The Oil Tanker (Part Two)

Atlantika Collective Member Sue Wrbican's show titled The Iridescent Yonder recently opened at the Riverviews Artspace in Lynchburg, VA and was reviewed in this space on July 14. During Atlantika's monthly meeting, Sue walked us through the multi-faceted show, which includes photography, painting, and installation. She emphasized that the exhibit was conceived as a response to the tragic loss of both her brother, Matt Wrbican, and her mother within several weeks of each other. In fact, the exhibit centers around a large-scale collaborative painting of an oil tanker created by her brother Matt and two collaborators, Phil Rostek and James Nelson, in 1991. During the walkthrough, we were introduced to Phil, who not only helped us to appreciate the importance of Matt Wrbican's accomplishments, but also regaled us with tales about collaborative efforts the group initiated in the 1980s under the name "DAX," or Digital Art Exchange. Phil's recollections of their joint efforts and the early responses of artists in the 1970s to 1990s to important cultural developments, including the advent of the internet, proved extremely fascinating, and we invited him to elaborate on the very significant "paradigm shift" that he witnessed in art during this period. We hope that this series of posts will not only shed light on innovations in American experimental art during this period, but also flesh out the relevance and significance of Sue's recent work. You can read Part One here.

By Phil Rostek

The decade of the 80’s brought about dramatic changes that impacted the social order in every conceivable way. Financial markets saw great shifts of wealth, employment became a learning curve that replaced routine, hierarchy in personal relationships saw great migrations of status and recognition. Professions morphed, identities scurried into mythologies, orientations of all kinds stood on their head. These tumultuous times, however, were lived - like all times are lived - day to day. The scale of what was happening was absorbed by the daily pressing details that one must naturally confront in order to get by. Underneath it all was a feeling of uncertainty. An anxiety instigated by the multiplicity of new things that were occurring and new things that had to be learned. On top of it all was a giddy excitement that enthusiastically embraced utopian possibilities. Possibilities that lent themselves not only to personal opportunity - but possibilities that could make the world a better place.

Artistically speaking, America seemed to be punctuated not by large chunks of sensibility that were later called movements; but rather abject change that was moving through time decade by decade. The 70’s were quite different from the 80’s; the 90’s would most likely bring more and faster change. Below is an image of Matt Wrbican starting his work on the Oil Tanker. The year was 1991. It was early in a new decade and it felt like it was early in a new decade. Art was in its primary role - not as a forecaster of what was to come - but as a perceiver of what was Actually transpiring in the present. Matt's graduate studies had resulted in an M.F.A. and Carnegie Mellon University endorsed him as a master of his art. Matt was on the fulcrum of what most of us remember with deeply etched feelings - a time in our own lives when very pivotal decisions are made. All preparation toward a future comes shockingly down to what Actually is going to happen. It was in that zone that Matt found himself in a basement fashioning a modern Minotaur.

Matt Wrbican working on The Oil Tanker, 1991.

Matt Wrbican working on The Oil Tanker, 1991.

I take part of the responsibility for that. Matt and i were close friends. The DAX Group experience that i shared with Matt had me branching out too and i was firming up convictions that took about a decade to distill. I was moving toward a desire to do something more contained, more structured or planned. I had become fatigued by unchartered interactions that stemmed from untethered egalitarian ground rules. I was a relationship thinker who had become suspect of Relativism. Somehow the idea of an absolute seemed a return to something pleasant. i began questioning my own position within a tech-class society. Platitudes about how the world should be seemed to fall way too short. in a rather sober way, i acknowledged that my DAX theories were possible through technical expertise that i did not have at all. I was also seeking relief from the virtual world of a screen. i wanted to be a traditional stick in the mud.

In the 70’s i studied with this man, Robert Lepper, at Carnegie Mellon en route to my MFA:

Robert Lepper lighting a cigarette - late 80’s - from my DVD ‘Robert Lepper / a Personal View'

Robert Lepper lighting a cigarette - late 80’s - from my DVD ‘Robert Lepper / a Personal View'

Lepper pausing to light a cigarette had become a signature gesture. It meant he was pausing to line up his thoughts; he was getting ready to “ think.” It had the quality of a mini drama - a theatrical event. Everybody called him Mr. Lepper, students, faculty, everybody. Mr. Lepper’s course ‘Individual and Social Analysis’ was the soul of the visual art program at CMU; just as it was years earlier when it was Carnegie Tech. One didn’t even have to study with Lepper one on one. His influence permeated the place. Arguably Lepper taught the first course in Industrial Design in the nation. He taught both in the design department and in the art department. Lepper saw little distinction between the two areas in my opinion. Andy Warhol would take his class that was then called Pictorial Design at Carnegie Tech. To put a point on a time frame, Andy graduated Tech in 1949 - the year i was born. I graduated CMU with an M.F.A. in 1973 - the year Picasso died.

Rainier Crone in his book about Warhol would draw attention to Lepper’s course problem: Locate the most significant object in the social flux. I think this is insightful and it should not be roundly dismissed. i think it is a salient factor in young Andy’s education… later to become a soup can, a Marilyn, a Brillo box. Lepper took pride in his ability to analyze. Some associate Lepper’s teaching with behaviorist psychology. He had an uncanny way of clarifying issues. By a spontaneous ability to contextualize, Lepper unveiled the origin of things. He gave reasons why things occurred; then gave reasons why they occurred when they did. My first year at CMU, with exposure to Lepper’s insights, would see me forego painting altogether. In my second year i would come back to school wearing white tie and tails.

The Oil Tanker also is inseparable from this man:

Bruce Breland in 1986 shortly after the DAX Group participated in the 1986 Venice Biennale.

Bruce Breland in 1986 shortly after the DAX Group participated in the 1986 Venice Biennale.

Capturing van Gogh air for Bruce Breland’s “Museum of Modern Air” 1973'

Capturing van Gogh air for Bruce Breland’s “Museum of Modern Air” 1973'

Matt and i both studied with Bruce. Studying with Bruce was same as being friends with Bruce. He imposed no false sense of authority and imposed no academic standards that were purely academic. Bruce thought on high levels of thinking; his standards were measured by profound simplicity. He lived art and life together. In unison. Bruce compared expression, insight and commitment to Faulkner, Janice Joplin, Buckminster Fuller, Black Elk. He inspired others by story-telling about Black Mountain College, The Cedar Tavern, Allan Kaprow and ‘Fluids’ and about the career of his friend Roy Lichtenstein. Bruce Breland spoke from personal experience and personal involvement. He was a clairvoyant pioneer in the world of early telematic exchange. When the DAX Group was written up in an article in New Observations the group looked like this:

Photo by Jeff Breland , 1990.

Photo by Jeff Breland , 1990.

Asking whether all this looping around and memory raking is extraneous or integral to an appreciation of the Oil Tanker is a legitimate thing to ask. Maybe it's a little of both. In that respect i confess that i like Niels Bohr and the whole idea of contradiction. Maybe matter does exist somewhere between a wave and particle and maybe his response to Einstein still stands up. Maybe we should not tell God what He does. i mention those things to you because they were mentioned to me by Mr. Lepper. He called Bohr’s response ‘the put down of the century.' If an artist is asked if he or she likes the color blue - the immediate response will be: “Next to what?” This is relationship not compartmentalized thinking. So i just put a feather in the hat of Relativism after all. In the spirit of Walt Whitman may i repeat this beautiful thought? You say i have contradicted myself? So i have contradicted myself. Within me is multitudes. If any of this makes sense, then the Oil Tanker might make sense. It also moves me to show the next picture. Me, my wife Marcia and Matt Wrbican at the Warhol gravesite:

Photo circa late 80’s

Photo circa late 80’s

Let’s bring eternity into our conversation. After that visit to the graveyard, Matt and i shared an evening with the aging Lepper in his apartment. When Lepper saw our gravesite images he got very interested. The overarching point is that Matt and i were still learning from Lepper. I spent many hours in conversation with Lepper until the wee hours of the morning. His erudition, in old age, was astonishing. Did these discussions have a big influence on the Oil Tanker? Who would know. But by 2002 Matt was curating shows at the Warhol. Essay, co-authored by Robert Lepper and Philip Rostek, was included in an exhibition called Robert Lepper / Artist and Teacher.

ourthinkingatthetime2.jpg

Our thinking at the time of the Labyrinth did not reminisce; it attempted to be contemporary.

EXHIBIT-WITH-MOON2.jpg

And that required the expertise and muscle of many people.

The show was ambitious and such collaborative enterprises were almost expected to fail. We made our deadline. It was not easy but we opened perfectly - dotting i’s and crossing t’s. We had learned the value of positive reinforcement as an empowering agent toward getting things done. An example of that, that pertains to the Oil Tanker specifically, is this note Jim wrote to Matt and i as he was finishing his section of the piece. It is exemplary of the glue that held the overarching and interacting parts together. i framed it not long ago.

BETTER-QUALITY-NOTE.jpeg

We saw ourselves as idealistic and convivial representatives of what a new era could be.

The Labyrinth was perhaps more of a continuation of my grad school days than i care to admit. My graduate thesis, Tailormades, proclaimed that Art had 3 r’s. Ritual, Remnants. and Reminiscing. Remnants remain for me not failures or relics, but what remains after something has been removed. Ritual involves the mutual dependence of the components of a system. (Robert Lepper’s definition of Design.) And Reminiscing is what i am doing now.

