Category Archives: Feature Report

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.

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.”

More Than a Game

Feature Report

Success at go requires the tactic of the soldier, the exactness of the mathematician, the imagination of the artist, the inspiration of the poet, the calm of the philosopher, and the greatest intelligence. — Zhang Yunqi, Weiqi de faxia, Beijing, Internal document of the Chinese Weiqi Institute 1991, p. 2

K-chk! The sound drifts to my ears as I make my way past stacks of books and people comfortably reading in plush chairs by the windows that span the wall. K-chk! It comes again as I progress through the library. Before I know it, the stacks open up to reveal cream-colored wooden tables and chairs inhabited by an assortment of people bent over in focused intensity. The source of that resounding snap is in front of me: the snap of slate stones being played on a large wooden board. I stand and watch for a moment, the players oblivious to my presence.

I first came across Go when I was in middle school. I have always been a voracious reader–you name it, I read it–but somehow, I moved from reading Homer and Jules Verne to books less highly regarded- i.e., manga. One of my favorite series was Death Note, so I was thrilled to discover the artist had illustrated another series, called Hikaru no Go. The series is an inspiring coming-of-age tale about a young boy haunted by the spirit of an ancient Go master. Initially resistant, the boy comes to learn and love the abstract strategy game and grows up to become a pro in his own right. I became enthralled by the game, reading books about its history and solving puzzles; before long I was looking online for people to play against.

The rules of Go are simple; two players take turns placing black or white stones on a 19×19 grid board, and whoever captures the most territory is the winner. However, if the rules of the game are simple, the strategies needed to obtain victory are complex. Considered more strategically challenging than chess, Go inspired chess grand master Edward Lasker to say

While the Baroque rules of chess could only have been created by humans, the rules of go are so elegant, organic, and rigorously logical that if intelligent life forms exist elsewhere in the universe, they almost certainly play go.

That’s fitting, given that the number of possible board configurations in Go (2 x 10170) exceeds the number of atoms in the universe (1080), while chess has just 1050 legal positions.

The game is played on a solid block of wood, called a Goban in Japanese, which represents the earth. Each right angle signifies uprightness. The black and white stones stand for yin and yang, while their placement across the board represents the heavenly bodies. Unlike in chess or checkers, in Go the stones are placed at intersections. Nineteen thin, lacquered black lines run parallel to each edge; as a result, there are 360 plus 1 different positions at which to play. 360 represents the number of days in the ancient lunar year, the one is seen as supreme and the source of the other numbers, and governor of the four quarters. The four quarters of the board represent each of the four seasons. The 72 points around the edge of the board come from the weeks of the calendar, and the 9 black circles, called stars or hoshi, which correspond to the nine lights of heaven and mark the locations where handicap stones would be placed if they are used.

The best boards are made out of Kaya wood. Kaya boards have a bright, vivid color and a hardness that is ideal for use with shell and slate stones, which produce a lively and resonant click when struck without damaging the board. However, the wood is slow-growing and boards are typically cut from trees over 700 years old, leading to high prices.  Thus, more affordable spruce, also called shinkaya, has become the popular choice for the modern player. Go boards also come in several other woods, all of which are hard woods and have a resonant quality so that placement of the stones results in a clear, sharp sound.

Arguably the oldest of all known intellectual games, Go is the national game of Japan. It originated in China and is commonly attributed to Emperor Shun, who reigned from 2255 to 2206 B.C.E., which would make it approximately 4200 years old. Go was introduced to Japan in the year 735 C.E., when it was brought back to the country by an envoy to China. Originally played by the noble class, it would eventually reach samurai, monks, and even tradespeople. All three of Japan’s greatest generals, Nobunaga, Hideyoshi, and Ieyasu, were devotees of the game as it was the cognitive equivalent of a martial art. The first state institution opened to teach Go in the late 1500’s, and the Go Academy was founded soon after Ieyasu became Shogun in 1603. The game has only continued to increase in popularity over time. A 2016 survey by the International Go Federation’s 75-member nations found 46 million players worldwide, although the actual number is likely to be even greater.

Part of the game’s modern popularity is due to its reputation as a martial art for the mind, with Go seen as having strategic value in business and political communities, in children’s education, and in tournaments where victory is a way to display national pride. The game can help children to improve their focus and memory. Children who are especially talented can join Go schools as young as five and turn pro before their twelfth birthday like Lee Se-Dol, one of the greatest Go players of the modern era. Professional Go tournaments are held around the world, with prize purses as high as $500,000. The major Japanese tournaments come with titles and purses in the hundreds of thousands. With dozens of competitions held each year, star players can earn millions of dollars. Even those who do not become household names can make a good living from the game through local tournaments and teaching.  The publication of the international thriller Shibumi and the translation of Nobel prize winner Kawabata’s The Master of Go in the 1970s, as well as the appearance of Go in movies like A Beautiful Mind, helped to spread the game to the West. But, it was the emergence of the megahit manga and anime series Hikaru no Go that sparked the most recent resurgence of the the national sport of Japan both at home and abroad.

