Monthly Archives: March 2019

Collecting Stories Under the White Gaze

Feature Report

The  special exhibition Collecting Stories: Native American Art premiered at the Museum of Fine Arts  Boston in April 2018 and is set to close in March  2019. The online announcement of Collecting Stories identifies it as “the first in a series of three exhibitions funded by the Henry Luce Foundation that will use understudied works from the MFA’s collection to address critical themes in American art and the formation of modern American identities.” The goal of the exhibit is to unearth overlooked pieces of its collection to reconsider and correct its history of poor representation of the artwork of other cultures.  It is running concurrently with popular events such as Ansel Adams in Our Time, which draws in a queue long enough to wrap around the museum’s foyer.  It was apparent from the few guests visiting the Collecting Stories exhibit that it was a relatively less popular attraction.  Still, I anticipated an enriching experience.

Frequent patrons of the museum know that when they visit special galleries they will experience not only the art being advertised, but also the art of high quality curation. In the past year alone, they would have been able to view such notable collections such as Unexpected Families, a multi-room display juxtaposing pieces from many eras and mediums that challenged conventional notions of family by showcasing  platonic, adopted, multiracial, and queer families. The emotional rawness of that exhibit brought many visitors to tears on the cushioned benches positioned about the room, potentially for that explicit purpose. The curation of  Collecting Stories stands in stark contrast with the museum’s high standards.

The most immediately striking feature of the room in which Collecting Stories: Native American Art is housed is its size.  The space is tiny, with room for three to four paintings or boxes of handicrafts per wall, and another four pieces free-standing in the middle of the room.  The size alone was enough to discourage some visitors; I witnessed a group of women who opened the door, scanned the collection, then turned around and exited.  They say good things come in small packages, though, so I decided to explore the exhibit anyway in the hopes of finding some hidden treasures. And some of the pieces truly were beautiful.  There was a large striped Navajo wearing blanket, and and a collection of ancient Mississippian earthenware. Authentic Native American voices were integrated into the descriptions of the work, through quotes, traditional stories, and even a video of a Native woman talking about the significance of a Navajo Biil and Sis’tichii on display.  

Work your way around the room counterclockwise, however, and you will only make it past the first wall before you notice a piece that seems out of place in the exhibit.  It is a painting that, while it features Native Americans, is clearly in a different style from Native American work. In fact, a look at the object label reveals that the piece is by a German American.  Several other pieces follow the same theme. The museum’s publicity materials had indicated that the exhibit would explore “the range of perspectives, motivations, and voices involved in building the early holdings of Native American art at the Museum,” so I was utterly unprepared for the volume of pieces that were from white artists.  Nor was there any indication that passing these works off as part of Native American culture had been a misstep in the museum’s past. In total, around one-third of the collection, including the most prominent silver-plated vase that was the centerpiece of the room, was the creation of white Americans.  The relative size of the collection, combined with the amount of work by white artists on display leaves visitors questioning the exhibit’s stated purpose to provide an “opportunity to reconsider this understudied collection.” Is a reconsideration of Native American artwork that heavily features the work and interpretation of white Americans really a positive message for the MFA to be sending?

In an attempt to represent this exhibit as objectively as possible, I approached the information desk of the museum to inquire if there would be a docent available in the exhibit, or perhaps a formal tour that I could go on at some point in the day.  I explained that I wanted I wanted more insight into the curation of the pieces. The response of the woman at the desk was puzzlement, mixed with an air of condescension. “Can you not look at it on your own?” she wanted to know. Admittedly, it was a busy day at the museum, but with such a closed-off response to questions, a visitor is left with their own interpretation of the prominence of white American pieces within the Native American special exhibit.  Unfortunately, my interpretation, and likely that of many other guests, was not favorable.

The museum presents this exhibition as an attempt to redeem itself for years of overlooking Native American art.  Collecting Stories: Native American Art, however, fulfill that objective.  The MFA’s appropriation of native culture shows a disrespect that is a reflection of the disrespect of the rest of white American society, from the feathered headdresses of Coachella to sexy Pocahontas Halloween costumes.  The Museum of Fine Arts may be intent on “collecting stories,” but it’s unclear if they want to step away from their problematic past and start allowing artists from different cultures to tell those stories.