I tried to live out those 3 elements while wearing my tails, my art uniform. i tried to re-invent those elements in the Labyrinth show. But the resurrection of the Oil Tanker is more than re-enactment for me. It beckons a search within - for some sense of self.

I had mentioned the term multiple identity in Chapter one. Perhaps the time is right to bring an explanation forward. I will try to do this pictorially as words seem beyond me. I am no match for Walt Whitman’s poetic gifts.

Artist Casting Giacometti shadow , 1972. Photo credit: Roger Dumas.

Artist Casting Giacometti shadow , 1972. Photo credit: Roger Dumas.

By the early 80’s i had become “phriar phil.”

Photo credit: Sue Wrbican

After a heart transplant in 2008 i became “philip the transplant.”

Art Attack, 1972 . Photo credit: Marcia Rostek

It is curious to have an extended life. To be alive via a donor’s heart is as surreal as Dali’s Persistence of Memory. This prophetic 1972 photo of a lip stick incision is probably even more strange to me than it is to you. After a heart transplant in 2008, I consider myself to be the ultimate “remnant.”

The Oil Tanker has arrived to see another day due to the convictions and energy and emotional feelings of Sue Wrbican. My doctors at Presbyterian Hospital in Pittsburgh have also enabled me to see another day. If Art has 3 r’s it would not surprise me. The ritual of bringing something to life, the phenomenon of recovery, and the opportunity to reminisce about the first two things - has happened to me in life and has happened to me in art. I would like to think my friend Robert Lepper would see beauty in the irony of it all. i would like to think that my friend Bruce Breland would hear the Sound and the Fury once more. i would like to think that Matt and Jim would see our Minotaur defeated. Defeated for perhaps a short time only. But defeated for now. Beyond that is too much to ask.

Myself seeing the Oil Tanker in storage after many years. Photo credit: Sue Wrbican, 2020.

Myself seeing the Oil Tanker in storage after many years. Photo credit: Sue Wrbican, 2020.

The Oil Tanker (Part One)

Atlantika Collective Member Sue Wrbican's show titled The Iridescent Yonder recently opened at the Riverviews Artspace in Lynchburg, VA and was reviewed in this space on July 14. During Atlantika's monthly meeting, Sue walked us through the multi-faceted show, which includes photography, painting, and installation. She emphasized that the exhibit was conceived as a response to the tragic loss of both her brother, Matt Wrbican, and her mother within several weeks of each other. In fact, the exhibit centers around a large-scale collaborative painting of an oil tanker created by her brother Matt and two collaborators, Phil Rostek and James Nelson, in 1991. During the walkthrough, we were introduced to Phil, who not only helped us to appreciate the importance of Matt Wrbican's accomplishments, but also regaled us with tales about collaborative efforts the group initiated in the 1980s under the name "DAX," or Digital Art Exchange. Phil's recollections of their joint efforts and the early responses of artists in the 1970s to 1990s to important cultural developments, including the advent of the internet, proved extremely fascinating, and we invited him to elaborate on the very significant "paradigm shift" that he witnessed in art during this period. We hope that this series of posts will not only shed light on innovations in American experimental art during this period, but also flesh out the relevance and significance of Sue's recent work.

by Phil Rostek

The Oil Tanker, a 1991 collaborative work by myself, Matt Wrbican, and Jim Nelson, has seen the light of day after 30 years of storage. Thanks to the energy, commitment, and creativity of artist Sue Wrbican (Matt’s sister), the Oil Tanker now looks like this in the Craddock - Terry Gallery at Riverviews Artspace in Lynchburg, VA. It enjoys a space within Sue’s exhibit entitled “The Iridescent Yonder."

Detail of The Oil Tanker, Matt Wrbican, Phil Rostek, and James Nelson. Discarded plastic objects, paint and tar, 192” x 72”, 1991.

Detail of The Oil Tanker, Matt Wrbican, Phil Rostek, and James Nelson. Discarded plastic objects, paint and tar, 192” x 72”, 1991.

The Oil Tanker was originally part of a larger presentation exhibited at the then Pittsburgh Center for the Arts, National Gallery. It was funded by the Painted Bride / Philadelphia and also was supported by the formidable commitment of director of exhibitions Mr. Murray Horne. The show was called the Labyrinth and it was a “walk through exhibit” - a kind of inventory of effects that intended to stimulate an observer to ponder speculations about what the world was like and where it might be going. In 1991 those conjectures most likely included many of the same thoughts that still plague us today and still require candor and inquiry, i.e., environmental concerns, sustainable resources, reasonable parameters of digital outreach, and the phenomenon of multiple identity.

The book of contributors to the Labyrinth exhibit (pictured below) included the conviction that, as organizers of the show, Matt and i considered ourselves “stewards,” not authors. The exhibit included a spinning tree and microphone which looped anything that was said into it. It included wise sentences from historical personalities that were scribed by hand as small as possible. Other rooms included audio tapes and lazy boy chairs, references to Shakespeare, the Ancient Greeks, Alcoholics Anonymous, and a video of Lower East Side metal banging in the Rivington Street “sculpture garden.”

Installation views, The Labyrinth, 1991.

The backstory of Oil Tanker is rather integral to a collaborative effort that included 14 artists all in all. The thrust of the exhibit attempted to laud the virtues of what i called “structural collaboration.” Quite simply that referred to my bias that overt process orientation prioritizes the participants - observers are for the most part left alone to untangle impenetrable interaction. The Oil Tanker may provide a good example to make this more clear.

I thought our Labyrinth should have a “Minotaur” and that was, in my opinion, oil and the amount of it that suffered catastrophic spills back then. Matt and i agreed on this and we invited Jim Nelson to help us express something, somehow. By consensus we agreed a tanker in high profile would fit the bill and agreed upon a rough thumb nail sketch. Later there was a separation of input. I did the tarry water, Matt worked inside the outline of the boat, and Jim painted a background setting.

Here’s me with the initial idea.

Phil Rostek standing with the original concept drawing for The Oil Tanker, 1991.

Here’s Jim Nelson painting in the background, which evoked The Gulf War. I met Jim at Carnegie Mellon University in 1971. Our graduate student studios were in the basement of the Margaret Morrison Building on campus. We remain very close friends to this day. I’m pictured also - touching up the tar at the bottom of the painting.

Jim Nelson and Phil Rostek creating The Oil Tanker in 1991.

And here is the creativity of Matt Wrbican who saved oil based products for months and then organized them from thin to high dimension within the hull of the Tanker. Neither i nor Jim was expecting the passion that Matt brought to the project; but i was not surprised then nor am i now. Matt Wrbican was a unique and stellar talent.

Plastic (petroleum-based) objects collected by Matt Wrbican for use in the creation of The Oil Tanker, 1991.

There is something ineffable about my experience in Lynchburg. It haunts me in ways that evoke, or perhaps better, reawaken the aspirations of The Labyrinth. Seeing the Oil Tanker but not seeing Matt was telling. The Labyrinth exhibition coincided with the retirement of my mentor and Matt’s mentor - Bruce Breland. I studied with Bruce as a grad student at CMU 1971 to 73. We did mail art and concept pieces together. i had given up lyrical painting and opted to wear white tie and tails to school every day. I was also studying with Robert Lepper - a teacher of Andy Warhol. Between Lepper and Breland is a volatile and heady place to be. Each had a keen sense of the absurd, and at the same time, each had a keen penchant for very pragmatic thinking. Both liked Duchamp. My leanings toward Fluxus would later inform my thinking when i wrote theory for Bruce Breland’s DAX Group (Digital Art Exchange) in the 80’s.

Phil Rostek, from a photograph by Bruce Breland, 1973.

Phil Rostek, from a photograph by Bruce Breland, 1973.

It was in the 80’s that i met Matt Wrbican. Matt was then a grad student working with Bruce in coursework called “intermedia.” During the decade of the 80’s the DAX Group contributed to many distributed authorship pieces during the early days of the internet. La Plissure du Texte 1983, a text exchange organized by Roy Ascott comes to mind - as do contributions to Network Planetario / Laboratorio Ubique at the Venice Biennale 1986.

By the end of the decade Matt was working at the Carnegie Museum of Art during the installation of a Carnegie International, archiving Breland’s legacy at CMU, and doing the Labyrinth show with me -all at the same time. It was stressful for Matt but he succeeded in doing it all. He was, very shortly afterward, hired by the Warhol Museum as an archivist in charge of moving work from Warhol’s factory to Pittsburgh. Matt is identified with the Warhol time capsules as well acknowledged as one of the foremost authorities about the life and art of Andy Warhol in the world. That is not an overstatement.

As i step back now and think about the volatility of those times; i cannot say that i have much to contribute to the understanding of it all. Great turmoil was let loose when “the individual was replaced by the collective’” via technological innovations; innovations that spawned an unprecedented acceleration of information. Information speed-up continues to shape the world and the people who live on it. The relationship between art and life seemed obvious when NYC was a center. The very notion of a center continues to fade into a horizontal world that runs flat. The Labyrinth tried to anticipate what future existence would be, and the Oil Tanker was something that seemed necessary to avoid and replace.

More installation views of The Labyrinth exhibit, 1991.

It seems that having one foot in a national world and one foot in a global one - is a chasm that has not narrowed but widened.

