Cyberian Dispatch 1: Exile Begins

by Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

"You're going there willingly?"

That's been one of the most common responses when we tell people we're headed to Siberia. Yes, we chose to spend the next nine months in this place that is known primarily as a punishment and a place of exile.

The practice of sending people to the Far East began under the Tsars and continued under Communism. Somehow the authorities thought they could accomplish two things at once: punish people and use their labor to develop this vast and forbidding region. Common criminals, intellectuals and political insubordinates rubbed shoulders on the long trip East and after they arrived. And the political prisoners, some as notable as Dostoevsky, brought many elements of culture with them, causing Irkutsk, the city where we're now located, to eventually be nicknamed "the Paris of the East."

Stepping off the overnight flight from Moscow, we were hit by a brisk breeze and a certain something different about the air. Was it thicker, did it smell of the deep woods, did it have healing properties? Our new friend from the International Office of Irkutsk National Research Technological University, Assia, scoffed at this notion. "It's just the airport," she said, laughing. But we were convinced it was true.

Assia tried to reassure us that it was colder than a normal September. "It snowed yesterday," she reported, "but that's not normal for this time of year." We know that temperatures of minus 20 Fahrenheit are not too far in the future. But in the meantime, t-shirt weather is restored, with the first brilliant yellows rapidly emerging on the plentiful birch trees.

And the inviting weather made possible our first trip to Lake Baikal, the crescent-shaped "sacred jewel," the deepest lake in the world, containing one-fifth of earth's fresh water. We traveled on a boat from Irkutsk with Mikhail, who seems to know everything and everybody -- and has natural amphetamines coursing through his veins. As the boat made its way up the Angara River, the only river that drains from Lake Baikal, we caught sight of the mountains on the other side of the Lake, in Buryatia, the semi-autonomous land of the indigenous Buryat people. They appeared like a mystical wall, with ample snow already ladled onto the peaks, and no sign of human interference: not a ship, not a town, not a house.

The boat turned and chugged to Bolshie Koty, or Large Cats, a miniscule village that is accessible only by water during the summer months (and by car once the Lake freezes solid in January). After disembarking, Mikhail sprinted at an inhuman pace up a hill to an overlook where the Lake spread out in front of us and the view of Buryatia was even more surreal, the peaks appearing blue and white through an other-worldly haze. The entire village was visible at our feet, including a laboratory in a miniature wooden house that pursues research on the impact of pollutants and warming temperatures on marine life. After descending again, we met the biologists who are methodically trying to understand how best to protect the lake's ecosystem. Their beakers and petri dishes contained samples of Lake water and small sponges gathered from the bottom, and they showed us photographs of indigenous organisms, essential food for the Lake's fish, that are increasingly threatened by chemical spills and unusually high temperatures.

According to Buryat legend, a great earthquake caused fire to spew from the earth. The people gathered and cried, "Bai, gal!," or "Fire, stop!" in the Buryat language. And when their prayers were answered and the fire ended, the chasm filled with water, creating Lake Baikal. The Buryat tradition is extremely respectful of nature and its balance. But now, a second fire, that of climate change, threatens this equilibrium. In fact, the region around Lake Baikal is one of the places on Earth most threatened by global warming. Our project will explore the connection between these ancient and contemporary "fires," and call attention to the importance of preserving the Lake's pristine waters.

On the way back to Irkutsk, a generous sunset was unveiled on the left banks of the Angara, glinting through the spray from the boat. Undoubtedly, exiles suffered and died in this region in ways we can never fully comprehend. But those who were able to set eyes upon Lake Baikal must have had some small consolation. Baikal is still a sacred jewel, one of the most unique and precious spots on the planet. Having seen it only once, we count ourselves among the lucky.

Who Is Li'l Liza Jane?

By Mark Isaac

In furtherance of Atlantika Collective's emphasis on an "open circle" of collaboration, please check out this trailer for a documentary film that is currently being created by Dan Gutstein, along with his colleagues Emily Cohen and Erich Roland. The film centers on an iconic song that has been sung by musicians as diverse as African American slaves and members of the KKK. The song tells the story of an elusive American icon, Li'l Liza Jane, who isn’t always true to her man, turning him upside down and toward despair. The film centers in on a fundamental question that seems to have many different answers: "Who is Liza Jane?" This film is a labor of love for those involved in making it, and I invite you to experience the trailer, share it, and help create the buzz necessary to get the film fully funded.

https://www.lizajanemovie.com/

A New Humanism in Photography?

by Mark Isaac

The latest Museum of Modern Art survey of contemporary photography has just opened, and as the accompanying New York Times article reveals, it is a striking departure from the last show two years ago. Rather than simply look at promising new photographers, the show focuses in on a broad theme, which in itself seems more appropriate. But the most striking difference is the turn back toward photography that embraces a discussion of the human condition -- and importantly, an element of humanism.

