Cyberian Dispatch 5: The Closest Place to Kiss the Lake

By Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

If the goal is to get to Lake Baikal quickly, Listvyanka makes it easy. Sitting at the source of the Angara River, Baikal’s only outlet, Listvyanka is a mere one hour marshrutka (minibus) ride from Irkutsk. It also has a reputation as the most commercial and touristy of all lakeside destinations, drawing a surfeit of visitors twice a year. In the summer, the warm weather inspires swimming, boating, and hiking. In the winter, skiing draws the crowds.

In late autumn, though, tourists are more of an oddity. We were the only ones registered at the Gavan Baikala (Baikal Harbor) Hotel, and we selected a choice room with views through a deep canyon toward the immensity of the Lake in the distance.

One reason people are scarce in fall is the capricious weather. When we arrived, it was sunlit and undeniably warm. In the evening temperatures plummeted, and we woke to a delicate snow powdering the landscape. Throughout the next day, faint sun alternated with blasts of wind and drizzle. It was every season in one.

Despite catering to tourists, Listvyanka is a small town with cows wandering its dirt roads and traditional wooden houses packed in amongst Soviet-era apartment buildings. It also has a burgeoning collection of small luxury hotels -- some legal and some that likely are not. There is a buzz about excessive construction fueled by Chinese investors, who allegedly build structures under rules for family homes and then operate them as hotels. And there is outrage over “lectures” by Chinese guides who contend (indefensibly) that Lake Baikal is historically Chinese and only in Russian hands temporarily.

The problem with the building boom is that the town has very limited sewage treatment capacity, so when tourists inundate the area, excess sewage flows directly into the Lake. While an influx of easy money is hard to resist, it may culminate in an environmental catastrophe that chokes off tourism permanently. And scientists are already raising alarms about high levels of dangerous pollutants and the mass death of native sponge populations in the waters surrounding Listvyanka.

For the moment, this tourist mecca is a strange blend of visual and emotional experiences. The collapsing concrete esplanade attracts sightseers who bound out of cars with selfie sticks to make a permanent record of their rapture in front of the Lake. The wooden houses, wandering bovines, and roadside stands offering smoked omul (the most prevalent of Baikal’s fish) present a pastoral scene. The stuffed seals, omnipresent Coca-Cola signs, and men using bullhorns to tout boat trips expose a kitschy capitalism. The construction of faux-glamorous hotels suggests a luxury that is still mostly aspirational. And often there is a rough (but photogenic) edge to the scenery, with building materials strewn about, crumbling fences, and peeling paint.

All that is juxtaposed with the sublime experience of walking out of the village to the east, in the direction of Bolshie Koty (see our blog post from that location, here). At first, grim metal lockers mar the pebbled beach. A few steps away, a landslide has deposited a torrent of boulders on the banks. Then, an ascent along the cliffside offered an astonishing perspective on the Lake’s incomprehensible vastness. Despite a dense cloud cover, a slim opening in the sky in Buryatia created a luminous white line on the Lake’s surface, a divine presence that persisted implausibly. Did it mean the gods were pleased with our visit?

We’d like to think so, but ultimately, it’s difficult to be a visitor in Listvyanka. The town’s messages are mixed, and it is disturbing to think that in small ways, we contributed to the growing problems facing the Lake. We came to kiss Lake Baikal and tell others of its charms, but we were left to ruminate...was it a kiss goodbye?