Nostalgia, Childhood, and Jars of Honey at the Museum of Fine Arts

Feature Report

       From early December 2018 to February of 2019, the Museum of Fine Arts Boston hosted a special exhibit titled “Winnie-the-Pooh: Exploring a Classic,” that brought visitors back to their childhood through the art, history, and culture surrounding the iconic character Winnie-the-Pooh and his creators, author A.A. Milne and artist E.H. Shepard.

      The exhibit explored the origins and life of the now ninety-three year old bear and the other inhabitants of the Hundred-Acre Wood. Walking through the exhibit, visitors could see stuffed animals, Winnie-the-Pooh memorabilia, original pencil-and-ink sketches, book covers, and sketchbooks and journals containing inspiration for the series. Designed to appeal to kids and adults alike, it was a multimedia experience that captured the imagination of the Pooh world.  The walls were painted with blown up reproductions of drawings by Shepard, and there were 3D replicas of Pooh’s home, the bridge from the Wood, and other set pieces from the books for visitors to enjoy. Fun additions like an old-fashioned phone that played the only recording of Milne reading Winnie-the-Pooh out loud also made the exhibit more of an immersive experience than just art on the walls. The walls with full-sized images and 3D replicas of recognizable landmarks from the world of Pooh created a walk through childhood, the exhibit leaning into the charm and nostalgia surrounding Pooh.

        Winnie-the-Pooh is a much-beloved figure around the world. Originally created in Britain in 1926 and based on stories that Milne told his kids about their stuffed animals, Winnie-the-Pooh has enjoyed fame not just in Britain and the United States but globally. The first room of the exhibit included Winnie-the-Pooh memorabilia like clothing, sneakers, silverware, and various stuffed animals, from several countries, such as Japan, Sweden, and Brazil. The rest of the exhibit was more focused on evoking warm, nostalgic feelings from visitors as they traveled through rooms bringing them into life in the Hundred-Acre-Wood.     

      The Museum of Fine Arts clearly anticipated Winnie-the-Pooh being a high-volume attraction. The museum created a special stroller parking area for families near the exhibit entrance, showing the MFA’s expectation that it would be heavily populated by families. And this was true to an extent—there were a number of families visiting the exhibit on a Friday evening, but the attendees were predominantly adults. There were couples on date nights, families made up of parents and adult children, and groups of friends, as well as some solo adults. They listened to the Milne recording and drew their own Winnie-the-Pooh renditions at a coloring table. Even though most of them were too tall for the child-sized Pooh setting replicas, they still ducked into Pooh’s house in the hollow of a tree. They climbed over a bridge in the central room of the exhibit and pointed at the fish projections swimming through the “river”, and enjoyed a table laid with reproductions of different scenes from Winnie-the-Pooh, the original prints of which could be seen throughout the exhibit. Some of the behavior adults were engaging in throughout the exhibit may have been “undignified” in the outside world, but in that little bubble of happiness and nostalgia, it seemed perfectly normal and charming to see adults coloring or crawling into a tent on the floor. There is something humorous about this behavior, but unlike in the outside world where the humor or fun might have been based in irony, the laughter and smiles of the adults seemed sincere.

       Adults also traveled through the exhibit more slowly than families with children, lingering in each room and pulling their companions over to look at their favorite features in the exhibit. People could be heard talking about which scenes they remembered from childhood; this made the love and nostalgia that people felt while traveling through the exhibit clear. It may have been aimed towards children in some ways, but the pure joy that it brought the adults illustrated how badly a lot of people need that dose of kindness and remembrance of childhood right now.