As science takes the place of art and religion, one area seems impervious to any form of apprehension. If i could replace the Oil Tanker in today’s Labyrinth, if i could speculate about Minotaurs today, i would offer this. The one area where there has been no “progress” or even significant conjecture is: an understanding of what consciousness actually is. We know it’s what disappears under anesthesia, but we don’t know much more than that. Science would deny that dead things have it at all. But when it is present as a combination of multi-sensory experience and flux - what we commonly call life - it seems to avoid science’s favorite word: “someday.”

It is curious when the notion of “what” is eclipsed by the notion of “how.” Hyper-individualistic living begins to fear time itself. Humility becomes obsolete. A culture, or the tribal equivalent of it, comes to think that time can be reversed and, moreover, that it can be reversed in the spirit of righteousness. The effect of information overload does not see the imminent dangers of the present; it ironically draws obsessive attention to the past. Somewhere in the meat of the brain there is a capacity to recall times that have gone by - but in today’s culture this can only be noticed in the context of the present.

What do contemporary people do when eternity itself has become a thing of the past? That is what i felt when i saw the Oil Tanker after all these years. That faint glimmer of who i used to be seemed unusually informative. That feeling is connected to the elusive charms of what we call, for lack of a better term, art.

The Iridescent Yonder: A New Exhibit by Atlantika Collective Member Sue Wrbican

Mark Isaac

It is a time of loss, and even as vaccinated people poke their newly maskless faces into the world and think about new beginnings, we all have a need to process the tragedies that have surrounded us for a seeming eternity -- and threaten to pursue us into the future. 

But of course, loss was always with us. And every day and in the course of normal human events, we are faced with the loss of family, friends, acquaintances, those we never knew. We also face the loss of the environment as we once knew it, and the increasing likelihood of epic ecological collapse. We’ve faced a period of endless wars that blended one into another. Each one a tragedy, each a reminder that life can never be immune from death.

Now comes Atlantika member Sue Wrbican, whose latest multi-faceted and highly accomplished exhibit operates as a tool for processing loss. On July 2, her show titled “The Iridescent Yonder” opened in the Riverviews Artspace in Lynchburg, Virginia, a capacious setting that gives ample breathing room to a formidable installation of large-scale sculptures, diverse photographs, and two accompanying paintings by select collaborators. One day later, laptop in hand, she guided us through the show piece by piece during Atlantika’s monthly meeting, elaborating on her inspirations and intentions, and introducing us to some of the people who are central to its themes.

In 2019, within a matter of weeks, Sue lost two close members of her family. First, her brother Matt, an accomplished artist and archivist at the Andy Warhol Museum, succumbed after a lengthy battle with brain cancer. Not long after that, Sue’s mother also passed. The pain of this double loss was searing, but by now it is literally soaring, since Sue seems to have used every available moment of the subsequent lockdown to craft the elements of this show, which include some of the towering cloth sails that have made repeat appearances in her work in recent years. 

Oil Tanker, Matt Wrbican, Phil Rostek, and James Nelson. Discarded plastic objects, paint and tar, 192” x 72”, 1991.

Oil Tanker, Matt Wrbican, Phil Rostek, and James Nelson. Discarded plastic objects, paint and tar, 192” x 72”, 1991.

The nautical theme is especially fitting in this instance. The entire show is ordered around a very unique and prescient painting of an oil tanker created in 1991 by her brother Matt, along with collaborators Phil Rostek and James Nelson. A looming monolith of a black ship, plying a slick of suspiciously foul and spoiled waters, is visible against a backdrop of conflagration and acrid smoke. As Sue introduced us to this work, held in storage for the last 30 years, it first appeared flat, as many a painting often is. But as she moved her laptop closer, the hull of the ship was suddenly revealed to be a veritable constellation of discarded plastic products, rising off the surface as a bas-relief. And the skilled artists have crafted the oil tanker in such a way that its colossal prow seems likely to escape the picture plane and advance right on into the gallery, sloshing its unctuous cargo on our shoes.

Also on hand was Phil Rostek, one of the creators of this piece, who regaled us with tales of how it was created and how it responded specifically to current events. It was the time of the Gulf War, and our powerful republic had decided to defend its access to inexpensive petroleum. The artists not only greeted this moment of combat and colonialism with appropriate alarm, they were farsighted enough to incorporate a commentary about the pervasiveness of plastic waste, a problem that has in the meantime grown to gargantuan proportions. It is a work whose import has been appreciating every moment that it remained in storage, like a finely crafted spirit aging in a remote cellar.

Now all of the artwork gains substance and essence, in proximity to the tanker. The sinuous nautical ropes; the sculptural fish; the dramatic oversize print on silk, laid on the sails like a wardrobe accessory of the gods. The painting of a “Fragile Rainbow” contributed by friend Claire McConaughy in which a reflection of prismatic colors on adulterated water partially vanishes into an ambiguous mire. The photographs that chronicle dystopian assemblages of consumerist waste, yet at the same time point us beyond cataclysm. 

Fragile Rainbow, Claire McConaughy. Oil painting diptych, 120” x 40”, 2021.

Fragile Rainbow, Claire McConaughy. Oil painting diptych, 120” x 40”, 2021.

But let us remember that it is not only the health of our environment that is at risk of loss. The Gulf War was a time of violent loss, as were the many wars that have continued after that time. The battle against COVID remains a time of stunning worldwide bereavement. The many personal losses in all of our lives continue apace through the years, without any cessation. But now, courtesy of “The Iridescent Yonder,” they all come with some valuable tools for processing mortality and moving into a new phase of life. Sue emphasizes that her “quiet, repetitive, meditative process” helped her deal with the pain she was feeling and create a fitting and eloquent tribute to her brother and her mother.

None of us knows in advance precisely how we will react to agonizing loss. But there is something especially eloquent and gripping when human beings do their utmost to overcome adversity, using whatever means is at their disposal. And there is something especially memorable when the tool is gifted and skillful artmaking in which we can all find a glimmer of our sorrow and our yearning to transcend. 

THE CHAIR.png

In the end, we emerge from mourning with the metaphysical challenge of deciding what to do with our remaining allocation of time. What will we prioritize in the wake of personal losses? Will the post-COVID era be a “return to normal” or will it be a time of change? How will we move beyond the era of endless war? Will we succeed in saving the planet?

In this regard, The Iridescent Yonder offers a subtle but effective push into the realm of action. Set your sails, it suggests. Protest against the intolerable. Safeguard the environment and cherish our fellow human beings. We could take it all sitting down, Sue seems to say, and there’s even a chair if you want to do that. But helpfully a nearby sign advises patrons to “sit with caution.” 


The Iridescent Yonder was supported in part by the School of Art at George Mason University and a Gillespie Research Fellowship for exhibition assistance from Michelle Smith.







And the Winner Is: Uh Huh

The music video created by Atlantika members Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac for Joy on Fire’s hard-hitting song about gun violence in the United States, Uh Huh, continues to tear up the festival circuit and has now garnered its first all-out win: The Obskuur Ghent Film Festival in Belgium. Moreover, it just won the runner-up award at the Brighton Rocks Film Festival in the UK as well. Overall, it’s received awards at more than a dozen international film festivals…so far! Here are the band’s thoughts (as expressed by lyricist and vocalist Dan Gutstein):

Joy on Fire music video for “Uh Huh” wins Best Music Video category at Obskuur Ghent Film Festival (Belgium) and garners Runner-up accolades at Brighton Rocks Film Festival (UK)

Dan Gutstein

In a dream I don’t want you to know about, “Uh Huh” plays overhead as a rugged pugilist makes his or her walk to the ring or octagon. The drums are tapping, the bass plays “dinn-dinn-dunn,” and the vocals recite what’s both obvious and ominous—“Uh Huh”—over and over again, until, of course, the song becomes electrified, a thumping action that buffets the chest—“dinn-dinn-dunn”—of the opponent. At this point, with the arena lights going all whirlybird and the crowd going all whirlybird, the song drops out and the two fighters drift toward one another.

I don’t want you to know about this dream because it precedes some violence, however sanctioned or celebrated, and yet, what sort of purity can we realistically expect of ourselves? In any event, I can’t undream it. And it’s not so far-fetched. A combatant could take courage from “Uh Huh.” (I’ve never been shown the end, don’t know if the fighter prevails.) Yet there’s quite a difference between this scenario and someone deciding to do the ultimate wrong, such as picking up a firearm, pointing it at another person (or persons) and fatally harming them.

In early 2022, the world will take stock of what will hopefully be a Covid pandemic in steep retreat. But what of the gun violence pandemic? It only seems to worsen, and it seems especially virulent in the United States. In response to some of the worst examples—such as schools attacked and innocent school children murdered—the country seems incensed, well, for a little while. Then the story fades, and gun ownership even seems to multiply. The massive lunacy of arming teachers gets trotted-out as if that’s the only conceivable solution. More weaponry.

The lyrics for “Uh Huh” refer to gun violence, yes. But they’re also aimed at the unknowable: songs that our murdered brethren are singing—as we bury them. In a fit of rage, the singer challenges the killers to return the bodies to the earth. “Uh Huh” could appear inflammatory at that moment, as if we were challenging the murderers to kill again. But in the end, when the song’s peak—including the screeching saxophone—reaches toward euphoria, it’s quite important to remember that anger has different colors. Call ours the color of outrage.

Filmmaker duo Mark Isaac and Gabriela Bulisova produced a wildly creative film that matches the outrage and the ambiguities in the music and words. As of this writing, “Uh Huh” has been the Official Selection of 12 international film festivals, from the U.S. to Europe to Asia. The emotions that accompany our win at Ghent Obskuur Film Festival and being a runner-up at Brighton Rocks Film Festival, are a mixture of humility, gratitude, and devotion to message. It’s a roughened song for a roughened age in human history. Can it be the color of your outrage? “Uh Huh.”