Workshop For The Revolutionary Word: Four Poems

Jessica Zychowicz

This is the second of four in a series of experimental poems by Jessica Zychowicz, a scholar, critic, curator, and writer currently based at the University of Alberta's Contemporary Ukraine Studies Program in Canada. The title of the series, "Workshop for the Revolutionary Word," references the avant-garde circles of artists in Kyiv, Ukraine, in the 1920s, a context that gave rise to fierce debates on the direction of culture between opposing groups of writers in the early Soviet era. The poet Mykola Khvylovy, first a member of the Ukrainian Communist Party CP(B)U organization Hart, later founded VAPLITE in 1925 (Vilna Akademiia Proletarskoi Literatury—The Free Academy of Proletarian Literature) that served as a powerful platform for his critiques. He disagreed with Rosa Luxemburg and her Ukrainian supporters Iurii Piatakov and Evgeniia Bosh, who claimed that the world transformations then occurring were successfully dissolving national boundaries; by contrast, he put forward that any conclusion to the search for a more revolutionary, more progressive internationalism had yet to be achieved. “To create a new language Khvylovy fused various linguistic levels: the traditional concerns of the Ukrainian intelligentsia were interspersed with references to Western literature, Marxist political theory, the macaronic language of the Russian civil service, and the racy idiom of the town proletariat. The twenties were witnessing a democratization of culture of unprecedented proportions: the introduction of mass education, mass publications, radio and cinema meant a rapid expansion of culture beyond lyrical poetry and the theatre of ethnographic realism.” (Shkandrij, Myroslav. Modernists, Marxists, and the Nation: The Ukrainian Literary Discussion of the 1920s. Edmonton: CIUS Press, 1992, p. 55.) Parallels to this earlier moment of social and cultural upheaval in the early Soviet era can be felt and seen in Ukraine today. These poems bring together contemporaneous observations in the frame of exploring forms of dissent with regimes of power around the globe that serve to oppress creative expression. Asking us to revisit what can so easily be taken-for-granted, or rendered invisible, the poems play with historical repetition in different times and places in order to unmask “new” versus “old” technologies of censorship. These poems are shared in keeping with Atlantika Collective's emphasis on embracing an "open circle" of artists, writers, curators, educators and thinkers. Jessica welcomes any responses in this collaborative spirit. For more on Jessica's background, please visit our Members and Contributors page.

[In order to preserve the integrity of the original text, this poem is presented as two image files, to be read without an intended break between them.]

Cyberian Dispatch 4: A Glimpse of Moscow

by Gabriela Bulisova & Mark Isaac

No city can be grasped in a few days, so our quick fling with Moscow is already a haze of veiled impressions on the fly. Gabriela had been once before -- but long ago, and the city has changed dramatically in the interim. Mark never.

The outstanding Fulbright office gathered us for a check-in with other scholars and students, many scattered across this immense nation, so there is no other opportunity to connect in person. They also arranged a bonus meeting with the US Ambassador, Jon Huntsman, a former Republican governor, who spoke quite reasonably about how to bring the Russian and American people together -- and about his efforts to engage with the Orthodox Church.

Then the city unfolded as a sumptuous, impromptu walking tour. The wide avenues and their grandiose buildings, often a misleading facade for comfortable neighborhoods with pedestrian walkways and community ponds. Zaryadye Park, Moscow’s answer to the High Line, replete with undulating rooftop gardens, delicate birch groves, and an overlook perched far above the Moskva River.

Red Square, a chaos of architectural styles. The fanciful church with precious relics. The looming walls of the Kremlin. The Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Prada stores directly facing Lenin’s tomb. The mausoleum, in maroon and black, guarded by stern-faced police who enforce silence and hats off. Lenin, glowing supernaturally in the darkness, with perfect facial hair. Outside, the graves of Stalin, Brezhnev, Andropov, all bedecked with red flowers. Also John Reed, the American who witnessed the revolution.

The exquisite art, from all eras. Ancient Egyptian death mask (Fayum) portraits, spectacularly rich icon paintings from rural Russia, modern art from around the world, official and unofficial Soviet-era art, contemporary gems. A survey exhibit of contemporary photography that would have been at home in the Whitney or MoMA. A sculpture garden in Gorky Park, abutting preserved statues of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin, also in close proximity with a memorial to the victims of totalitarian regimes.

The world class veggie bistro. The restaurants that are innovating successfully, with prices to match the West. The metro, a tour de force of architecture, convenience, value and service (trains consistently arrive moments after the last one departs), sharply contrasting with our own capital city. The warm service, the embrace of America and Americans. The sense of safety, even in crowds.