        This said a lot about how Americans experience nostalgia and how much they treasure experiences from their childhoods. People reminisced about what editions of Winnie-the-Pooh they had as kids, tearing up in front of their favorite features of the exhibit, and taking second and third passes through the exhibit to savor the experience. For adults, the value of an experience like this is a re-experiencing of childhood memories, and a return to a simpler world of friendship, love, and jars of honey. In the chaos of today’s America, people feel that they need something simpler, kinder, and purer than our current reality. The central enjoyment of the exhibit seemed to be the opportunity to enjoy a return to a world of friendship and love that is so far from the reality we’re living in today.  Walking through the exhibit, it was easy to forget the outside would for an hour or two and just let myself enjoy the warm emotional experience of remembering my mom reading me Winnie-the-Pooh stories from copies of the books that she’d had as a child. I went home afterward and dug out those very copies and flipped through them to see the illustrations featured in the exhibit once more, and I bet I wasn’t the only one.

Watch Whose Streets You’re Walking On

Letter to the Editor

To the editor:

Re: Paris on Foot: 36 Miles, 6 Days and One Blistered Toe by David McAninch.

I see your writer feels special for dismissing the elite sites of central Paris in order to advocate for the underappreciated Parisian suburbs. I’m here to inform him that writing a travel article does not align him with the marginalized immigrant communities of his destination.

McAninch takes the trouble to meet with activists who advocate for the Parisian suburbs. He gets their advice on where to go and falls in love with their suggestions. He seems to think this makes him one of them. It doesn’t. Drooling over the ravishing architecture does not in fact address the needs of the poor communities in certain areas of la banlieue, which are composed mostly of immigrants often maligned by the news media as criminals. By leaving these issues unaddressed—issues that are at the heart of why tourists do not visit the periphery in the first place—he minimizes their weight and disguises deep prejudice as mere ignorance. In doing so, he hides the social unrest and tension between the elite of Paris and the marginalized suburbanites. And hiding that only allows it to fester.

In a word, he’s unintentionally supporting the exact people those activists are fighting against. He doesn’t put what they preach into practice or make any advancement for the communities. He merely treats la banlieue superficially: slumming so he can enjoy their wine and call himself their hero, but not doing anything heroic.

I think a main problem is his audience. The activists he mentions write in French, and they seem to attract a French audience—which may very well influence the suburban-central Paris relations. But McAninch is writing for the relatively elite audience of the New York Times. To these elites, who mostly do not live in France, the suburbs will become a bucket list destination that will make them feel more cultured or woke for finding the “real” Paris. Brushing up these educated egos will not bring the justice that’s needed.

I recognize your effort, Mr. McAninch. I’m just worried you’re hurting more people than you’re helping.

Where yogurt cultures meet South Asian culture

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor:
Re “For South Asian Cooks, Yogurt Starter Is an Heirloom” (Food, Feb. 27):

Growing up in a Pakistani-American household, I found that my childhood summers
were synonymous with ripe, juicy mangoes, falooda kulfi (rose-flavored ice cream), and, of
course, fresh homemade dahi (yogurt). Priya Krishna is right when she says that homemade yogurt is a staple in many South Asian households, and that continued use of the same starter culture enables yogurt makers to preserve their heritage right in their own refrigerator. Yet homemade yogurt is not merely an heirloom of the past. It’s also a palpable link connecting the younger generations of South Asian Americans to their native cultures.

In my house, the fridge would hold my mother’s homemade dahi only in the summertime
because yogurt made from scratch does not set during the colder months of the year. With that yogurt, my mother would whip up a number of other dahi-based dishes using traditional Pakistani recipes. As a result, our summer evenings would be accompanied by lassi, a tangy yogurt drink, or papdi chaat, a snack made of chopped vegetables topped with yogurt, aromatic spices, and crispy fried dough.

Homemade yogurt opened up doors for me to experience other culinary traditions and
regional delicacies from Pakistan. Eating it with my family was a way for me to connect with a homeland that I had not lived in but could still feel a profound connection to, because of the dishes my mother put on the table.

Fixing This Garbage Fire May Be More Work Than We Thought

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor,

Your recent article, South Korea’s Plastic Problem is a Literal Trash Fire itself reflects the careless way in which we treat environmental issues worldwide. The story it tells of this black market garbage pile is not the one begging to be told —  a story of systematic neglect. Rather, we read a tale of simple Band-Aid fixes, paired with lamentations of if only we had known.