K-chk! That resonant clack as stone hits board calls me out of my reveries. The people playing in the Cambridge Public Library today are members of the Massachusetts Go Association, which is just one division of the American Go Association. This is but one of many meets that are held each week across the Boston area, each of which attracts a wide range of people. Go doesn’t appeal to just the young or the old. Its appeal doesn’t vary based on where you come from, how educated you are, or what gender you are. It is a game full of possibility and inundated with a rich cultural history. Here in the library today I see men and women, children and adults, and skin that runs the gamut of colors. I smile, glad for the chance to finally play in person against someone else who loves the game. I greet a woman whose game has just finished and slide into a seat.

Unity and Diversity in “Stories: Our American Journey”

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A crowd of Ismaili Muslims lines up outside the brightly-lit Manhattan Center on West 34th Street. A brisk city wind ruffles their blazers, dupattas (scarves), and colorful tunics as they wait for the doors to open to a theatrical production created and performed by their religious community. The crowd is clad in attire ranging from American business casual to Central and South Asian ethnic wear, a reflection of the congregation’s cultural diversity. This wide-ranging dress hints at the essence of the show they are about to experience, which describes Ismailis’ diverse journeys to the United States and the formation of their American Ismaili identities.

The global Ismaili community numbers approximately 20 million and populates over 25 countries from Canada to Kenya. Though members come from different cultural backgrounds, they are united by shared religious beliefs and values, as well as by their allegiance to an Imam, their spiritual leader.

While Ismailis currently reside in most states in America, this was not the case six decades ago. The first Ismailis to immigrate to the United States arrived in the 1960s, coming from countries such as Syria, India, and Uganda. Most arrived as students and ended up settling, enticed by opportunities to advance their education and careers. They paved the way for subsequent waves of migration from their homelands, resulting in the establishment of Ismaili congregations across the United States.

The narratives of these immigrants and their families are what bring Ismaili Muslims to Manhattan’s West 34th Street to see the production “Stories: Our American Journey.” This show brings to life the experiences of American Ismaili Muslims through song, dance, skits, and documentary-style videos. It memorializes their efforts to assimilate into American society as they seek to retain their native cultural roots and uphold the tenets of their faith. The stories presented in the show are based on real-life experiences, collected through video submissions from over 1,100 individuals.

Some of these stories chronicle the physical journey of arriving in America, landing in an unfamiliar country with one suitcase, a handful of cash, and the telephone number of a prospective host written on a slip of paper. Others reflect the cultural clash immigrants encountered after arriving in a country more liberal than their homelands. One community member describes coming out as gay to conservative elders in the congregation and tells of their disapproval. Still other stories illustrate the experiences of first-generation American youth growing up with immigrant parents and struggling to find their place in society.

Interlaced with these solemn accounts are stories of positivity and hope, revealing how community members seek strength from their faith. A mother describes her anguish when she first found out her son was born deaf and mute. She explains in a video clip that it took her months to accept her son’s condition, before she finally decided that she was entrusted with this child because “God felt she could offer him the love and support to help him grow.”

Though the stories feature individuals from different cultural backgrounds and experiences, many of them express common sentiments. From a number of performances emerge themes of migration, nostalgia, and hardship. Other stories evoke fear, apprehension, and uncertainty.

It is not just the skits that highlight unity within the congregation. One song and dance focuses on the phrase “Ya Ali Madad,” a greeting exchanged between Ismailis all over the world. The dancers dress in multicultural attire while the song features soundscapes from various musical traditions, the culmination of which embraces the unifying nature of “Ya Ali Madad.”

Through various forms of artistic expression, the “Stories” production highlights differences in the experiences of the American Ismaili congregation, while also tying them to one community and one faith, reflecting a culture of unity within diversity.

Etching in the new Seasons of Migration

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Sudan’s most influential printmaker, Mohammed Omar Khalil, collaborates with the Beirut-based experimental publishing house ‘Dongola’ to bring a classic postcolonial Afro-Arab novel to life.

Mohammed Omar Khalil in his Long Island studio. (PC: M. AlSayyad)

Set in a “small village at the bend of the Nile” and filled with tales of sexual conquest, passionate murders and challenges to coloniality, Tayeb Salih’s Season of Migration to the North quickly grabbed worldwide attention. It was translated into English only three years after its publication, but in Sudan, Salih’s home country, it did not make it past the censors. Despite critical acclaim, the novel was banned for thirty years due to its explicit sexual imagery. This, however, did not hinder the Arab Literary Academy from recognizing it in 2001 as “the most important Arab novel of the twentieth century.”