Then rapidly back in the airplane for the same overnight flight that first brought us to Irkutsk. The dawn is accelerated as five time zones melt away, and the bracing Siberian air, blowing out of an endless forest, is a potent reminder that Moscow is more than 5000 kilometers away.

Workshop For The Revolutionary Word: Four Poems

Jessica Zychowicz

This is the first of four in a series of experimental poems by Jessica Zychowicz, a scholar, critic, curator, and writer currently based at the University of Alberta's Contemporary Ukraine Studies Program in Canada. The title of the series, "Workshop for the Revolutionary Word," references the avant-garde circles of artists in Kyiv, Ukraine, in the 1920s, a context that gave rise to fierce debates on the direction of culture between opposing groups of writers in the early Soviet era. The poet Mykola Khvylovy, first a member of the Ukrainian Communist Party CP(B)U organization Hart, later founded VAPLITE in 1925 (Vilna Akademiia Proletarskoi Literatury—The Free Academy of Proletarian Literature) that served as a powerful platform for his critiques. He disagreed with Rosa Luxemburg and her Ukrainian supporters Iurii Piatakov and Evgeniia Bosh, who claimed that the world transformations then occurring were successfully dissolving national boundaries; by contrast, he put forward that any conclusion to the search for a more revolutionary, more progressive internationalism had yet to be achieved. “To create a new language Khvylovy fused various linguistic levels: the traditional concerns of the Ukrainian intelligentsia were interspersed with references to Western literature, Marxist political theory, the macaronic language of the Russian civil service, and the racy idiom of the town proletariat. The twenties were witnessing a democratization of culture of unprecedented proportions: the introduction of mass education, mass publications, radio and cinema meant a rapid expansion of culture beyond lyrical poetry and the theatre of ethnographic realism.” (Shkandrij, Myroslav. Modernists, Marxists, and the Nation: The Ukrainian Literary Discussion of the 1920s. Edmonton: CIUS Press, 1992, p. 55.) Parallels to this earlier moment of social and cultural upheaval in the early Soviet era can be felt and seen in Ukraine today. These poems bring together contemporaneous observations in the frame of exploring forms of dissent with regimes of power around the globe that serve to oppress creative expression. Asking us to revisit what can so easily be taken-for-granted, or rendered invisible, the poems play with historical repetition in different times and places in order to unmask “new” versus “old” technologies of censorship. These poems are shared in keeping with Atlantika Collective's emphasis on embracing an "open circle" of artists, writers, curators, educators and thinkers. Jessica welcomes any responses in this collaborative spirit. For more on Jessica's background, please visit our Members and Contributors page.

A Lovesong for My Hackers

Seven flights to Saudi Arabia

the day Trump boards Air Force One.

If you do not recognize these charges,

please call immediately.

Robocalls at midnight

Are more fun than rental cars

but not as sexy

as the insurance papers

from Mr. Cletus in Missouri

with the photos of the body stripped

of all electronic equipment:

Theft of Ford Focus Hybrid—Paid in Full.

You are still sleeping, waiting

in the codes

and when you strike

the price will already have been paid,

but as we both know,

the trace of an NSA file, erased

stays.

And maybe we could have had it all.

You knew me better than anyone.

If you do not recognize these charges,

please call immediately.

Cyberian Dispatch 3: A Sacred Island Reveals Itself

by Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

Olkhon Island, situated about midway in Lake Baikal’s long crescent, is more than 70 kilometers long and 15 kilometers wide. It has about 1500 permanent residents, most of them indigenous Buryat people, and the bulk of these live in the one small town, Khuzir. During the warmer months, a ferry transports cars and people back and forth to the mainland. When the lake is freezing or melting, the island is accessible only by air, but when it’s totally frozen, you can drive there across the meter-thick ice.

There are five Rules of Conduct for visitors. The first, in keeping with the ecological sensitivity of the indigenous Buryat people, reads, “Live in harmony with Mother Nature, protect her, because this is the Great Power, which allows existence of you and your descendants.”  

