel, Chelsea: Indigenous Writes 88 Wagner, Ernst 10 Walker, Kara 111 Wang, Maoxi 208 Wang, Meiqin 276n3 Warhol, Andy 334 warp 92, 92n1, 92n2 Washington, Martha Dandridge Custis 113 Wa Thiong’o, Ngugi 364n2 Watson, Jini Kim 282 Weimer, Maryellen 175 Weintraub, Linda 188, 193 Wenger, Etienne 175, 177 We: Seeds Library 206, 208 Western democratic society 334 West Gallery Thebarton 325 Westwood, R. 327 Wexler, Alice 10 whānau manāki pā harakeke 273, 274, 275 whanaungatanga 271 What’s the Use? on the uses of use (Ahmed) 133 White Indians of Darién (Marsh) 243–245 White, Kimberley 9

The White Lady of Brandberg 229, 230 White man 236–237, 239, 241 Whiteness Is (Buffington) 183 White, Tanya 10 Whitworth Gallery 70 Who’s Next? (2021) 47, 49 Who’s Out of Whack? (2008) 47, 48 Wilder, Gary 282 Williams, Tennessee 142; A Streetcar Named Desire 142–143 Winglish 32 Winter Preservation 205 Winthrop, Elizabeth: Counting on Grace 191 Wish You Were Here: African Art and Restitution 108 Woglom, James 8 Wolfe, Patrick 63n6 Wood Wide Web of plants 257–259 work portrait, self-portrait 213 workshop, Cuautepec 89, 89, 89–90; backstrap loom, triqui huipil woven 89; collage of some works and moments from 91; final thoughts 93–94; initial objective 90–91; outcomes 91–92; paper map embroidery 90, 91, 94, 94; participants 94–95 World Englishes 7, 28, 32, 216 World War II 1 woven fabric, warp of 92n1 The Wretched of the Earth (Fanon) 246 Writing from the Fringe (Narogin) 238 The Writing of History (Certeau) 281n3, 284n8 Wybeleena, Flinders Island 47 Wynter, Sylvia 364n2 Wyss, Beat 360, 360n8 Xueyin Li 9 Yang, K. Wayne 5, 108, 238, 309 The Yemisi Shyllon Museum of Art 348 Yoruba community 261; aesthetics, Iwa concept 229 Your Face Is/ Is Not Enough 184 YouTube Channel 139, 139n2 Yuehua Ding 9 Zavala, Miguel 20 Zena Kruzick Tribal Art 242 Zimbabwean artists 358 Zionist colonization 59 Zoom technology 150, 151, 153, 213

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