I personally have no beef with artists who choose to interrogate the image itself, and with an estimated 1.3 trillion photos taken in 2013, it may be particularly incumbent on photographers to understand those images and to make reasonable determinations as to when the provenance of new images is most appropriate. I think it is very fair to say that, at this particular moment in time, new images may be most important to make when they can contribute meaningfully to a better understanding of human relations and to bringing people together. In this way, the MOMA show (which I will likely not see, given my current sojourn in Europe) may be timely and point us in a useful direction. 

In fact, it is precisely in this direction that Atlantika Collective was aimed when it formed several years ago. Members made fundamental commitments to help each other finish projects, to be collaborative, to be transparent about our process, and perhaps most important of all, we added this line to our mission: "We believe in social responsibility, community, and nurturing a contemporary humanism through art."

I personally will, at times, continue to investigate photography itself, to ask a broad range of questions, and sometimes, to make (new and/or appropriated) images just for fun. But along with my fellow Atlantika Collective members, I do not plan to turn away from humanism, particularly at a moment when the politics and the culture demand it more than ever. If the Museum of Modern Art now calls it a trend, we warmly embrace that. Read for yourself, and tell us what you think:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/09/arts/design/museum-of-modern-art-being-new-photography.html

And a brief P.S.: The article notes that all 17 photographers in the show are under 45. I have a quarrel with the connection made by many, particularly in the art world, between youth and innovation, and I intend to do my utmost to help disprove this persistent myth. There are so many examples of artists innovating into their later years, and we should call out this mind set for what it is: a detestable ageism. Let's hold with the talons of an eagle onto the idea that you're never too old to get crazy.

What a Time to Be Alive

By Bill Crandall

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"To see the rot in no disguise, oh what a time to be alive"

Talk about art that is 'about something'. As Superchunk slides well into middle age, they come roaring back with a catchy-but-angry punk-pop fusillade of hooks and riffs that leave no doubt where they are aimed.

First Listen: Superchunk, 'What A Time To Be Alive'

It seems artists have sometimes struggled to respond to the scope of the great upheavals of the recent past. After 9/11 artists and musicians largely kept their heads down in the 'patriotic' furor. There were those all-star concerts to make us feel better, which is fine. But artists (like journalists) too often abandoned their contrarian impulses. Ask the Dixie Chicks - Bruce Springsteen was the only one to prominently come to their defense after they were blacklisted for speaking out against Bush. Tom Waits was one of the few singers to put what was going on into their work, and even he was pretty indirect and hesitant about it in the song "Day After Tomorrow".

Currently I'm reading "The Great Derangement" by Amitav Ghosh, about the absence of climate change as a topic of serious fiction and other arts. (It's something I'm thinking about and working on for a followup to my Mars concept album. What was going on back on Earth as humans made the great leap to space colonization? Was it calamity that drove them to consider leaving Earth forever?)

Where Is the Fiction About Climate Change?

All the more reason Superchunk's ferocious, melodic clarion call is so stirring. It's an un-hesitant punch in the face to those who, frankly, most deserve it. Using the tools and weapons they possess. And poignant coming from those one might presume to be weakened, on the decline. Will it matter, change anything? Well, only if you still believe that anything still matters. Music itself has never changed anything directly. But if it can change and bolster us, then who knows what we can do?

Ukraine Sketchbook: Photo Workshop in Antonivka

by Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

Since we’ve been in Ukraine, we’ve met some incredibly warm and giving people, who have been kind enough to let us into their lives. One of those individuals is Dmytro Say, who is involved in so many projects locally that it’s impossible to know when he sleeps.

One of Dmytro’s most important efforts is on behalf of an orphanage in a small village north of Mykolaiv called Antonivka. Dmytro taught there for several years and now he returns to assist them with a variety of programs. He asked us to come with him to the orphanage and conduct a photo workshop for the kids there, who range in age from about 5 to 16.