There is an abundance of Mother Nature to protect. Created by tectonic forces, the Island contains extremely disparate landscapes: taiga, steppe and desert. It has exceptional sand beaches that would be at home in the Caribbean if you replaced its pines with palms. Its dunes are constantly reshaped by emphatic winds, stripping tree roots into naked sculptures. Its perilous cliffs of limestone and marble are crowned with wooden totems adorned with thousands of ritualistic ribbons in the rainbow colors favored by Buryat shamans.

Black ravens, reputed to be spirits, called out to us in voices that could only be understood as human emotions. At the top of a cliff lay a small snake in waiting, somehow conveying the significance of the location. Not far away, at a picnic spot where hungry tourists ate fish soup and cheese sandwiches, a dazzlingly beauteous fox crept out of the woods, intensely locking its eyes on ours, then darted to the side and sunk its teeth into two sausages left by local guides. In the capes and bays surrounding the Island are the fish that provide sustenance for the local people -- and the unique species of sponges and amphipods that make Lake Baikal a precious Galapagos of the East.

Not all of the fauna are wild. “Beware of domesticated animals,” read the signs along many of the main roads, a reference to the many cows and horses that don’t hesitate to wander in front of moving vehicles. And for one day-long hike, we were adopted by a midnight-black dog with a delightful disposition who bounded ahead, leading us on the proper paths.

The roads are all of dirt, rutted, often filled with mud, and otherwise kicking up sensational amounts of dust with each passing vehicle. But the roads north of Khuzir are not roads at all but a series of deep crevices that are traversed exclusively by “Uaziki,” plural for a brand of military vehicle created under Stalin that continues to produce today. Each Uazik, the size of a very large minivan, is tightly packed with tourists -- mainly from China, Western Europe, and less so, Russia -- before shaking them up and down thousands of times and depositing them in the far reaches of the Island for a series of landscapes and selfies. They are then fed a quick lunch on the run and deposited back at their guest houses.

We resisted this type of excursion for several days, but finally relented since the Uaziki are the only means of encountering most of the island. Then, on the day of our tourist trip, a clammy fog permeated the entire island, obscuring almost all sights, and forcing visitors to snap photos of an obfuscated “nothing,” as one Chinese tourist put it.

Of course, the fog was ethereal, abstract and suggestive as well. Standing at the top of one of the northernmost cliffs, tourists cried out boorishly to each other in the emptiness, stripping the moment of its eloquence. But despite these violations of propriety, we could easily imagine the monumental boulders hangings over the cliffs, and we could hear the waves repetitively attacking the shore dozens of meters below. Then, in a mirage-like instant, the fog lifted, permitting a glimpse into the expanse of the Lake, the sublime mountain peaks on its far shores, and the twinkling sunlight on its surface, before filling again with an opaque gray-white.

Away from its most populated sites, the overwhelming allure of Olkhon Island is inescapable. Along the Western coast, we wandered for hours in contemplation before black ravens and a black dog led us to a stone labyrinth that pays homage to the ancestral people of the Island, whose rules for Proper Conduct can be read as a guide for life itself. “Just try to radiate love, joy, and gratitude, or be peaceful,” reads rule number four. “Remember -- in places of great natural forces everything that a person carries becomes stronger.” As we walked the labyrinth, trying to bring our thoughts into this very moment, Lake Baikal’s splendor and gravity was revealed.

Sacred? Undeniably. Endangered? Increasingly. In need of protection? Unquestionably.  

Where The Rivers Come Together

Zhanna Oganesyan

By Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

As part of their series titled “Race and Postcolonialism in Ukraine and North America,” the journal Krytyka, an intellectual monthly magazine focused on contemporary thought regarding Ukraine and the region, has published an article and photographs by Atlantika Collective members Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac. The project, created as part of their Fulbright grant in 2017-18, focuses on the unexpected diversity in the Southern Ukrainian city of Mykolaiv.

https://krytyka.com/en/race-and-postcolonialism-ukraine-and-north-america/articles/where-rivers-come-together

Cyberian Dispatch 2: Russia's Vast Galapagos

By Gabriela Bulisova & Mark Isaac

How to comprehend -- and then convey -- the enormity of Siberia and the incalculable volume of the world’s deepest and oldest lake? These are early problems for our project on Lake Baikal.