Back to Square One: Part 4

Dereck Stafford Mangus is a Baltimore-based visual artist and writer who has created an extensive body of work on the subject of the square in the contemporary landscape. In a four-part AKAblog, appearing on “square root dates” – January 9th (3 x 3), 16th (4 x 4), 25th (5 x 5) and February 1st (1 x 1) in January and February 2021 – “Back to Square One” will offer insights into The Square Project, Mangus’ longstanding photographic series that explores the pervasive quadrilateral, which is also the subject of his thesis for Harvard, “The Persistence of and Resistance to Structure: The Grid-Square Construct in Western Visual Culture.”

4_square_icon.png

As stated before, the square persists in contemporary culture in the form of raster graphics or “bitmap” digital imagery. Even though viewers look through the digital grid of their mobile devices, the square is still present. Though the dominance of theoretical formalism, a sort of aesthetic fundamentalism that reached a conceptual deadend with minimalism, diminished in the last quarter of the twentieth century, visual creators continue to search for new formats and experiment with new technologies, the grid and the square live on in digital media and cyberspace in the form of the pixel (pic-el,) or “picture element,” of raster graphics. Many contemporary artists have abandoned a single traditional medium, like paint, for what is commonly known as multi-media.

Charles Village, Baltimore, 2017

Charles Village, Baltimore, 2017

Today, the square unit is invisible but ubiquitous in the form of the pixel. The pervasive pixel is found in the urban landscape from the Light-emitting Diode, or LED read-outs and other ephemeral signage to cellular phones and other digital displays. And both the grid and the square are found in the recent dissemination of the Quick Response, or QR code. QR codes have proliferated in advertising in the last few years, and although they often clutter otherwise good design, they seem to pop up everywhere. The QR code is scanned by a QR-reader application on a “smart phone,” which automatically takes the user to an online website or page.

What about popular disdain or general aversion of rationalistic structures in Western thought and practice? This is simply illogical and contradictory: without grids and squares, modern existence is unthinkable. The critique comes from within grid-square construct, or from on the grid.

For most people the grid is a necessary aspect of everyday life. They might not like to think about it, but when they do, they realize just how hooked on the grid they are.  Yet there is a symbiotic, almost organic, relationship between the grid and the inhabitants thereon. Contemporary culture is as reliant on grids and squares as they are reliant on us. For example, the gridiron street system is not independently sustainable.  It requires constant work and upkeep.  Anyone who drives regularly knows all too well of the constant detours and traffic caused by perpetual road repairs.  Pavement is fairly fragile and needs constant attention.  In The World Without Us, Alan Weisman writes:

As pavement separates, weeds like mustard, shamrock, and goosegrass blow in from Central Park and work their way down the new cracks, which widen further.  In the current world, before they get too far, city maintenance usually shows up, kills the weeds, and fills the fissures. But in the post-people world, there’s no one left to continually patch New York.               

And this is just pavement–never mind more complex and sensitive extensions of the grid-square construct such as the electrical grid, which can be disrupted by solar activity.

Broken Windows, 2018

Broken Windows, 2018

The grid-square construct persists in contemporary visual culture in the form of digital technology.  The Internet, the most representative technology of the contemporary world, and the latest advance in the grid-square construct, is not a single distinct medium in the way that painting or photography is, but rather an accelerator and localizer of pre-existing media.  It did not produce photography, graphic design, or typography, for example.  It just collected them into one simple package:  the pixel-based computer screen.  From hand-held mobile devices and laptops, to ATM machines and other computerized displays, the pixel is the basic building block for digital interfaces, allowing for many disparate media to seamlessly converge in one locus, one node:  the screen.  The grid-square construct facilitates this.

Indeed, all of the media discussed throughout this research is now found in digital form:  plans and blueprints are designed in Computer-Aided Design, or CAD, software; maps are viewed online with MapQuest or Google Maps, books are read with Amazon Kindle, digital photographs edited in PhotoShop, and uploaded to websites like Flickr and Facebook, or to a weblog (“blog”) or website.  The Internet did not create these media.  It just localized them.  Perhaps, after all, modernist artists and designers were correct:  the grid and the square are universal structures, as the ubiquitous digital pixel aids and alters the lives of more and more people everyday.

Square Signs #1, 2020

Square Signs #1, 2020

In 1990 Sagan famously compared the Earth to a single pixel after asking NASA to turn the onboard camera on Voyager I around to capture a photograph of the Earth from the outer reaches of the solar system.  The grainy photograph renders the Earth from across the great expanse of space as a tiny light blue pixel, barely discernible from all the other squares of information in the pixilated image.  In the following passage, Sagan eloquently muses on the history of this “pale blue dot”:

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.

 Though the language is dramatic, the reference to the planet as a pixel is apt and eloquent.  It cleverly frames the long history of the grid-square construct from prehistoric notions of the Earth as a square–“the four corners of the Earth”–to the single digital unit of contemporary digital technology.

Square Signs #2, 2020

Square Signs #2, 2020

Squares exist in a liminal space, somewhere between the subatomic and the cosmological.  Historically, the square has symbolized the “Four Corners of the Earth.” Spreading out from the original square landmark, an orthogonal grid of evenly spaced perpendicular lines supplants itself across the terrestrial landscape. Or at least in our minds and in our media.

Today, visual culture navigates through one form of the grid-square media or another. Modern life is dependent upon the logic and structure of this pervasive and persistent construct, despite historical resistance. When these rationalistic, idealized structures become too explicit a cultural backlash occurs. The recent resistance to grids and squares is itself a symptom of the larger construct. It is thus a critique from within the grid-square construct, and is largely superficial.

Nevertheless, grids and squares persist in the contemporary world in the form of the digital interface. The bitmap-pixel computer screen is but the latest expression of the grid-square construct. From ancient mosaics to digital interfaces, from agriculture to cultural theory, and from amber waves of grids to the pixels in your pocket, grids and squares are persistent in the contemporary landscape.


Back to Square One: Part 1

Back to Square One: Part 2

Back to Square One: Part 3

4_square_icon.png


Back to Square One: Part 3

Dereck Stafford Mangus is a Baltimore-based visual artist and writer who has created an extensive body of work on the subject of the square in the contemporary world. In a series of blog posts titled "Back to Square One" that will be appearing in AKA Blog in January and February (on dates that represent square roots – January 9th (3x3), 16th (4x4), 25th (5x5) and February 1st (1x1) – he will offer insights into The Square Project, his longstanding photographic project that has spanned two decades, and his obsession with this familiar yet intriguing geometric shape, which even became the subject of his graduate thesis at Harvard, “The Persistence of and Resistance to Structure: The Grid-Square Construct in Western Visual Culture.”

4_square_icon.png

After explaining The Square Project to people, some get way into it and begin pointing out every square under the sun for me to photograph. “There’s one,” they say. “And here’s another,” and so on. Occasionally, people get annoyed when I decline to shoot a square they find. But the Project is not about capturing every single square I come across. As with writing–or any other creative endeavor for that matter–visual art is largely an editing process. That is, it’s as much about what you choose to keep out as it is what you elect to leave in. I can’t fully explain the method to my madness in shooting some squares but not others. Often it’s a matter of taste. Sometimes it’s because I’ve already shot a particular square, and is already in my collection. And while I love initiating new “square disciples,” I can’t quite figure out why some get more than a little disappointed when I choose not to shoot a square they point to. 

Boston, 2008–2014

Boston, 2008–2014

Oftentimes it’s not even a square! I remember one time, after explaining my Project to an acquaintance of mine, she suggested I shoot an object we happened upon that was clearly not a square. It was a rectangle with a ratio of about 4:5. Close, but no cigar. She became flummoxed when I declined to photograph this oblong, and claimed that I was “too uptight to be an artist.” I resent the notion that artists are supposed to be loosey-goosey flakes. I take my work seriously, as seriously as a scientist. Precision–especially when regarding something like the square–is paramount. Coworkers at a retail job I once had called me Standard Mangus teasingly because my drawer was consistently even during the count at the end of the day. I took their razzing as a compliment. Why would I want my drawer to be off? 

New York City, 2007–2017

New York City, 2007–2017

The square is a very specific thing. It’s a quadrilateral with four equal sides meeting at 90-degree angles. It’s not a rhombus. It’s not a parallelogram. The most concise definition for the square I’ve come across is “a rectangle with equal sides.” It’s also defined by its orientation. If you take the three basic shapes–the perfect circle, equilateral triangle, and equilateral rectangle, or square–and turn them 90° in your mind’s eye, the first two retain their original names, while the square becomes something else: a diamond. The diamond is a more dynamic shape than the square, suggesting movement. This is why a baseball field is referred to as a “baseball diamond” and not a “baseball square”: the action fans outward from a single point at home plate. The square is an arresting form. It stops you in your tracks. The symbol for the stop button on many remote controls and AV equipment is often a red square. The circle is a wheel, which turns or rotates, while the triangle triangulates. But the square stops. It is static. Still. Motionless. Like the period at the end of a sentence. The square ceases the flow of action. This makes it the ideal symbol for visual art, especially planar, two-dimensional art, which requires the viewer to situate themselves in front of it, standing erect, their eyes at a 90-degree angle to the work. 

