All posts by ddiamant

What’s going to happen to Art Museums after COVID?

Op-Ed

 There is something calming about wandering the halls of a museum. It’s an event, a ritual, a source of cultural and intellectual stimulation. You know, the good kind of stimulation. The one that’s not spending 20 hours on Netflix, or decorating your island on Animal Crossing. It’s a multi-sensory experience: a melange of visuals, sounds and smells. In light of the recent health crisis, all of these in-person experiences have been cancelled, and moved online to ensure that art remains available to everyone. Obligated to ensure that “six feet apart” are kept between customers and staff, and hearts heavy with anxiety, administrations have been forced to adapt the ritual of a museum visit to ensure its survival. The question is, for how long? Long enough to render this online experience the new normal, and museum-going a hobby of the past? 

With the second week of March 2020 came numerous announcements of bans on large social gatherings across the world. When the call to adaptation was made, institutions were forced into a quick response. As universities and schools were closing down to eliminate the close social contact involved in their operation, museums and art institutes did the same. Obviously, evacuating a museum and closing its gates is a far less complicated process than kicking out thousands of students, staff and faculty. However, making the transition to online teaching is far less complicated than re-creating a museum experience on a two-dimensional screen. Texts can be reproduced mechanically with no loss of information, but artworks can’t. Of course, they can be captured in great detail and virtually reproduced; much discourse on museum digitization has captured social groups in the art world already, holding a long “pro’s”  list for its case. Thanks to technology,  all art works regardless of their medium can adorn the websites of their respective institutions. Still, something is off. 

 The Met, the Louvre and all the Guggenheims closed their doors effective immediately. The financial losses from this pandemic will be felt far into the future. With no visitors and thus, no income, huge deficits are already looming over cultural institutions. Once the doors open again, whenever that is, visitors will be far fewer — and certainly not foreign— for a while. Some institutions are luckier than others, enjoying large endowments and deep-pocketed trustees that could, if necessary, alleviate some financial stress. To remain relevant and not drop off visitors maps, museums have had to come up with ways to stay engaged with their communities. They moved online, but recreating an artwork or artefact digitally is not a new practice. The British museum has always had pictures of the looted Elgin Marbles and the Met has always pictures of the (also quite possibly looted) Blue Qur’an.

And although this enhanced approach to engaging with a museum seems to be solving many of our newfound problems, the issue of accessibility still remains. Besides basic ableism accessibility issues often overlooked, elitism also poses a threat to accessibility in museums. And that was definitely carried along in the digital version of museums. The social groups that have been historically excluded from the museum’s context now have a chance to engage with them with no one bothering them. That is, if they have a device. And an internet connection with that device. Oh, and time to do so while managing their lives, and quite possibly that of a few others, while in quarantine. Unfortunately, as accessible things are on the internet, all claims of accessibility are still being made on numerous assumptions about the audiences. 

Visuals in museum and other cultural institution sites are more than a concentrated cluster of images. They are images with a title, a text and a backstory. They’re carefully placed, following a particular order that is  aesthetically pleasing and follows some sort of progression. This progression, however, does not allow for traipsing back and forth from one wall to the other, letting your gaze wander in no particular direction. A piece beckoning to you like the mesmerizing light of an anglerfish, cannot be translated into a series of zeros and ones. The feeling of being, in the context of a cultural institution cannot be digitized, converted into a pdf or a podcast. When you’re in a museum, you’re not just looking at art. You are engaging in a collective ritual. 

 Truth be told, much more is available online now, meaning that it is also much more available. Going to the National Gallery in Edinburgh can be done from one’s couch, and viewing David in Firenze from the kitchen counter. The talks and workshops that many worked hard to plan and prepare are still happening, honoring the hard work that has gone into them. Audiences can still access and engage with cultural institutions, deriving a sense of normalcy and reassurance in these times of extreme uncertainty. The museum ritual endures, signaling that art will continue being produced and neurological connections will continue being made. The preferred context of occurrence might not be back for a while, but it will remain the optimal context.