Russia is the world’s largest nation in terms of area, with more than 17 million square kilometers. But more than 77 percent of Russia is Siberia, still larger than any other nation on earth. In fact, Siberia alone is larger than all of the United States and Europe combined.

Lake Baikal is the deepest, and by volume of water, the largest lake in the world. All of the Great Lakes could be drained into Lake Baikal, and it contains more than 20 percent of all the freshwater in the world. It is also the oldest lake in the world, formed 25-30 million years ago.

Standing on the Western shore on the Great Baikal Trail, we can easily spot the sprays of snow on the peaks of the storybook mountain range on the Eastern side, in the Republic of Buryatia. Our eyes are rewarded by the endless dancing reflections of light on the Lake’s surface. But we cannot see 1,642 meters into its depths, to its murky bottom carved by a geological trauma. And we cannot see to the northern reaches of its crescent shape, beyond the villages that draw most of its tourists.

Around us are thousands of aspens and birch trees, decorated in gold, shivering in the emphatic wind, shedding leaves rapidly. But we cannot count the thousands of species of plants and animals that live in and around Lake Baikal, 60 percent of which are unique, causing it to be labelled “Russia’s Galapagos.”

On the shores, we can easily locate small sponges that have washed up on the pebbles and bleached white. But we cannot see the vast colonies of living sponges beneath the waves or the 350 different species of indigenous amphipods, crustaceans essential to the Lake’s health that find their home under rocks on its bottom.

Indeed, one of our most compelling findings thus far is that our lensed devices fail to do justice to the physical vastness of Siberia or Lake Baikal. Over and over, we remarked on and lamented this failure and worried about what it might mean for our project. But now we are mapping an alternate voyage. Instead of capsizing on the Lake’s biggest waves, we are drifting on its tender swells. We hope these modest crests will aptly communicate, not the enormity of Baikal’s size, but its immeasurable importance.

Willow Paule Photography Interview with Altantika Members

Untitled, from the series “Who Speaks for Me,” by Gabriela Bulisova, Mark Isaac and Taylar Nuevelle, 2017.

Willow Paule Photography is featuring an interview with two of Atlantika’s founding members, Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac. Please check out this article and its insights into their collaborative process.

https://willowpaule.com/interview-gabriela-bulisova-mark-isaacs-photography-and-collaboration-powerful-mix/

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/

The Days

Bill Crandall

New song-in-progress, written about those despairing moments when you ask yourself, are we (the US) slipping into some form of actual fascism? Should I get out now, go somewhere else? Those times when the best you can hope for is in your inner world, in your own spirituality, whatever you choose to call that thing that gets you through. I was stuck for a third verse, then along came some sharp, courageous teenagers. First significant turn for the better in quite a while.

Since I so often go on about how art should be relevant, addressing the times, figured I should do so more directly myself:

The Days

I can’t take it all
I’d leave and leave it all behind
If I was made to
And you’d come along

But I can’t leave it all
I stay and ready for a fight
Will I wait too long
Or will it come around

The days I find You
Are the days that are good enough

And then here they come
Ok and leading on
They were made to
Lean on

The days I find You
Are the days that are good enough

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

View fullsize

"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?

Georgians in Mykolaiv: Preserving Language and Culture

By Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac

During the Soviet era, the expression of ethnic identity was discouraged or even punished, so people of many backgrounds were forced to suppress any public celebration of their roots. But after Soviet rule collapsed, the public embrace of one’s origins once again became possible. That is the case in Mykolaiv, where people from more than 130 different nationalities live together peacefully. Many of them are taking strong action to preserve their language and culture.

One of the best examples is the Georgian community. When conflicts broke out in the Abkhazia region of Georgia following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, tens of thousands of ethnic Georgians were killed and as many as 250,000 were forced to flee, some to Southern Ukraine. Now they are fighting to preserve their language and culture in their new homeland.