Baltimore, 2011–2016

Baltimore, 2011–2016

Yet, in a sense, The Square Project isn’t even about squares. As with Josef Albers’ Homage to the Square, the equilateral rectangle is, for me, simply a framing device. But whereas Albers’ Homage is a formal study into the interaction of color, my Project is more of a conceptual investigation into the interaction of signs and sign systems as found in site-specific places, like Boston, New York, Baltimore, and Washington, D.C. The Square Project represents a kind of “categorical semiotics,” which is just a fancy way of saying an explicit exploration of the ways different signs and symbols interact with one another, in this case, through the medium of photography, itself a sign system. Literal signs, as in advertising or street signs–find their way into my series as well. Since the coronavirus pandemic began, I’ve noticed many square social-distancing floor decals. 

Washington, DC, 2008–2017

Washington, DC, 2008–2017

The Square Project was born on film, but later developed into digital. In an undergrad photography course I began playing around with medium format, which makes square negatives. Or, rather, it can. Medium format film comes in 61mm-wide rolls, and allows you to shoot any type of rectangular ratio: from a perfect square at about 2.4” x 2.4” to a standard rectangular ratio of 2:3, or as long as the roll itself, which can be used to create long panoramas ideal for landscape photography. Many “digital natives” are only familiar with the basic rectangular format of digital cameras. Instagram converts images into squares and allows you to make your photos look “retro” with various digital filters. And while there’s nothing wrong with this, it does remove the chance effects that film permits. My undergrad photography professor referred to these haphazard “mistakes” found in film as “blessings from the Photo Gods.” In digital photography, the Photo Gods are dead. These days I shoot with a digital SLR mostly, as I’m not that romantic about the old ways. For me, photography is merely a means to an end, the medium is merely incidental in my work. I’m more interested in communicating my ideas, and photography is ideal for that. But the square is present in a digital photograph (even if rectangular) via the pixel, the tiny square points of light in a digital media.

Please remember to check this space for later segments of "Back to Square One" by Dereck Stafford Mangus, appearing in January and February 2021:


Back to Square One: Part 1

Back to Square One: Part 2

Back to Square One: Part 4

4_square_icon.png

The Crown's Silhouette

Mark Isaac

I admit it. When it comes to the wild proliferation of images in the world, I’m an unreformed offender. Not only do I capture them recklessly and with abandon, but I store endless numbers of images in an ever-expanding battery of costly storage devices with a proclivity to fail.

And there’s nothing I’ve photographed more than trees. Since the very first days of my photographic habit, decades ago, when I started capturing the images of trees on the shiny reflective surfaces of cars, I’ve returned to trees with more frequency than any other subject. 

Why? I consider trees among the most beautiful things in the world. I know it’s considered unfashionable by some to prize the appearance of the natural world, lauded endlessly by so many for thousands of years, over objects that humans craft in this technological age with an intense focus on the perfection of their design. 

But the monsters of the plant world, clasping with an immense ball of roots deep into the earth, sending a monumental trunk skyward, and spreading a sheltering crown above our heads, offer ageless and undeniable visual delight. The diversity of species, shapes, sizes, barks, leaves, flowers, seeds. The manner in which branches seek the sunlight in imperfect symmetry. The wabi sabi of peeling bark, dead branches, knots, and burls. In some, the exquisite contradiction of stretching upward, then cascading downward in weeping fronds. 

And now comes word that, no fake news about it, something miraculous is happening. There is scientific confirmation that trees are not solitary, but instead communicate in huge, extended, complex underground fungal webs (known as mycorrhizal networks), sending alarms about danger, and sharing carbon, water and other nutrients. This impressive level of collaboration even extends beyond species. 

More than 5 years ago, I started making panoramic photographs of the tree canopy while walking underneath with my iPhone. The phone camera is prone to making “mistakes” as it strives to knit the images of the treetops together. But the fortuitous accidents it records seem to express the truth about trees better than the more representational image that the phone’s camera is designed to produce. They are images of trees reaching out to each other, vibrating with energy and motion, dancing and cavorting.

They are also images that capture the darkness that is upon us in the age of climate crisis and environmental collapse. The trees’ crowns appear as silhouettes of foreboding darkness, taking on anthropomorphic shapes, groaning in disbelief and pain, and whispering truths and organizing rebellion. After all, as a tree, there is much to fear: drought, extreme weather, the spread of wildfires, rampant legal and illegal logging, deforestation, the list goes on. These problems are worldwide and colossal in their implications.

I devoted only sporadic time and energy to the project until recently, while in lockdown in Prague. During the pandemic, our mental and physical health relies largely on spending long periods outside, running along the Vltava River or strolling through Prague’s impressive parks, such as Stromovka (named for its trees), Letna, Vitkov, or Krejcarik. The grandeur of the trees is always on prominent display, often alongside a demonstration of their fragility: the Slavic obsession with trimming them or cutting them down.

The final product of this effort will be panoramic images, but paranormal panoramas: images that reveal the trees in all their “vegetality,” as living, communicating beings with intention, expressing the magnificence of natural creation, as well as the fragility of our contemporary, interconnected world. They are images that capture the enormity of what is at stake, and the intense danger that plants and animals now face in the wake of catastrophic environmental damage.

The panoramas, which are difficult and time-consuming to create, are still in progress. But today I’m sharing one of them in addition to a series of details from the larger images that offer a window into the ongoing project. I hope you will enjoy them and that they will whet your appetite for the full panoramas to come. And I hope you’ll share your thoughts about this latest body of work in progress. 

An example of a full panorama of the treetops, as part of a body of work currently in progress.

Back to Square One: Part 2

Dereck Stafford Mangus is a Baltimore-based visual artist and writer who has created an extensive body of work on the subject of the square in the contemporary landscape. In a four-part AKAblog, appearing on “square root dates” – January 9th (3 x 3), 16th (4 x 4), 25th (5 x 5) and February 1st (1 x 1) in January and February 2021 – “Back to Square One” will offer insights into The Square Project, Mangus’ longstanding photographic series that explores the pervasive quadrilateral, which is also the subject of his thesis for Harvard, “The Persistence of and Resistance to Structure: The Grid-Square Construct in Western Visual Culture.”

4_square_icon.png

The square is not only found in the look of art and the lay of the land; it runs through our language as well. Originally, when applied to a person, “square” denoted someone who is honest, loyal, and traditional. When applied to an object it signifies something that is balanced and upright, such as with the try square, the carpentry and metal-working tool used for marking and measuring right-angles. “Are we square?” means “Are we even?” “To square off,” means to take a fighting stance, to face your opponent directly, and not just blindside, jump, or sucker punch them. To square off implies a fair fight and fair play. Squares are integral in board games, from chess, checkers, and Go to Monopoly, Scrabble, and Snakes and Ladders (originally known as Moksha Patam.) In fact, the phrase “back to square one” most likely originated with board games involving numbered squares, popular in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. There is also the square sail, the square knot, the square dance, and the square meal, to name but a few other instances of where the term “square” has entered our language. “Square” has been used as a slang term for cigarettes in prison due to the shape of the paper used to roll them since at least the 1960s.

Chess board, 2016

Chess board, 2016

The history of the word “square” has significant meaning in American culture and history. While it began as a positive term suggesting balance, fairness, and order, by the mid-twentieth century it morphed into a derogatory term for all that is boring, dull, and rigid in the world. To describe someone or something as “square” now means they are “uncool” at best or, at worse, part of “the establishment.” In other words, the term was initially used as a symbol for American democracy and later became counter-cultural slang. Outside of the 1986 Huey Lewis song, “Hip to Be Square,” the term is almost always used derogatorily in popular culture, as with the 1957 Elvis Presley “Jailhouse Rock” lyric: “The warden said, hey buddy don’t you be no square, if you can’t find a partner use a wooden chair.” Making a negative-space square with an index finger and thumb to form an “L7” is a gestural variation on the pejorative use of “square” as with the line in “Wooly Bully”, a 1965 hit single by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs: “Let’s not be L7, come and learn to dance.” (This is where the American grunge band got their name.) From the earlier expressions “fair and square” and “square deal”, both of which originated with the Land Ordinance of 1785, signifying an equal allotment of land, to the derogatory use of the term in the postwar hipster parlance of Beat writers and the later hippie generation (“Be there or be square!”), the word weaves through our culture, history, and language.

L7 square hand gesture.

L7 square hand gesture.

Upon hearing that the square was the subject of my graduate thesis, “The Persistence of and Resistance to Structure: The Grid-Square Construct in Western Visual Culture,” my partner’s brother Stefan exclaimed: “Really? That’s so boring!” Stefan, a reclusive polymath, sincerely meant “boring” as a compliment. He went on to explain that many other research papers try so hard to be interesting by focusing on obscure topics, employing fancy terms, and trendy approaches. The square, on the other hand, is so boring that a research paper about it had to be interesting. At least that was the logic of his adulation.

In any event, Stefan helped me see The Square Project in an interesting historical context. After explaining that I began the photographic series (the impetus to my thesis) in 2001, he observed how that was both the year in the title 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), a film that blew the minds of its viewers with its stunning visual effects and cryptic science-fiction narrative, and the year of the World Trade Center Attacks. Stefan went on to explain that the squarish monoliths that appear in the film, which play a central role in advancing the human race, resemble the “gothic-modernist” austerity of the twin towers, both of which had perfectly square footprints. I hadn’t thought about this before, and felt like there was something there.