While it is a great opportunity and a massive privilege to be able to view extraordinary pieces of work from institutions all around the globe at a time of extreme boredom and lack of stimulation, it’s just not the same as experiencing it in person. It’s not only art aficionados and Art History majors that know and firmly believe that. Going to the museum has been the perfect date, family outing or solo excursion. Viewing artworks online or taking virtual museum tours will have to do for now, but they’re nowhere near the real deal. 

“Ida”; An Odd Duo That Sheds Light On Polish History

Movie Review: "Ida"

In the era of ever-present technicolor, the constant swiping, flashing and moving finally meets its match: Ida, the Polish film noir that refreshes American audiences by presenting them with the cinematic elements of silence and stillness in a setting of everyday life. Other non-American audiences are familiar with the aforementioned “surprise” cinematic elements, as they can be found in their own cultures, but that fact could be yet another reason for Ida winning the Best Foreign Film Oscar in 2015. Either that, or the exceptionally expressive silence and simplicity of both cinematography and plot as the heavy, bleak postwar atmosphere is established by an amalgamation of larger-than-life cinematography,  dramatic direction and laconic screenplay. It is also embodied by the two protagonists; Agata Trzebuchowska as Anna/Ida Leibenstein and Agata Kulesza as Wanda Gruz. The Polish-born director Pawlikowksi meets the English-born—yet still somewhat Polish— playwright Rebecca Lenkiewicz and together they grace us with a simplistic, yet not so simple tale of their motherland through the story of the oddly-paired female duo of a niece and her aunt meeting for the first time, each of them holding crucial pieces of the other’s story. 

By 2015, many acclaimed directors, from Tarantino to Curtiz, had attempted depicting war. Most times their war stories were cut short, the spectator left with an ending that celebrated the end of war and the usual heartfelt reunion of the characters, with no thought given to the trauma, censorship and decadence both that war visits upon a nation and its people. Ida shows precisely that trauma, and a little bit more. The story sheds light on a plethora of aspects of daily life, but in addition, and more importantly,it exposes unbearable truths.

The film opens with a closeup of a young girl with a porcelain face and a semi-blank expression. The tone is set immediately as the silence in the convent is pin-drop; the three-minute sequence is broken by collective chants of prayer and the cluttering of cutlery. The novice nun, Anna (Agata Trzebuchowska), is ordered by her Mother Superior to leave the convent that she’s lived in her whole life, to meet her only living relative before she takes her vows. Despite initial resistance, the devout Anna takes off for Lodz to meet her aunt Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza). Though the city is busier and more lively than the convent, the same cloud of stagnant heaviness and quiet decadence prevails. Once she gets to Wanda’s apartment, Anna is confronted with a 40-something, slim, well-kept woman puffing on a cigarette. As Anna enters, Wanda’s partner from the previous night exits, initiating the first of many instances of unspoken tension and skeptical disapproval between the two women. 