This massive combusting garbage pile in Uiseong did not spontaneously appear; it was the result of a series of poor attempts to mitigate pollution. The article highlights a number of regulations — from strict cutbacks in waste incineration to international waste import bans — but nowhere in this list of pollution mitigation strategies do we see an attempt to solve the underlying problem of South Korea’s surplus waste. These so-called solutions only address the symptoms, and have resulted in a combusting trash pile rather than a decrease in waste.

The exploding trash heap that’s given the spotlight here is a story that is replayed by many nations that have failed to fix a broken system. Your writer succeeds in highlighting the ways environmental policies fail, but like these policies, it doesn’t conclude with a call for a true fix. What’s needed is a systematic change — a deep industrial restructuring and an effort to reduce waste before it’s created, not once it’s spontaneously combusting and threatening lives.

You get points for telling this story, but like so many others it will fade into oblivion as more waste piles up, and frankly, there are more important things to take away from a 170,000 ton garbage heap than a lone fist shaking at the ‘what ifs.’

 

https://www.cnn.com/2019/03/02/asia/south-korea-trash-ships-intl/index.html

 

Our Own Worst Enemy

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor,

It’s not often that you laugh reading an Op-Ed on Russia, but that’s precisely what I did when I read Marc Bennetts’s Don’t Blame Journalists for Bad News Coverage on Russia, (Op-Ed July 3). Bennetts pokes fun at western media, its consumers, and its critics, while showing how the image we have of other countries gets negatively skewed with stories of natural disasters, humans rights violations, and political concerns.

Not all of the blame falls on the heads of journalists. It’s hard to produce positive stories that grip us in the same way that more grave ones do. As Bennetts puts it, there are “only so many articles that can be written on the transformation of Gorky Park.” He suggests that for a more palatable view of Russia, we turn to travel guides, but I disagree. We should be able to get this type of coverage from the media, and we can—if the public demands it. In a media environment where clicks determine revenue, responsibility for balanced coverage falls equally if not principally on viewers. Ask and you shall receive. If we really wanted to read about art exhibits in Kazan, such articles would be on the front page of the Washington Post. Yet the front page remains mostly devoted to politics.

Coverage dominated by hurricanes, war, and famine is more a reflection on our society than it is on the media. Instead of revealing a media industry that lies to us, coverage paints a picture of a society that is somehow both globalist and isolationist. The attention we pay to longer-term issues in other parts of the world lasts about as long as a news cycle. It’s we who maintain and foster the monolithic image of other cultures that is so prevalent. If we want more nuanced coverage, we have to demand it and consume it where it is available.

While there is no simple solution to this matter, the information is out there. There are publications that don’t foster the mentality that “if it bleeds it leads”, and that offer nuance and depth to their coverage of other cultures. Find them. Support them. Share them. The sustentation or destruction of the monolith is in your very capable hands.

Xīn Nián Kuài Le – Happy New Year

Feature Report

New Zealand may seem like an unexpected place to celebrate xīn nián, Chinese Lunar New Year, but every year, the city of Christchurch hosts a lantern festival to mark the occasion. Compared to traditional lantern festivals in China, Christchurch’s is much smaller, filling up only the city square. Yet despite the size, both the event’s activities and crowd were surprisingly robust for a Chinese Festival in New Zealand. The educational elements included in Christchurch’s event also make it different from a traditional lantern festival. Unlike in China, Christchurch’s lantern festival is advertised to an ethnically mixed audience, most of which are not Chinese. Intended for a mixed audience, the event is geared to both welcome the New Year and encourage attendees to learn more about Chinese culture. The festival is organized by the small, strong Chinese community and is backed by a China-based organization known as the Confucius Institute, an independent group that teaches courses on Chinese language and culture. Cultural events like Christchurch’s lantern festival are what bring ethnically mixed communities together in both celebrating and sharing cultural diversity.