In my thesis, I do mention how the World Trade Center was designed by Japanese-American architect Minoru Yamasaki who also designed the Pruitt-Igoe housing project in St. Louis. Both projects were created with modernist ideals of design: no historical referents, reduced forms, squared angles, etc. The only major difference between these buildings was their function. Pruitt-Igoe was an notorious housing project that was demolished in 1972 due to its abject failure in delivering the modernist dream of “worker housing.” In The New Paradigm in Architecture: The Language of Postmodernism, architectural theorist Charles Jencks wrote:

Modern architecture died in St. Louis, Missouri, on July 15, 1972 at 3:32 PM (or thereabouts) when the infamous Pruitt-Igoe scheme, or rather several of its slab blocks, were given the final coup de grâce by dynamite. Previously it had been vandalized, mutilated and defaced by its inhabitants, and although millions of dollars were pumped back, trying to keep it alive (fixing the broken elevators, repairing smashed windows, repainting), it was finally put out of its misery. Boom, boom, boom.

Footage of the decay and demolition of the Pruitt-Igoe housing project appears prominently in the experimental documentary film Koyaanisqatsi: Life Out of Balance (1982), while the fate of the World Trade Center, once a symbol of global capitalism, was watched in real time all over the world.

It seems almost ironic that these two modernist building complexes, designed by the same architect–one for working-class residences in St. Louis, the other for international commerce–should be destroyed so soon after their creation. Both events were highly mediated and, in their own ways, symbolize the failed ideals of modernism. While the mysterious squarish monolith in 2001 aids in human evolution within a fictional universe, the destruction of similar forms have come to symbolize failed policy–both domestic and foreign–in the real world. If modern architecture–and, by extension, modernism–died on July 15, 1972, perhaps postmodernism ended on September 11, 2001.

Floor plan of one of the towers of the former World Trade Center.

Floor plan of one of the towers of the former World Trade Center.

4_square_icon.png

My own interest in the square is more modest. I prefer seeking out smaller more overlooked squares for my photography series. Some of my square photos are very iconic, and clearly represent the places where they were found, while others are more generic. I seek them out in public spaces as well as more obscure areas, like down back alleyways and around abandoned buildings. Squares are ubiquitous in the built environment. Examples are all around us. In fact, the screen you’re looking at right now is composed of tiny square units called pixels, from “pic-el” or “picture element.” Earlier this year, a controversial new aerial surveillance plane (or “spy plane”) began flying over Baltimore to gather data from above as part of an experimental approach to police work. Apparently, from the height it flies each person on the ground below registers as a single pixel.  

The square also represents time, with its four equal sides suggesting the four seasons, and in the form of the calendar demarcating the days of the week in a grid of squares. In 2016, I made calendars based on my square series and mailed them out as holiday gifts to colleagues, family members, and friends. Included in the square mailers were 16 square photographs representing the 12 months and 4 seasons, plus the necessary hardware for assembling a wall hanging. Four years later, I made Square Calendar #2.

Square Calendar #2, 2020

Square Calendar #2, 2020

Please remember to check this space for later segments of "Back to Square One" by Dereck Stafford Mangus, appearing in January and February 2021:

Back to Square One: Part 1

Back to Square One: Part 3

Back to Square One: Part 4

4_square_icon.png

Back to Square One: Part 1

Dereck Stafford Mangus is a Baltimore-based visual artist and writer who has created an extensive body of work on the subject of the square in the contemporary landscape. In a four-part AKAblog, appearing on “square root dates” – January 9th (3 x 3), 16th (4 x 4), 25th (5 x 5) and February 1st (1 x 1) in January and February 2021 – “Back to Square One” will offer insights into The Square Project, Mangus’ longstanding photographic series that explores the pervasive quadrilateral, which is also the subject of his thesis for Harvard, “The Persistence of and Resistance to Structure: The Grid-Square Construct in Western Visual Culture.”

4_square_icon.png

When I was growing up, my older sister was like a third parent to me. If not for Jenni, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. My sister is several years older than I and the product of my mother’s first marriage so is actually my half sister. But seeing as both my parents had full-time jobs (and dad was often at the bar after work,) Jenni was like a full-time parent.

Allston #1, 2001

Allston #1, 2001

My older sister opened my mind to music, politics, and the larger world outside of my small, working-class hometown of Hudson, Massachusetts, where I’d probably still be if it wasn’t for her. Don’t get me wrong: there’s nothing wrong with where I grew up. Hudson is a quaint, former shoe-mill town, midway between Boston and Worcester, on the 495 beltway. Its greatest claim to fame is that Nuno Bettencourt, lead guitarist of the rock band Extreme (famous for their acoustic ballad and one-hit wonder “More than Words”), grew up there. I was never really into them, and neither was my sister whose musical tastes tended more towards what was then called “alternative” music. Jenni introduced me to a lot of cool bands.

But the greatest gift my sister imparted was that she got me into art. When she was in high school and I was still in elementary, Jenni would come home and teach me what she learned that day in art class. I remember her teaching me the rules of perspective in the bathroom of my boyhood home. The gridded tile-work of the walls served as useful guides in what was one of my first fairly well-rendered drawings. One year for Christmas, when I was in high school and she was studying graphic design at the Massachusetts College of Art in Boston, Jenni gave me my first camera: a Pentax K-1000, which I still have.

4_square_icon.png

What I now call The Square Project began in 2001, a few months before 9/11, during a transatlantic postal art exchange between Jenni and me while she was studying design in London and I was in a photography course at UMass Boston. I was trying to figure out what I should shoot for a final project around the time we began playing around with – for whatever reason ­– the multiple meanings of the word square in our mailings, combining both its formal properties as a design element with its slang use as a hipper-than-thou affront: “You are so square!”

London, 2007

London, 2007

This got me thinking about how something so simple could work on so many levels. I was shooting with medium format film, which is square, so it just made sense to begin photographing square things I found in the world. I have been doing that ever since. What began as a playful mail-art correspondence evolved into a serious art project, and ultimately my graduate thesis, “The Persistence of and Resistance to Structure: The Grid-Square Construct In Western Visual Culture,” which I dedicated to my sister.

The Square Project documents various square forms I find on my many explorations of the city. The urban landscape is full of squares: buttons, hatches, logos, signs, and windows, to name but a few. There is also the market or public square, where commercial and social activity is concentrated, such as with Harvard Square, Times Square, and Trafalgar Square. I photograph squares wherever I go, in whatever city I visit, and organize them in a grid format, recalling the urban layouts from which they were found. Squares are my markers, the coordinates of my wanderings.

Harvard Square, 2009–2014

Harvard Square, 2009–2014

The square can be an empty frame or a node of information, like a point on a graph or a pixel on a screen. It is banal and profound, prosaic and sacred. In its static form it is the bureaucratic checkbox on a survey or the symbol for the stop button on remote controls. But the square is also a symbol of humanist universalism, as conveyed in da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. It is also the modernist black void of Malevich's Black Square. When squares work in unison with one another they create gridded networks as with the giant Pop-art portraits of Chuck Close or in digital interfaces, where each individual pixel is a single point of light in the raster image.

The word square has significant meaning in American culture and history. Grids and squares are especially evident in the American landscape. Since the Land Ordinance of 1785, which superimposed the grid over the country west of Appalachia, following the Louisiana Purchase, the young republic was divided into square lots of land. This is where the expressions “fair and square” and “a square deal” came from. The American grid is visible to the naked eye from an airplane window when flying over the Midwest: each square lot of farmland, equal in size, and as flat as an Agnes Martin painting, represents the ideals of the new nation: E pluribus unum

While squares are ideal for organizing land into fields, townships, cities, counties, and states, it produces a mind-numbing monotony. Flying over Minnesota, British travel writer and novelist Jonathan Raban observes in “Mississippi Water,” an article for Granta Magazine:

The great flat forms of Minnesota are laid out in a ruled grid, as empty of surprises as a sheet of graph paper. Every graveled path, every ditch has been projected along the latitude and longitude lines of the township-and-range survey system. The farms are square, the fields are square, the houses are square; if you could pluck their roofs off from over people’s heads, you’d see the families sitting at square tables in the dead center of square rooms. Nature has been stripped, shaven, drilled, punished, and repressed in this right-angled, right-thinking Lutheran country. It makes you ache for the sight of a rebellious curve or the irregular, dappled color of a field where a careless farmer has allowed corn and soybeans to cohabit.

Aerial view of a square lot homestead in the American heartland.

Aerial view of a square lot homestead in the American heartland.

This same zooming-in effect used by Raban in his description of the Midwest is equally applicable to a smaller, denser area. A cityscape, like that of New York City, is ideal: Starting with an aerial view of Manhattan, with its gridiron street plan of orderly, squared blocks. Narrowing in further, were you to “pluck” the roof off the Museum of Modern Art, say, a block-like modernist building itself, you would find museum patrons, security guards, and docents standing in and walking through squarish galleries, perhaps even looking at square art by early European modernists like Malevich and Mondrian or postwar American minimalists like Sol Lewitt, Agnes Martin, and Frank Stella. Midwestern farmland and modern art have more in common than you might think.


Please remember to check this space for later segments of "Back to Square One" by Dereck Stafford Mangus, appearing in January and February 2021:

Back to Square One: Part 2

Back to Square One: Part 3

Back to Square One: Part 4

4_square_icon.png



The Ways We Imagine The Future

Mark Isaac

Visual Catalysts is an international exhibition that appeared earlier this year in Tampere, Finland.  Focused on the worldwide climate crisis and other forms of environmental degradation, the exhibition sought  to promote new ways of visual representation that help spur real action toward a green and sustainable future. I was very pleased that several of my images from the series “Like Water Through Plastic” were included. 