Moments later, Wanda reveals to Anna that she is not, in fact, Anna but Ida Lebenstein, daughter of her beloved sister. With this new awareness of her Jewish identity, Ida decides to visit the village Wanda grew up in; the same village where her parents were first hidden by Christians and afterwards executed, like many other Jewish Poles. Wanda joins her, embarking—perhaps not entirely knowingly—on a journey of discovery of her own and is confronted with repressed trauma that slowly resurfaces after years of being left unaddressed. Their trip to Wanda’s old home leaves them rather empty-handed and Wanda rather unsettled, or at least unsettled enough to drink a respectable amount of alcohol and run their car straight into a ditch. The one outcome of this visit is a wild-goose-chase for Szymon Skiba; a man who not only allegedly murdered the Leibensteins, but whose descendants are now residing in Wanda’s old home. On their way to Szymon, the duo picks up a young—and rather handsome—hitch-hiking saxophonist, Lis; a male siren, though sprinkled with naiveté and not quite as treacherous. Ida’s interactions with him throughout the movie hint at her spiritual struggle and confusion with this newfound temptation. Once the two women find and interrogate Szymon about his actions, Wanda’s rapid decay truly commences. His son, Feliks, pleads guilty to the murder of the Leibensteins and revealing their burial grounds, amongst them being Wanda’s ever-mourned son. This comes as the last drop to overflow Wanda’s bottled up emotions. The iconic closeup shots give much power to both protagonists: Wanda, whose face paints pictures better than words and Ida, whose dark almond eyes do not give us a clue of what she’s thinking. However, that power is taken away through remote shots that reveal how small these women are in the grand scheme of Poland and its history. Along with the unraveling of this odd yet electrifying relationship, through the progression of their road trip and the work of cinematographers, the audience sees endless grey Polish skies, vast valleys and the decaying urban planning of Communist Eastern Europe. The two women have a reciprocally interlinked relationship with their motherland: Wanda and Ida are Polish, but they are where they are because of Poland. 

Pawlikowksi and Lenkiewicz unveil the two stories in parallel, not favoring one over the other. Their stark differences come to light as they reveal their approaches to life: when Wanda pushes forward, discounting potential risk, Ida avoids confrontation. Ida’s spirituality is ridiculed by Wanda, who appears to have lost all faith after being betrayed by both country and party. Wanda’s constant remarks about her niece’s sheltered ignorance render her the experienced one; the one who’s lived, fought, won—or thought she’d won—and lost. Despite their differences, Ida and Wanda’s connected past brings them together. And although it’s  impossible to predict what these women will do once they find their truths, it’s their past that pushes them both towards and away from their revelations. 

The film’s storyline unspools like a silk thread. Conversations are few and short. The lack of overt physical tension or telenovela plot twists might make action-hero-movie-junkies deem Ida uneventful. Yet the tension is there: unspoken, repressed and haunting. In its “uneventfulness”, Ida reveals a distinctively Polish tale of coming of age, discovery of identity, denial, temptation, excitement, pain, mourning, giving up, going on.  Ida deserves a spot on everyone’s “must-watch” list.  Ida was neither the first nor the last Jewish child in Poland left orphaned and raised Christian to be spared death. But through her journey in search of closure, we are exposed to the truth of a shared memory and collective trauma that begs to be recognized and addressed. 

Who’s afraid of the perfect accent?

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor, 

To the ears of Mr. Agudo, I speak perfect English; I have a varied vocabulary, can participate in daily interactions, can provide an exorbitant amount of detail in a retelling and can certainly hold my own in an argument. This shouldn’t be a surprise; I’ve been speaking the language since I was four. 

But in the eyes of a Jane Smith, a Karen from accounting or a Betsy in HR, I don’t. Looks of confusion and an “umm…what?” are a common response to non-Americans in America like me.  However, I am just as confused when I face the variations of words that sound nothing like I’d expect from their spelling; like hearing New Yorkers say “kuhohfee”. But the problem isn’t the confusion or the miscommunication. It’s the embarrassment, shame and discrimination that come with them, almost always placed on the non-American speaker.  

In England, anything that sounded remotely like Oprah was American; British English and American English are two quite different tongues. As I was checking into my hotel, the receptionist asked “Visiting from America aren’t you?” I wrote this one off as a fluke, thinking she knew I went to college in the U.S. That was, after all, the first time my accent was characterized as American and I was floored. But as the days went by, more and more non-Americans put a label on my forehead and threw me in the bag of “Americans.” 

I was embarrassed by the fact that I had an accent for a while. It was not American, so it wasn’t perfect, so what I said wasn’t worth hearing. I came to realize quite late in the game that outside the U.S. and Karen’s mind, it’s not just Jimmy Fallon that passes as American,  but also me.