The history of the Chinese Lunar New Year begins with ancient Chinese astronomers. As they observed the night skies, astronomers began to notice a cycle in star patterns. They called one full cycle yì nián (one year). Assigned to each year is a zodiac animal that comes from a Chinese creation legend. In the story the Jade Emperor, the ruler of the heavens, offers all animals a chance to have a year named after them if they win a race. The first twelve animals who win the race then celebrate at a heavenly banquet, each being awarded their own year. The lantern festival, which celebrates both the animal and the beginning of the New Year, is held at night and often displays decorations featuring that year’s animal.

At the Christchurch Lantern Festival, crowds fill an entire city square. To judge from their accents, almost everyone is a New Zealand native, a Kiwi, but about half the crowd looks to be not ethnically Chinese. This year, everyone is bustling towards different attractions to celebrate the Year of the Dog. In one corner, there is a stage where groups perform traditional songs and dances. These performances range from a single, elderly Chinese man playing a flute to a children’s group dressed in traditional garb moving to percussion beats. A little farther from the stage, makeshift stands of collapsable poles and tented fabric line the border of the square. Each contains something different. In one, young kids learn to make small origami animals. The next stand is filled to the brim with festive decorations like hóng zhǐ (red paper), and keychain tassels, all to bring good luck this New Year. At the end, there are a few stands organized by the Confucius Institute. They’re easily identifiable because they are twice as big as all the others, and they’re connected. Tonight, their presence signifies that to fully appreciate Chinese culture, it is necessary to understand its roots. Inside each stand, teachers walk visitors through the basics of calligraphy and teach them about the origins of the Chinese Lunar Calendar. It’s striking to hear the traditional Chinese myth told in the soft drawl of the Kiwi accent. The crowd in this half of the square alternates between watching the stage and milling about among the stands.

There is so much to watch and listen to, but it’s the smell that pulls people to the other side of the square.

Across from the stalls and the stage is a wall of food trucks. Their aroma has been pervading the entire festival, enticing would-be customers. Most of these trucks are not serving Chinese food, which is a casual nod towards the mixed crowd. Ironically, the one with the longest line happens to be for yakisoba, Japanese fried noodles. Amongst traditional dumplings and fish ’n’ chips, the scents of Chinese and Kiwi cultures mix in the air. As customers equip themselves with small treats they begin wandering through the spectacle of lanterns. They are unlike the traditional small lanterns one sees hanging from trees or set on tables. Instead, they are huge creations of thin nylon-esque material covering dazzling lights formed into an array of intricate shapes. People crowd around them and wander from dragons to pandas, ships, and horses, their gazes fixed on each for several moments before the cameras click.

Amidst the revelry of the crowd, a sound rings out signaling for people to make way as the parade starts coming through. The parade marks the peak of the festival, drawing people from all over the square towards the center as the marchers file in. Small and energetic, each procession is full of music and excitement as musicians march alongside traditional dragon dancers. As the parade begins to exit the other side of the square, everything else quickly follows. The lights on the stage are already dimmed, most of the stalls are in the process of being collapsed, and many of the food trucks have packed away their signs. Even as the festivities come to an end, the goal of the lantern festival here has clearly been achieved. The Chinese Lunar New Year has been welcomed through traditional festivities, while large crowds at the information booths testify to the success of cultural education. As the crowd filters out, only the lanterns are left; a light guiding us into the New Year.

Photos taken by J.Koury at the Lantern Festival. Christchurch, New Zealand . March 11, 2018.

Days in the life of Augusta Forrer Bruen

Feature Report

By Lia James

“Every day […] makes me long for the time that I will hope is to come, when […] we may live quietly at home, no more wars to disturb us in our endeavors to make all good and happy.”

Housed deep in the archives of the Wellesley College Special Collections is a series of handwritten letters. Composed by friends and loved ones of the Bruen and Forrer families of Dayton, Ohio, they are part of The Catharine Mitchill ‘31 Collection of Family Letters, some of which are also available in the special collections digital archive. At first glance, these letters seem quite ordinary, each regaling readers with tales of children’s playdates, the weather, and the ever-present shadow of “the war”—that is, the American Civil War. In fact, these letters are a testament to the complexities of the lives of homemakers during the Civil War, through the specific lens of Augusta Forrer Bruen.