Fifty years after its publication, in a small town south of Tangier, Morocco,  Season of Migration to the North was to become the topic of discussion between two people who would give it new life.  

“I met Sarah in Asilah and explained to her that I want to publish a book on Tayeb Salih’s novel.” recounts Mohammed Omar Khalil, the master Sudanese printmaker currently living in New York. “She responded by saying ‘No. We’ll publish it,’ and told me about her new publishing house in Lebanon. It was called Dongola.” He smiles. “I liked this name, Dongola, because it’s the name of an ancient village in Sudan. So I said yes. And here we are.”

Dongola Limited Editions is an independent experimental publishing house founded by Sarah Chalabi. It specializes in limited edition artists’ books and focuses on creating collaborations across the Middle East, North Africa and South Asia. These books are not about art, rather they are art.  

Season of Migration to the North flips the post-colonial narrative of the time on its head. Instead of the white European man going south to ‘liberate’ the Africans from themselves, the African man was now writing his own narrative, and he was doing so while headed north. Equipped with certain remnants of colonialism—an elite education and fluency in the occupier’s language—the main character, Mostafa Said, engages the minds of London academics and conquers the hearts and bodies of the white women who fall prey to his charm. He plays the part that is expected of him with malicious accuracy, turning his room into a “harem,” dim with incense and burnt sandalwood; a trap for the orientalist woman-victim of the week. The book has been widely regarded as a reversal, the antithesis even, of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Mostafa Said is a product of the post-colonial crisis of identity. He is powerful and yet powerless, a victim and a perpetrator—“he loved a woman that treated him like dirt.” And eventually, he lost his grasp on life. “He never left England,” Mohammed Omar Khalil explains. “He carried it with him on his back, even when he went back to Sudan.”

Khalil was born in 1936 in Bourri near Khartoum, Sudan. He immigrated to the United States in the 60s and made a home for himself in New York City. He is regarded as one of the most important contemporary Middle Eastern painters, and as a pioneer printmaker. He has influenced more than two generations of artists as a teach and mentor. His work has been featured in the Met, the Brooklyn Museum, the British Museum and the Jordanian National Museum, among others.

I visited Khalil in his Long Island studio, a vast warehouse-like space where the only place to walk is amongst piles of dusty books, CDs and large canvas paintings leaning against each other in seemingly endless rows. The ceiling is high and large windows covered in white curtains let in the sunshine, which illuminates every corner of the studio. He makes us a pot of cardamom coffee before settling into his favorite chair. His workstation is cluttered with books, etching knives, snippets of magazines and ink rollers, organized in a manner only clear to the artist himself.

Switching between English and Arabic, he recounts his own tales of migration and art. He tells me the story of the first time he took an art class in Italy, where the nude model was, in fact, naked; after the semester, she told him that he had scared her initially, “because you come from Africa.” Shifting in his chair, he explains how he wrote his letter of resignation to the faculty of Arts at the University of Khartoum after becoming fed up with administrative corruption. When he told his colleagues, they laughed. The next day, he left the country, not to return for another 27 years. Mohammed Omar Khalil distances himself from Mostafa Said, the novel’s main character, a womanizer who murders his sadistic wife with a knife during a passionate sexual encounter. “I’m not like that. […] He was horrible with women.” Khalil grimaces. But despite everything, he adds, “We all have a little bit of Mostafa Said in us…” As he chronicles his own journeys from Sudan to the US and Europe, I picture Khalil as the unnamed narrator of the novel, a voice of reason and balance, both disgusted by Mostafa Said and in admiration of him.

. . .

Season of Migration to the North is Dongola’s most recent project and will be published in a limited edition of 30 copies. Each will include an original Dongola publication of the Arabic novel designed by the acclaimed Iranian graphic designer Reza Abedini and a used English copy acquired from online retailers. Finally, each artists’ book will include a series of ten original etchings, printed, signed and numbered by Khalil himself. The project has already caught the attention of l’Institut du monde arabe, which will host a live book signing in Paris in March of this year.

Tayeb Salih’s novel was published ten years after Sudan’s independence from British rule and is widely recognized as one of the most powerful works of post-colonial Afro-Arab literature. Censored in Sudan, it was finally serialized in the Lebanese journal Hiwar in 1966. Now, more than fifty years later, it has found its way back to a publishing house in Beirut, at a time when its themes seem ever more relevant to the world we live in. Today, Beirut is going through its own identity crisis and Lebanon has witnessed season upon season of emigration and immigration. And the book? Well, the book has been touched by the magic of Mohammed Omar Khalil, joining the ranks of artists’ books that reinterpret the very notion of what it means to read a book.