The Frieze New York Red Carpet: May 2018

Feature Report

For the eighth consecutive year, New York City’s very own Randall’s Island this May hosts  one of the leading art fairs of the world: the Frieze Art Fair. For eight days, Randall’s Island gets an exponentially increasing amount of traffic as posh gallerists, underpaid interns, avant-garde artists, eager collectors and dedicated art lovers  from all over the world and from just around the corner, leave their permanent or temporary Manhattan homes to swap one island for another. The fair’s look is deceptive. The tent that houses the 190-odd  galleries and god-knows-how-many artworks worth go-knows-how-many millions looks alarmingly vulnerable to New York weather. Winds could rip it off the ground sending all the artwork to the four corners of the world. Rain could flatten it to the ground, flooding each and every hall. Inside, you enter a different world. The tent lacks windows, and its fake walls simulate the look of a white-walled gallery. That ambiance along with the bevy of artworks and people makes you forget that you are in fact in a tent, on Randall’s Island. Like when you’re at the theater and watching something that really draws you in and you don’t realize it until the thing is over and you have to go outside and see the real world again, the world you actually inhabit. 

The fair itself lasts five days. The other three are for setup and takedown, the last day reserved strictly for hangovers. The public can only visit the fair for three of these five days: Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Private previews are held on Wednesdays and Thursdays. If Thursday is for the Very Important People—the distinguished ones who purchase their tickets and status online—then Wednesday is for the V.V.I.Ps. Tickets for this preview can’t be bought. You get them by being or knowing someone. To join the Wednesday preview you are either invited by a gallery, a gallerist, the Frieze Director himself, or you’re lucky enough to have a confidante inside with a pass to spare. Although more of a networking social event than a sales-heavy workday, the Wednesday opening is the most important performance—it’s all theater.

On Wednesday, the fair opens at 11:00 a.m.  Collectors will be there starting at 11:30. Art consultants, art-critics and art-world socialites at 12:30. Gallerists have been there since 10. Interns since 8:30. By the time the doors open, everyone who is already inside has adopted and perfected their multiple personas. If you need to invent a Grandma from Cordoba to connect with a Spanish buyer, you invent a Grandma from Cordoba.  The story of your persona can’t be completely fictional, but your personal connection to the world you’re attempting to impress definitely can. Organization, adaptability, indifference to change and nerves of steel are de rigueur for both employees and employers on this Wednesday 

The higher one’s position, the more room there is for tardiness and the less for faux-pas. Being late? Totally acceptable—the work can fall back on someone else. Wearing the wrong shade of green with the wrong shade of blue? A mistake on the order of original sin. 

Directors can be found taking extra-long smoke breaks on the patio next to the trendy Brooklyn-based pop-up restaurants, approaching clients and avoiding being approached by demanding and unsolicited artists. Interns and assistants are usually found inside, talking up their pieces, networking—but not too obviously in case the boss finds out. As the experts deftly make their moves, the rookies are expected to take enough mental notes to fill a whole legal pad. They’ll soon be thrown into the deep end of the pool. One of them always looks busy—but they’re keeping one ear attuned to the conversation, ready to jump in at any point. Transactions are made as fast as collectors move. Some collectors are more interesting than others, some are more interested, some are more interested but less interesting. As the halls fill up with Balenciaga sneakers and Dior saddlebags—both very in season—their owners need to be categorized, organized, processed and approached in the correct manner.  If all is done with wit and humor, the transaction is a success. 

When people say a lot can happen in a day, they’re referring to the Wednesday preview. As with any other aspect of life in New York, the pace does not slow down or allow for stops. Breaks are not truly breaks, they’re work in a casual context. The glamour of it all makes both buyers and sellers forget they are exhausted, until the speakers announce “It is now 7pm. The fair is closed” and everyone leaves Randall’s island as eagerly as they left Manhattan.  On Thursday, they’ll be back for more.