Now, the catalog for the exhibition has been issued, including several important essays that focus on the included work. One essay in particular, titled The Ways We Imagine the Future, is focused very intensively on my series, and I wanted to share that here. 

Earlier, I’ve written in this space about the challenge of plastic pollution, which continues to be a daunting problem throughout the world. And I explained my process, which involved using found waste in the landscape, primarily plastic and glass, as a sort of “supplemental lens” to create photographs that call attention to the environmental degradation these objects cause.

The essay, however, doesn’t focus extensively on the negative impact of this form of pollution. Instead, the authors, Hanna Lehtimaki & Siiri Poyhonen of the University of Eastern Finland, chose to focus their attention on the transformative power of imagination in helping us bridge to a sustainable future.

According to the authors, “our imagination is in fact often rather limited,” because our experience of past events compromises our ability to project into the future. This limits  our focus to a “dystopic narrative” that “evokes emotions of despair and frustration and justifies passivity.” 

However, in the view of the authors, artists have the potential to break this cycle and direct us on a much more hopeful path. By shaking up our ways of thinking in ways that are both big and small, artists in the post-pandemic world can help us build on our strengths and proficiencies rather than remain passive in the face of overwhelming problems. “Artists are vital agents in encouraging imagination and opening challenges to participate in changemaking. They encourage us to realize possibilities, [and they] use hope as a lens in exploring what alternative ways of perceiving and acting we have.”

I am surprised and humbled and honored that the two professors believe my photographs are an example of this process, and I am indebted to them for reflecting on my work and sharing their ideas. But more importantly, it is extremely inspirational and encouraging for all artists working in this difficult time to receive this feedback and to be able to use the power of these sentiments to rededicate themselves to imagining a better future and contributing to real and lasting change. 

The text of the essay follows:



On Dwelling, Anatomy and Architecture during Coronavirus

Essay by Dereck Stafford Mangus (first published on Artblog in April 2020)

Atlantika contributor Dereck Stafford Mangus muses on the different ways through time that the language of bodies and architecture have mirrored each other, and asks us to consider how our COVID-19 existence has made us “strangers in a familiar land.”

Home is where the heart is. Photo illustration by Dereck Stafford Mangus.

Home is where the heart is. Photo illustration by Dereck Stafford Mangus.

In the parlance of the media theorist Marshall McLuhan, buildings are extensions of our bodies. That is, they act as a secondary, artificial membrane, protecting those within from the harsh conditions without. In the most primary sense, buildings shield our bodies from the natural elements. They keep out the wind and the rain. They shelter us from storms. As private dwellings, they offer reprieve from hectic public spaces. On a deeper level, our most beloved buildings provide us with sanctuary. Your body is a temple.

The language we use to describe architecture borrows from that of anatomy: floors are measured in square feet; the frame of a building relates to the frame of the body; and the word façade even has face as its root. As the cliché goes, “the eyes are the windows to the soul.” Walls, like skin and flesh are to organs, demarcate the spaces of buildings into separate rooms or chambers. (The four-chambered heart!) The most familiar spaces make us feel at peace. Home is where the heart is.

Many animals – ants, birds, and beavers, for example – build homes for themselves. But humans take home construction to a different level: foundations and roofs; doors and windows; walls, stairways and halls; multiple levels of specialized rooms; not to mention the many modern comforts of air-conditioning, central heating, electric lights, plumbing, running water, security systems, and WiFi, all combine to create a complex dwelling of creature comforts that is all too often taken for granted.

Vitruvian Man during Coronavirus. Photo illustration by Dereck Stafford Mangus.

Vitruvian Man during Coronavirus. Photo illustration by Dereck Stafford Mangus.

The connection between architecture and anatomy is found throughout history. The Roman architect Vitruvius outlined the relationship between the body and the building in his Ten Books on Architecture written between 30 and 15 BCE. Fifteen centuries later, during the Italian Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci celebrated the work of the ancient architect in his drawing of the Vitruvian Man (c. 1490). The text that appears above and below this idealized image of man begins:

Vetruvio, architect, puts in his work on architecture that the measurements of man are in nature distributed in this manner: that is a palm is four fingers, a foot is four palms, a cubit is six palms, four cubits make a man, a pace is four cubits, a man is 24 palms and these measurements are in his buildings.

During the coronavirus pandemic, Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man seems both perverse and prescient. With his outstretched limbs and thousand-yard stare, he definitely looks like someone you wouldn’t want to approach. And of course, he’s totally naked! While social distancing, how many cubits should we keep from such a man?

Skin cells and wallpaper patterns. Photo illustration by Dereck Stafford Mangus.

Skin cells and wallpaper patterns. Photo illustration by Dereck Stafford Mangus.

Many modern writers indulged in the darker, more mysterious kinship between bodies and buildings in their work. At the beginning of “The House of Usher,” for example, Edgar Allan Poe describes the dilapidated mansion of the friend the narrator is visiting as like a face with “vacant, eye-like windows.” In her essay, “Better for Haunts: Victorian Houses and the Modern Imagination,” Sarah Burns writes how “the house itself reflects Usher’s disintegrating body and disordered mind.” Similarly, in “The Yellow Wallpaper,” Charlotte Perkins Gilman has her unnamed protagonist mentally merge with the woman she believes to live within the wallpaper of the room where she is staying. Both of these American Gothic tales involve characters whose mental faculties directly relate to the buildings in which they are confined.

In The Poetics of Space, French philosopher Gaston Bachelard describes the house as a potent metaphor for the mind and body. For example, he writes that the cellar “is first and foremost the dark entity of the house, the one that partakes of subterranean forces. When we dream, we are in harmony with the irrationality of the depths.” It is no surprise our dreams are full of constantly shifting, irrational spaces culled from memories of the various spaces we’ve inhabited. The spaces we’ve inhabited inhabit us. Those earliest of childhood experiences in our family homes shape our memories and dreams for years to come.

On a certain level, it makes perfect sense that we should shape our architecture around our anatomy. Indeed, how else should we do it? As extensions of our bodies, buildings are inherently bound to them and vice versa. Bodies and buildings share a bond. They both age in time, some more gracefully than others. We grow up inside our family homes and eventually we outgrow them. (Most of us anyway.) But we continue to live in new homes throughout our lives. What we create helps create us. As Winston Churchill observed following the destruction of the Commons Chamber during the Blitz in 1943: We shape our buildings and afterwards our buildings shape us.

The home as metaphor for mind and body. Photo illustration by Dereck Stafford Mangus.

The home as metaphor for mind and body. Photo illustration by Dereck Stafford Mangus.

Returning to language, it is important here to consider the verb to dwell. To dwell means “to live or reside (in)” or “to linger (on) a particular thought, idea, etc. to remain fixated (on).” To dwell, from the Middle English dwellen (“delay; linger; remain”), also means: “to abide; to remain; to continue.” Abide (to endure without yielding; to withstand; await defiantly; to persevere) itself relates to abode. And of course, an abode is a place of residence, a house or home. Even when inactive, home is a noun and a verb. It is not simply a place, but rather a special place set apart from the world, a sacred space where we feel peace, where we feel safe, and where we feel loved.

During the current crisis, due to the stay-at-home order across the nation, many of us are forced to reconsider the relationship between our dwellings and ourselves. Many of us are at home, in our apartments and houses, waiting out the virus for an indeterminate time. We are anxious. We are frightened, our future uncertain. We find ourselves strangers in a familiar land. And of course we are going stir crazy. And “cabin fever” creeps in. But perhaps we could take a moment now and then, between washing our hands, binge watching, and pacing the floor, to reconsider our relationship with the spaces where we live, to revisit home. What better time to reflect on the places where we dwell?

Human Nature: Seers from the Upper World Природа человека: Провидцы из Верхнего Мира

New work by Valery Kondakov / Новая работа Валерия Кондакова

85 cm х 44 cm х 6 cm. Photograph by Valery Kondakov / Фото Валерия Кондакова.

Valery Kondakov, a professional artist who lives and works in Nizhneangarsk, a remote town at the northernmost point of Lake Baikal in eastern Siberia, is a regular contributor to Atlantika Collective. His prolific and diverse artwork includes painting, graphics, sculpture, decorative art, literature, and poetry. It is created under the pseudonym “Evi Enk,” a reference to his indigenous Evenki roots.

Валерий Кондаков, профессиональный художник, живущий и работающий в Нижнеангарске, отдаленном городке на самой северной точке озера Байкал в Восточной Сибири, является постоянным сотрудником Коллектива Атлантика. Его плодовитые и разнообразные произведения искусства включают живопись, графику, скульптуру, декоративное искусство, литературу и поэзию. Он создан под псевдонимом «Эви Энк», отсылка к его коренным эвенкийским корням.

90 cm х 32 cm х 6 cm. Photograph by Valery Kondakov / Фото Валерия Кондакова.

In this post, Kondakov introduces us to his new body of work titled “Human Nature: Seers from the Upper World.” In describing the new pieces, he writes simply, “We create because our brains create it. But then who is he - the creator of our brain? And why then do we create? Seers from the Upper World can answer many questions with signs that they send us while we are still human.”