Dmytro used an older car for the drive, which he warned is on one of the worst roads in Ukraine. After some truly outsized bumps along the way, we arrived in Antonivka and were warmly welcomed by the staff, who took us on a tour of the facility, which includes a museum of Antonivka’s history, first as a place dominated by a wealthy landowner, then as a very productive collective farm, and now as a place where many have volunteered to fight in the East.

But the most important part of the visit was the kids, of course. We met them first in a classroom, offering some pointers on photo taking strategies that would move them beyond the selfie. Then we all walked out on the steppe, known for its constantly blowing winds, sharing cell phones to take some experimental portraits and landscapes. When we were safely back in the classroom, we downloaded the photos, projected them on a wall, and discussed the results. The kids participated enthusiastically, showing a surprisingly advanced intuitive command of composition.

We don’t know if any of them will go on to become professional photographers, but we do know that Dmytro has forged a wonderful bond with some very loving and talented young people, and we were glad to become a small part of their lives.

New Video: Songs in the Key of Free

Previously, we've shared some still images from a project called “Songs in the Key of Free.” Now we're sharing the main product of our work -- a video that showcases the extraordinary songwriting and performing talents of incarcerated men in a maximum security prison in Pennsylvania.

The program, which is the brainchild of August Tarrier and Miles Butler, ended a period of about two decades in which music programs were unavailable at State Correctional Institute – Graterford, which is about 45 minutes northwest of Philadelphia. After repeated visits to document these exceptional individuals, many of whom are serving long sentences or even life without parole, we became very attached to their passion, their humanity, and their commitment to do everything possible to make the most of their situation. In fact, our work on Songs engendered some of the strongest emotions of any of our experiences working on incarceration issues. That’s because the many men who we met inside were so warm and giving — and so grateful for the opportunity to express themselves through music.

Fortunately, their talents were highlighted at a concert inside the prison, which is available to view on Facebook Live, and subsequently in an outside concert in Philadelphia at the Painted Bride. In the future, the men’s original songs will be available in an album. Moreover, the Songs in the Key of Free will begin serving women in a downtown Philadelphia prison in Fall 2017.

Please check out our video — as well as the still images available here — and let us know your reactions. (Please note that prison regulations in Pennsylvania forbid us from showing the faces of those who are incarcerated.) And also please consider supporting Songs in the Key of Free in their work, which relies mostly on the help of volunteers to date. There is no question that this program is embracing and preserving the humanity of those involved — something that is sorely lacking in most prison environments in the United States.

Romaine Brooks, Pulse, and Queer Visibility

Joe Lucchesi

I’ve been thinking about queer visibility past and present a lot lately. I am the consulting curator for “The Art of Romaine Brooks,” an exhibition that opened at the Smithsonian American Art Museum in Washington DC just five days after the largest mass shooting in U.S. history, on June 12 at the Orlando LGBTQ nightclub Pulse. These two events were not intuitively or obviously linked, but in the following days of grief, shock and mourning, their unexpected juxtaposition and links became more apparent. The opening of a queer-themed show at a federally funded museum a few blocks from the White House and the horrific killing of 49, mostly queer, people in Florida offered stark reminders of progress and of failure. During that week, the initial visitors to the show saw the Smithsonian’s forthright presentation of a lesbian artist’s eroticism, her challenges to dominant modernity, and her portraits’ (and sitters’) gender play in fashioning queer identities. Nearby on Capitol Hill, right-wing Congressional Republicans engaged in a political theater of public mourning, even as they deliberately erased the victims’ specific identities and refused the killer’s rationale for targeting this nightclub. On the one hand, the exhibition adopts queer visibility as a corrective to the closet of the past; on the other, that very visibility made queer people the targets of fatal, homophobic violence.

This is not to conflate two queer communities from different times and places, whose identities and experiences were vastly different. Brooks and her sitters were wealthy white women whose social privilege insulated them (somewhat) from the worst of early 20th century’s social prohibitions and consequences while, as has been widely reported, those who frequented Pulse were largely an already-vulnerable, mostly minority population. And yet both groups had known loss and alienation: many in Brooks’ circle gained personal freedom by abandoning family and home for lives as expatriates; some patrons of Pulse undoubtedly found refuge in local queer communities after rejection from biological families and friends. Both responded to this loss by creating safe alternative spaces where they could be visible to each other and free in their most authentic selves, whether in the creative, expat salons of London and Paris or in the LGBTQ nightclub.