While the collection includes letters to and from a number of family members and friends, one correspondence is of particular interest to me: the letters sent by Augusta Forrer Bruen to her husband, Luther Barnett Bruen, who was fighting in the civil war. Passion and propriety can both be felt in Augusta’s careful penmanship. Between the first “Dearest Luther,” and the last “Goodbye, darling,” she provides a plethora of detail that gives unique insight into the domestic life of a nineteenth century white woman against the backdrop of a war for black liberation.

____

“Our last news is so threatening that I fear your time has come; I cannot but hope not; but if the worst comes will try to be patient and hopeful still; believe me dearest, I will do my best to keep up my spirits and take care of the little ones left to my charge.” (16 June 1863)

Fear is one of the more poignant threads that run through Augusta’s writings to her husband. Layered among uneventful stories of children’s playdates and visits from friends are increasingly despairing comments regarding Luther’s safety. It is as though Augusta is playing a tug-of-war with her opposing emotions. She is trying to remain hopeful for her children who often ask eagerly upon waking up, “Is Papa home?” while also being honest with herself and her husband: “…I’m trying to prepare myself for disappointment” (11 July 1861). These are no peacetime musings.

On the surface, the mundane updates that recur in Augusta’s letters to her husband do not appear to be anything special. Yet domestic concerns are more than they seem when juxtaposed with the uncertainty and instability begotten by war. These concerns are quite different, of course, from those of the black men and women for whom the war was being fought.

____

“I forgot to tell you I believe, about Joe Crane’s change of politics. He has become a great abolitionist.”  (21 June 1863)

Though I have not come across a letter in which Augusta explicitly discusses her own racial background and positionality, her superficial references to “the ‘darkey’” (31 July 1861) and “the slavery question” (12 March 1864) make it clear that she is not part of the black struggle. Despite the fact that her husband is at war, risking his life for this cause, Augusta’s quiet, distant life as a housewife in Dayton, Ohio spawned an unyielding ignorance to such issues.

In a time when becoming an abolitionist is no more than a “change of politics” to people like Augusta and her friends, who “watch the War with a sad interest” (30 November 1862), it strikes a modern reader as extraordinary that there were persons fighting and dying for this cause. These attitudes demonstrate just how distinct the divide was between the politics of slavery and its inhumanity. They suggest, too, how difficult it is for someone who is not on the battlefield to comprehend its horrors, and how far removed the idea of war is from the everyday American consciousness. In today’s society, ‘war’ is a spectacle watched—perhaps with Augusta’s “sad interest”—on screens that show bombs falling in faraway lands. In the mind of a western civilian, the experiences of Luther Bruen seem utterly foreign, and therefore all the more valuable.

____

The discussion of race and abolition in the letters is particularly fascinating today, likely because of the fact that race is still a live issue in mainstream discourse. Reading private exchanges regarding race during Civil War-era America provides remarkable insight and offers a more candid account of the historical events of the civil war than the narratives with which the public has become familiar. I wonder which of the billions of humdrum messages that we exchange each day will be preserved in the archives of the future, and how we will be understood by generations to come.

As the delicate letters are tucked away for safekeeping, I find myself eager for Augusta’s next correspondence, feeling acutely connected to the snippets of her daily life that I have explored thus far. After a final farewell from the curator, I reassess and decide that my original evaluation of the letters was accurate: they are indeed ordinary. However, ‘ordinary’ implies no lack of value or merit—they are ordinary, but extraordinarily so.

 

Collections such as The Catharine Mitchill ‘31 Collection of Family Letters may be consulted in the Special Collections reading room of Clapp Library. Readers are required to register and present photo identification. The catalog is online. The collections are available for research, free of charge to students and faculty of the Wellesley College community. (Source: Wellesley College Special Collections webpage) 

(Featured image: The beginning of one of Augusta’s last letters to Luther. He would pass away due to complications of a battle wound a few weeks later.) 