Suburban Culture

Blog Post

Everyday life in Australia was not a picture I could easily paint in my mind. There seemed to be a stereotypical, mass media induced pattern of images that circulated in my mind when asked to think about Australia. Such montages include broad, white-sand beaches and vast, kangaroo-filled valleys. Perhaps, after becoming more informed, images of sunburnt locals in pubs, drinking Victoria Bitter and eating Vegemite. In one sense these images are quite accurate. However, having only these images gave me a very polarized depiction of a two-reality Australia; that of the Aboriginal people and that of the white Australians, with the former being far more vague and unfamiliar than the latter. 

Perhaps it was due to my preconceived notions of Australia that engaging with Sydney left me unfulfilled. There were numerous options of things to do, but there wasn’t much variety. For long I thought maybe, Australia really is just a pretty, yet culturally-deprived, big island. Everyone seemed to be doing the same activities, eating different iterations of the same foods and talking about the same, partially stimulating topics just at different times of day, in different locations. There are places though, where such images are nowhere to be found. There are places where multicultural images prevail.

Located 12 kilometers south west of the heart of Sydney, and considerably far from any renowned beach, Lakemba — a town of neither white Australian nor Aboriginal people —  has remained relatively isolated from tourism. Lakemba’s visitors did not take a wrong turn, go down the wrong street or board the wrong train, nor did they stumble upon it during their stroll. Apparently, over the years, Lakemba has become known as the center of Lebanese Australian life.

Lakemba came up on my radar very late in my residency in Sydney. My excursions, like those of most study-abroad students, were limited to mostly central areas and beach towns. Marty, a twenty-something second-generation Lebanese Australian, was the reason for my trip to Lakemba. I met Marty through my friend Riya, who later invited the two of us to Lakemba for a “cultural and culinary feast”. Upon finding out that I was bored with Sydney, he “thought it was about time that changed.” Marty’s vocabulary consisted almost exclusively of Australian slang, spiced with words like “khalas” and “habibti.” I was intrigued to see how an Australian Little Lebanon would be on the last night of Ramadan. 

Thirty minutes into the train ride, the buildings become lower and lower. No floor-to-ceiling glass windows like the modern skyscrapers of CBD, or pale blue colonial mansions like the beach houses of the Northern suburbs. Exiting the train station on the night of the Ramadan street market, you can simply find your way by ear as the sounds of people vibrantly congregating on the streets and  faint Arabic music over low-quality speakers illuminate the way to the main street market. The sun has set. The air is chilly verging on cold but colourful traditional wear peeks out from underneath heavy black jackets, left partially unzipped. Men and women wear mostly red, orange and yellow long linen tops adorned with gold and silver beads, sequins and sparkles. People linger outside to move around and gather goods, waiting in long lines, sipping Lebanese coffee —  which I discovered is Turkish coffee but better, as it is cardamom-infused — and getting small discounts if their payment is in cash. The streets are flooded with people, but most of them, along with my group, retreat to the inside of a restaurant when it’s time to sit and enjoy their meal.

The restaurant we sat in resembled most others in terms of colour palette and set up. We sat in a stark yellow painted room decorated with posters of the dishes, on long rows of tables comprised of smaller, dissimilar tables pushed together. The meals, all in to-go containers and eaten mostly by hand, were not solely Lebanese, nor strictly Middle Eastern. Bangladeshi and Pakistani dishes also made an appearance, given the large South Asian demographic of the area. Whatever their origin, they were not adjusted for Anglosaxonic taste buds. Every bite burst with familiar flavors I had been deprived of for a long time —  you see, Australian cafes and restaurants consider salt enough of a seasoning that they needn’t  provide anything else. And then, here they were; kumin, curry and saffron. 

The energy, the smells, the sounds, the visuals all acted as different instruments in a musical composition of cultural celebration that I had failed to discover anywhere else in Sydney. Until then, Sydney was to me simply Australian, perpetuating the pattern of just two worlds. Lakemba, the small suburb of Sydney, NSW, actively broke this pattern of imagery that occupied my mind, and it reawakened my senses.