It’s this aspect of the Pulse shootings that I grieve the most, that a space of freedom, safety and refuge was violated and turned into a killing ground. More than that, now a younger generation of queer people must incorporate the same feeling of fear, of being a target, that it was beginning to feel - at least for a moment - they would have the luxury of not knowing, and that their older peers had worked so hard to protect and insulate them from in forging just these queer-centric spaces of independence or escape. Performance studies scholar Julia Steinmetz has written poignantly about this eruption of violence, death, and fear inside a space of queer joy and innocence, responding to the artist Cassils’ beautiful, sad film project 103 Shots  developed with queer people attending San Francisco Pride in the immediate wake of Pulse.

Queer communities are communities always in the process of becoming, whether it is a group of women self-fashioning identities of modernity and gender play, or Floridians who must now incorporate new grief and sadness into their knowledge of self and must now remember the constant threat of homophobic violence that some may have believed had begun to recede into forgetting. But as was true in 1920s Europe, the process for these LGBTQ communities remains the same: resist, bear witness, continue, grow.

Walking through the galleries in that moment of mourning after the Pulse massacre, the quietness and seriousness of Brooks’ work seemed to resonate differently to me. Melancholic, but also strong and resolved. Passing the visitor comment book, I noticed this on one of its first pages:

(6/16/16) Ever since HIDE/SEEK, I’ve come here often. Today, just after the Pulse tragedy in Orlando, I was comforted by the Romaine Brooks exhibit. This is a welcoming place.

And in that brief moment, I knew that across time, space and a multitude of differences, queer visibility is a necessity, queer solidarity both possible and imperative.

It's a Robot, Baby

Joe Lucchesi

Like a lot of folks, I’ve been thinking about love in the time of robots lately. A recent viral video of a smiling electronic baby happily squirming in its UCSD Machine Perception crib really sent me over the edge, plunging into the uncanny valley. Looking at something close - its nubby teeth and charmingly squinty expressions, but not close enough - its rubbery skin jaggedly meeting its acrylic blue skull, produced a visceral sense of existential angst that took me by surprise.

Could this almost-baby potentially be my technological successor, my reaction already intuiting my own technological insufficiency? Maybe. Could it also be that the video is yet another irresistible metaphor of machinery mediating any and all intimate relationships? But this is a social media fact that projected our love lives into the digital realm back in the internet equivalent of the stone age.

Or perhaps my response was a jarring realization that our robot overlords have arrived, and unlike what pop culture has led us to believe, it wasn’t in the form of an inexorable army of powerful replicants, or deceptively charming and attractive lackeys lulling us into a false sense of pampered security, or even the friendly neighborhood drone delivering my mail. It arrived in the form of a gurgling, happy baby making cute for my benefit. Some aspect of all these notions fed my momentary vertigo on the edge of the technological ravine, but mostly I think I reacted from a sense of self-betrayal - the robot baby caught me off guard because this already exists. It might be too late, and I hadn’t even noticed.

Programmed using newly-available big data drawn from studies of infant responses by developmental psychologists, one of my more sobering thoughts in staring down that video was that our physiological human reactions had been recorded, translated, crunched, freely exchanged and turned into a simulated replica of ourselves, programmed into a silicone equivalent whose goal is then to teach us about developing human interactivity and emotion. The breathtakingly efficient inversion of that exchange is what worries me now, as though we’ve already ceded the territory of invisible human connection to its quantified doppelganger. This feels like one more step to making technological conquest both plausible and palatable.

Human relationships mediated by technology are nothing new, only taking new forms appropriate to the age. The camera, the telegraph, and the telephone all opened up new possibilities for connectivity across time and space even as they subtly initiated an easily-ignored gap in which we’re dealing with disembodied versions of each other, negotiated across this divide. And that’s only in recent history. As that video suggests, some folks think of the uncanny valley as only a warning of an unsolved problem. But others see this sense of uneasiness when confronted with our almost-selves differently, as a prompt to think about the human within that gap. 

So maybe I should thank the robot baby for its charming and off-putting chubby grins, its inability to perfectly simulate human behavior and - in turn apparently - teach us about our own development.

Our human relationship to the natural world can’t be far behind in all this unsettled estrangement, and of course is already here. Server farms succeed the agri-business conglomerate that itself replaced the family farm in the vast plains of American productivity, producing a new crop we increasingly rely on for sustenance.

The question then becomes: can we live on data alone across the rolling hills of the fertile uncanny valley? We can’t, but robot babies do.