At the Mykolaiv College of Culture and Arts, we were invited into a classroom where the Georgian language is being taught to children of different ages. This language, which is unique among world tongues and employs its own very beautiful, rounded script, is alive in Mykolaiv thanks to the ongoing efforts of teacher Valeriy Ekhvaya, a leader of the Mykolaiv Georgian community who carefully tutors students in both reading and writing.

On the day we met him, he was awarded a certificate commending him for his work cultivating ties to other local minorities by Lalita Kaimarozova, an official responsible for outreach to all the national communities in Mykolaiv. His friends Yunus Aliev and Shamil Ismailov, members of the Azerbaijani community in Mykolaiv, attended to support him and to celebrate the long-term friendship of Georgians and Azeris. Among other things, when Georgia was attacked by Russia in 2008 following conflict in the South Ossetia region, Azerbaijanis offered support to the Georgian people.

But it is not only language that Georgians seek to preserve. We were invited to move from the classroom to the dance studio, where Georgian dance was joyously and energetically performed by beaming young people. And from there, we moved to a modern Georgian restaurant, complete with painted replicas of famous Georgian paintings, where we shared unique Georgian dishes, such as a flat bread with cheese and spicy stuffed pasta pillows filled with juices that must be slurped down before they are consumed.

The evening ended with numerous toasts about the importance of friendship among different peoples, and with the ceremonial drinking of wine from handmade, horn-shaped flasks, which have a unique construction: they cannot be put down until they are empty!

Art on social media

Bill Crandall

Of course plenty has been written about social media and art, I’m not sure I can add something new of value.

Like most artists, I’ve wrestled with the limitations of social media as a platform for art. I’ve seen too many artists post their work online, let’s say on Facebook or Instagram, only to receive a somewhat dispiriting number of responses even if the work itself is quite strong and interesting. Obviously people are deluged by the torrent of social media content, and increasingly task number one is not to let it take over one’s day completely. So the endless scroll requires extreme vetting - what is worth clicking on? The latest Trump outrage? Your friends’ smiling group shot at a hip event? Hedgehog Azuki’s daily cuteness? Since you know in advance you might click on a number of things that could really add up in terms of time, you can’t afford too many missteps.

For the record I enjoy Facebook quite a lot (probably too much), in part because I try to post quality stuff and my friends generally do as well. There’s some fluff to wade through, but not too much. I truly feel like I discover things I wouldn’t otherwise, in addition to keeping up with the (mostly) worthwhile musings of friends.

Personally I am somewhat averse to clicking on videos unless I know they are very short. For some reason even though I’ll read articles that take several minutes, those same minutes watching a video feel more like I’m falling down the rabbit hole.

So why would I post, as I did the other day, a 10-minute video? Which I myself wouldn’t be likely to click on? Who feels like they have ten minutes for anything? It’s some of my finest recent work: a song sequence from my music album that I’m quite proud of, thoughtfully paired with images in an interesting conceptual narrative. But not only is it long, it’s SLOW. Slow like a Bela Tarr film scene, I’d like to think. Actually not quite that slow. Maybe slow like 1970s movie pacing. It requires (and rewards) patient attention. Can our brains even handle that anymore? There’s been plenty of evidence that consuming short online reading has made it harder for the brain to settle into reading a novel. Our wiring is evolving. Is long-form anything already toast?

The video is part of a loose, experimental narrative of sorts, about the first people to leave Earth for another planet, knowing they won't return. It uses my original music and my photos combined with NASA public domain images. This is the segment toward the end as they approach their new home (Mars), descend in pure terror, and somehow land safely and begin to build a life. After a few years Earth has stopped responding to their communications. Has something happened back home, are they more alone than they realize? I tested it on a few of my high school students, they hung there and seemed to like it, but that was a projection in a darkened classroom, by request of the teacher. What realistic expectation should I have that people will pause their day for such an absurd proposition: “click here for ten minutes of something I created”?