 

 

Light Art

Feature Report

Have you ever found yourself entranced by the lighting in a piece of art? What if the art was the lighting itself?

James Turrell premiered Perfectly Clear in 1991. The luminous installation is the centerpiece of Turrell’s exhibition, Into The Light, currently on display at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art. Perfectly Clear does not take on the traditional form of a painting or a sculpture; instead, it encompasses an entire room.

At first, the installation seems to simply be comprised of three white walls and a white peanut gallery, where the next group of visitors queue up. But during each 15-minute session, the three white walls begin to glow in various bright colors so that the white peanut gallery reflects the complementary color. For example, if the main three walls glow green, the peanut gallery turns a striking magenta. This would take some light science to explain, but essentially spectators are enveloped in seemingly endless color that changes at pre-programmed  intervals. After these dramatic color shifts, strobe lights flash. Many in the room may choose to place their hands over their eyes, yet find that the light shines through.

James Turrell’s “Perfectly Clear”, Photo by Florian Holzherr

Patrons have enjoyed this dazzling experience for almost three decades, and the museum clearly takes great care to ensure its enduring quality. Visitors must promptly file out after the show to minimize any chance of disturbing the installation.

What makes Turrell’s strobe lights and visceral colors purposely distinct from everyday bright lighting–from, say, the light of our phones?

Such lustrous displays of lighting are not limited to the realm of fine art. Incredibles 2, better described as popular culture than highbrow art, also contains the use of strobe lights. So did my ninth-grade dance. Although some may argue that mainstream movies can in fact be fine art, there’s no disputing that my ninth-grade dance was definitely not.

However, what’s special about Turrell’s installation is the singularity of the lighting and the emphasis on the colors themselves. Light is commonly used to illuminate other elements, but in Perfectly Clear, it is the only element. Spectators are strictly fixated on the brightness of the color. This singularity forces them to question the importance of illumination in itself, inhabiting a space in one’s mind usually reserved for the object of illumination. It says: stop looking at the mountains and rivers; gaze right into the eye of the “sun”. Except in this case, the sun is a much more manageable human-made glow. And it will not blind you. Probably.

The experience is like walking around in someone’s consciousness. Where nothing exists but what you bring inside yourself. Where a sense of space and time collapse onto one another. It is dreamlike. It may involve an even greater sense of escape than do actual dreams, which often incorporate too many pieces of everyday life to be classified as true escape. Turrell provides a way for viewers to momentarily leave the mundane and focus on pure light.

In a 2008 interview with designboom, a daily web magazine focused on international industrial design, architecture, and art, Turrell reflected on his general artistic style. Here he revealed his creative intentions behind his use of light as a medium:

for me, light is nutrition, almost like food. and I’m concerned with the light inside people. when you close your eyes or dream, you see a different light than with your eyes open. we usually use light to illuminate the things around us. but I am interested in the very personal, inner light.

Turrell hopes to allow participants in his art the chance to find a light that exists beyond everyday life. He suggests that the physical light he works with will bring out a sort of inner illumination. Although no one can confirm that he universally provides this experience, this accurately describes how I felt while viewing Perfectly Clear. Since I walked into the exhibit before knowing his intentions and still experienced what he intended, this shows his mastery in realizing such a conceptual and idealistic relationship to light. Because I cannot live through others’ experiences of his art, I am left to wonder: did his art capture the outer light and transfer it inside me? Or did his art draw on the light that was already inside me to create the outer light? Whichever holds more truth, it is perfectly clear that his light art leaves many of its beholders in wonder.

Fête des Lumières

Feature Report

The streets of Lyon are usually quiet this time of night. Right now, however, they are alive with a boisterous crowd and brilliant lights scattered across the city, from a lamp the size of a house to a fountain lit up with dazzling precision. Tonight is the Festival of Lights, better known as Fête des Lumières—and at just past nine in the evening on this cold December day in 2014, the celebration is just beginning.