The Recipe for CQ? Add Mandarin

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In our ever-interconnected world, Cultural Intelligence, or “CQ”, is supposedly the latest measure that attempts to quantify one’s awareness and understanding of cultures other than their own. Professor Hu Ying-Hsueh of Taiwan’s Tamkang University, a distinguished linguist, advocated for its importance in a recent lecture at Wellesley College, entitled “How to Cultivate Cultural Intelligence”. I attended the lecture under the impression that I’d learn how one can best develop a tolerance of other cultures. Instead, I simply heard Professor Hu make her case for the development of Chinese Cultural Intelligence in a world where she believes Chinese is steadfastly rivaling English to become the world’s global language, otherwise known as a lingua franca.

A lingua franca is a language that two non-native speakers often use to communicate with each other, which thus has a purpose beyond its native community. Lingua francas exist on every continent, but English is the ultimate lingua franca; it is the language of international relations, business and science. Hu explained that Mandarin currently operates as a lingua franca on a smaller scale than English, and that she believes it will rise to challenge English in the future. This would mean that Mandarin speakers would soon stretch to every corner of the globe, and that Mandarin would replace the international command of English.

In Hu’s opinion, Mandarin establishing itself as a lingua franca would allow the masses to develop a Chinese CQ. She bases this belief on the Whorfian Hypothesis, the social theory her latest research has explored. The hypothesis stipulates that the linguistic patterns of a language lead the speaker to assimilate the structures of the language’s culture, that in turn influences how they see the world. To test this, Hu ran an experiment which entailed teaching a class of international students about Chinese culture, coupled with intensive Mandarin language training. She tracked the progress of the students through surveys and journal reflections, and came to the conclusion that her results proved the hypothesis correct. These foreign students believed that they developed a greater understanding of Chinese culture as their Mandarin skills grew; and according to their reflections, this shaped how they viewed the world around them. The more Mandarin they learnt, the higher their Chinese CQ grew.

Although this experiment seems to rely heavily on her “Mandarin as a lingua franca” theory, I found the results unsurprising. They easily could be explained without a fancy hypothesis as backing. It seems obvious that the students would learn more about China as they continue to learn Mandarin, because without the language skills, foreigners are automatically barred from many “culture-learning” experiences. How can one fully appreciate Chinese culture in all its nuances if they can’t understand museum plaques or read a menu, much less interact with locals? Language is what bridges the gap between being an observer and being a participant. However, Hu uses her linguist background to argue that the the Whorfian Hypothesis is the reason why the students’ Chinese CQ developed. She argues that the construction of the Mandarin language itself plays a significant role in developing this cultural intelligence, because it drives one to grasp the template of Chinese culture.

Both of Hu’s theories-that Mandarin will replace English as a lingua franca, and the validity of the Whorfian Hypothesis- were presented in a convoluted fashion, leaving the audience wondering if we need Chinese CQ in the first place. It’s also clear that her theories come with their flaws, though Hu was reluctant to admit as much. Not only were her experiment’s results entirely based on her students’ self-perception and subsequent self-reporting, she also eventually conceded that “the class was easiest for the Japanese students” on account of the numerous similarities that Japanese and Mandarin share. Hu elaborated on the struggles faced by the European students in the class, taking to the blackboard to illustrate how the construction of Chinese characters can pose difficulties for foreign learners with no grounding in a language that lacks an alphabet. She showed us how the meanings of “radicals”, components that form a character, can be derived, allowing Mandarin learners to develop cognition patterns. She then illustrated how these same radicals exist in characters with irrelevant meanings, undercutting the argument she had just advanced. By conflating oral and written language by assuming one must know how to write a language in order to speak it, Hu’s Chinese CQ theory is only muddled further. If one can already speak Mandarin, why would the Whorfian Hypothesis not be in effect if one simply struggles to write the characters?

Moreover, Hu’s “radical” example only illustrated how far Mandarin is from English, and inadvertently challenged her belief that Mandarin could replace English as a lingua franca. We can look to the dominance of English to garner what makes a successful lingua franca, and perhaps its greatest quality is how similar it was to its predecessor. English succeeded French in lingua franca status, and it can be argued that the similarities between the two languages allowed for this worldwide transition to occur. Hu unearths the stark differences between English and Mandarin, and the challenges in adopting a character-based language if the learner has no basis. If Mandarin was significantly easier for the Japanese than the European students in Hu’s class to acquire, I’m left wondering whether or not it truly has the power to dominate English as the world’s global language.

Despite being central to her lecture, Hu fails to identify if Chinese CQ is something we should be actively developing through our own undertaking of Mandarin- in an attempt to see the world from another perspective- or if it is something we will inevitably adopt if Mandarin becomes the next world language. Will Mandarin ever defeat English to achieve true lingua franca status? Will the Whorfian Hypothesis then cause us all to develop Chinese Cultural Intelligence? I’m unsure. Although Professor Hu’s experiment seems to raise more questions than it answers, it does invite us to consider the value of a linguistic perspective on cultural understanding.