The Fête des Lumières is a four-day festival that began in 1634 in Lyon, France. Lyon, at the time, was suffering from a deadly plague. Its leaders prayed for the Virgin Mary to spare the city, and celebrated in Mary’s name when the plague subsided. The celebration was a simple and local one that quickly grew into a worldwide phenomenon. The only tradition that remains from that solemn time is the practice of burning candles in colorful glass, which people arrange on their windowsills. These candles brighten even the darkest of streets with ethereal color, but one must be there at the right time—they are only in place  on December 8, the final day of the Fête des Lumières.

A treasure trove of modern art and rich tradition precedes this vibrant display of candles. The Fête for 2014 displayed over forty exhibits, each created by different artists from around the world. Even stores and businesses take part, with an annual competition for the best shop window in which anyone in the world can vote. Every year, the same the artistic events  take place at two of Lyon’s landmarks: an extravagant lightshow at the Place des Terreaux, and a bank of bright, colorful lights projected onto the Basilica of Fourvière. Otherwise, no two Fêtes are the same, aside from that each one draws anywhere from three to four million attendees every year.

In all  the years that this Fête has been celebrated, whether on  a local scale or as the grand festival of today, there has only ever been one incident that left its continuation in doubt. In 2015, just weeks before the Fête would begin, Lyon’s mayor, Gérard Collomb, announced that the Fête des Lumières would be shortened. Instead of four days, the Fête would be celebrated only on December 8. And instead of numerous exhibitions produced by a variety of artists, there would only be one. This exhibit, Regards, would project paintings done by famous artists across the facades of the buildings of Lyon.

It  would also project the names of one hundred and thirty people upon the walls of Lyon’s quay.

 

from http://darkroom-cdn.s3.amazonaws.com/2015/12/AFP_Getty-547102989.jpg
A photo depicting some of the exhibit Regards, by Daniel Knipper. It lists several names.

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For almost all of 2015, French officials were on edge following the shooting at Charlie Hebdo in January. Over the following months, there were other acts of violence that were cause for concern: the stabbing of French guards outside a Jewish community center in February, the explosion scare of a factory in June, and the stabbing and shooting attack on a passenger train in August (dramatized in the film The 15:17 to Paris). ISIL claimed responsibility for these attacks—and would for future attacks as well.

On November 13, 2015, France announced a state of emergency following six distinct attacks in Paris. The first was three suicide bombers at the Stade de France, where President Hollande was in attendance; the next four were at various restaurants and cafes around the city, and caused  in thirty-nine deaths. The last was a mass shooting at the Bataclan theater, where ninety people lost their lives and many more were injured. In total, one hundred and thirty people were killed and hundreds more injured.

The tragedy of these events caused heartbreak and fueled widespread fear. But this mourning inspired action and résistance. Parisians opened their doors to those who were too scared to travel home, and, as the days went on, placed flowers and candles on memorials for the victims.

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Lyon’s response to these events was a show not of fanciful lights but of solidarity. Instead of the brilliant displays, residents and visitors alike placed candles on windowsills, on the stairs of City Hall, and along the bridges and streets and roads that wound through the city. The exhibit Regards was projected on the façades across the city as a tribute to the victims in Paris, flashing each victim’s name across the quay. The Fête of 2015 was a celebration of unity in the face of horror and a memorial to those who were lost; it was at once a somber and quiet affair and a fierce and passionate promise. A plague had once unified the people of Lyon, and now a national crisis drew the Lyonnais and all of France together.

The  following year’s Fête was strong and exuberant. Though it was shortened to just three days, artists displayed exhibits that showcased their skills and creativity and Lyon’s citizens lit their candles as they always had. The Fête of 2015 was not forgotten and as a result security for the Fête of 2016 was heightened, but still, the proud lights shone in the night. The same was true of the Fête of 2017. But every year since, the Fête celebrates its full four days, displaying a testament to the resolve and solidarity of a people.

http://www.fetedeslumieres.lyon.fr/sites/fdl/files/images/2015/Actus/8_decembre_2015-14.jpg 
Candles and messages left at the foot of the statue of Louis XIV. The message at center reads, “Give me hatred… and from it I’ll make you love.”