В этом посте Кондаков знакомит нас со своей новой работой под названием «Природа человека: Провидцы из Верхнего Мира». Описывая новые произведения, он просто пишет: «Мы создаём потому, что это создаёт наш мозг. Но тогда кто есть он, - создатель нашего мозга? И для чего тогда мы создаём? На многие вопросы могут ответить Провидцы из Верхнего Мира знаками, которые они нам присылают, пока мы ещё люди.».

8 7 cm х 42 cm х 5 cm. Photograph by Valery Kondakov / Фото Валерия Кондакова.

Russian anthropologist Anna Sirina has studied and written about Kondakov’s work. Among other things, she emphasizes his place in the movement known as “neoarchaicism,” an artistic direction “formed in Siberian art of the late 20th to early 21st century, based on the artists' appeal to the archaeological heritage, myth and ethnic roots of the peoples of Siberia.”

Русский антрополог Анна Сирина изучала и писала о работе Кондакова. Среди прочего, она подчеркивает его место в движении, известном как «неоархаизм», художественном направлении, «сформированном в сибирском искусстве конца XX - начала XXI века на основе обращения художников к археологическому наследию, мифам и этническим корням народов Сибири».

89 cm х47 cm х 7 cm. Photograph by Valery Kondakov / Фото Валерия Кондакова.

But she goes on to clarify that Kondakov uses his attachment to images of ethnic cultures in a decisively modern way. “For Valery Kondakov,” she writes, “it has become a kind of carte blanche, which allows us to talk about modern problems of society, express our point of view on the modern world and the processes of rapid cultural change and globalization taking place in it, using traditional images, symbols, colors inherent in Evenk culture, but in a rethought, revised form.”

Но далее она поясняет, что Кондаков решительно современно использует свою привязанность к изображениям этнических культур. «Она стала для Валерия Кондакова своего рода carte blanshe, которая позволяет говорить о современных проблемах общества, высказывать свою точку зрения на современный мир но в переосмысленном, переработанном виде».

89 cm х 38 cm х 6 cm. Photograph by Valery Kondakov / Фото Валерия Кондакова.

The harsh Siberian winter is already intruding in Nizhneangarsk, where Kondakov lives a reclusive lifestyle, and in the last few days, he was forced to pause and move from his summer studio into his winter studio. But his nonstop quest will soon continue.

Суровая сибирская зима уже вторгается в Нижнеангарск, где Кондаков ведет затворнический образ жизни, и в последние дни он был вынужден сделать паузу и переехать из летней студии в зимнюю. Но его безостановочные поиски скоро продолжатся.

90 cm х 41 cm х 9 cm. Photograph by Valery Kondakov / Фото Валерия Кондакова.

“By all means available to him,” Sirina writes, “the artist is looking for answers to the questions: who am I in the modern world and what is I and where is this world going?” And in answering these questions, he believes we cannot ignore our roots and our ethnicity. And we cannot ignore the natural world, which is a living, breathing entity to which we are all deeply and inextricably connected.

«Любыми доступными ему способами, - пишет Сирина, - художник ищет ответы на вопросы: кто я в современном мире, что я такое и куда этот мир движется?» И, отвечая на эти вопросы, он считает, что мы не можем игнорировать наши корни и нашу этническую принадлежность. И мы также не можем игнорировать природу, которая является живым, дышащим существом, с которым мы все глубоко и неразрывно связаны.

85 cm х42 cm х 7 cm. Photograph by Valery Kondakov / Фото Валерия Кондакова.

Social Justice, BLM and Atlantika: SONGS IN THE KEY OF FREE

Social Justice, BLM, and Atlantika is a series of posts by Atlantika members that focus on the critical issues of race and social justice. The year 2020 has tragically brought together a pandemic with outsized impacts on communities of color and ongoing protests against the murder of George Floyd and the many others who have lost their lives as a result of racist violence. As our mission statement makes clear, Atlantika members have always valued “social responsibility, community, and nurturing a contemporary humanism through art.” However, in the wake of recent events, which are critical to the future of the nation and the world, Atlantika has renewed its commitment to make racial and social justice a lasting focal point -- and to do our part to bring about a powerful movement for change.

Atlantika Collective members Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac have done extensive work on issues related to mass incarceration, the racist policy that inordinately targets people of color, subjecting them to lengthy prison sentences, often for nonviolent crimes. In this project, titled Songs in the Key of Free, the duo focused on an innovative music program at a state prison not far from Philadelphia. The program is an upbeat and positive way for those in prison to express themselves, but a bitter subtext unsettles the narrative: many of the participants are sentenced to life in prison without parole or extremely long sentences, and these sentences are meted out disproportionately to people of color. 

Please be certain to read the other posts in this series thus far:

Gabriela Bulisova & Mark Isaac

Songs in the Key of Free is an innovative music program initiated several years ago at State Correctional Institute-Graterford, a maximum security prison northwest of Philadelphia.* The program restored music instruction for inmates after twenty years without any access to a music program of any kind. It brought together outside musicians and talented men in the prison to create original songs and performances, an album, and podcasts with the personal stories of participants. You can learn more about the program, led by the indomitable August Tarrier, here: https://www.songsinthekeyoffree.com/.

Our short film and still photographs, created in 2017, focus on the creative process that gave birth to outstanding original music in multiple styles -- and rejuvenated lives in the process. But the project was also meant to call attention to the extremely disturbing and unjust situation of many participants, who have already served lengthy sentences, taken responsibility for their actions, and now deserve a new life on the outside. Activists in Pennsylvania and around the country call life imprisonment without the possibility of parole “death by incarceration” and are working to abolish it, along with other disproportionately long sentences. 

The film documents how participants created and performed original music dealing with the urgent need for criminal justice reform. One of these songs, titled “I Can’t Breathe,” offers a trenchant reminder of the fact that George Floyd, stopped by Minneapolis police responding to reports of a counterfeit twenty dollar bill, was not the first person to be asphyxiated by police officers. Many of us recall that widespread use of the phrase “I Can’t Breathe,” which has now become a rallying cry for the Black Lives Matter movement, originated with the case of Eric Garner, the Black man in New York City who was choked to death when stopped for suspicion of selling untaxed cigarettes. But the tragic and very real fact is that, behind these two cases, are dozens more known cases and likely many others that have yet to be publicized. A recent investigation by the New York Times found at least 70 cases in the last decade in which men died in custody after mouthing those same words. You can find the documentation here.

Out of all of the projects that we’ve created on incarceration, this one was simultaneously the most uplifting and the most unsettling. It was incredibly inspirational because of the beaming, warm and giving attitude of the participants, and their phenomenal display of talent and creativity in a situation of extreme duress. At the same time, it was deeply tragic to understand that many of the men at Graterford were aging, reformed, very harmless, and could only be of benefit to the community on the outside, yet a large number of them are stuck in prison for the rest of their lives.

It is important to say that neither the men, nor us, are apologists for serious crime. The residents who we encountered took full responsibility for their crimes and believed in the principle of paying for what they did. Some, in keeping with the principles of restorative justice (an alternative theory of justice in which offenders, victims, and the community work together to do everything possible to repair the harm caused by the offense), took the initiative to try to alleviate the pain they had caused. They wanted desperately to give back to their communities on the outside. After witnessing this dynamic firsthand, we became even more convinced that our legal system is off course and must be radically reformed to bring about greater fairness and justice for all, including both victims and offenders. 

Much of prison life in America is designed to deprive residents of their humanity, so it was not very surprising that prison authorities demanded, as a condition of our work inside, that we obscure the men’s faces at all times. We had to adopt novel visual strategies to comply with this meanspirited and unnecessary requirement, but we did our best to allow their humanity and their individuality be on proud display in every other way possible. 

We hope that this small glimpse into the kind heartedness and generosity of men serving extremely punitive sentences will provide insights into the severe harm caused by mass incarceration -- and the moral rot that lies at the heart of America’s system of justice. We must all do our part to ensure we correct course, by choosing wisely in the upcoming election -- and beyond. 

* In 2018, State Correctional Institute-Graterford was replaced by a new prison, State Correctional Institute-Phoenix, built at a nearby site.

Visual Catalysts Exhibition Showcases Artwork on Environmental Transformation

Mark Isaac

Visual Catalysts is an exhibition focused on the worldwide climate crisis and other forms of environmental degradation. It seeks to promote new ways of visual representation that will move artists beyond the task of '“raising awareness” and more firmly into the realm of spurring action.

As the curators noted, “We are living in a slow-motion climate crisis. Old ways of seeing got us here. Our way as consumers needs to be seen from fresh perspectives in order to move towards sustainability. Visual representations are a powerful global language and through a process of international co-creation, artists can be future change makers, creating new visual catalysts that can speak across cultures.”

I’m pleased that several of my images from the series “Like Water Through Plastic” have been included in the exhibition, which opens today at the gallery Laikku in Tampere, Finland, and runs through October 18. The work will also be included in an upcoming book that is being produced as an outcome of the Backlight 2020 Triennale. All of this work is part of larger projects that I’ve created in recent years with close collaborator (and life partner) Gabriela Bulisova.

Plastic pollution of our waterways is a critical issue facing the entire world. Approximately 300 million tons of plastic is produced yearly, and less than 10 percent is recycled. As many as 8 million tons per year ends in our oceans and waterways, where it entangles marine mammals, birds and fish and lodges in their stomachs, causing death. As plastic starts breaking into smaller particles, it is consumed by humans and may cause cancer and fertility problems. A recent study by the World Wildlife Fund found that most people consume the equivalent of one credit card of plastic per week. Plastic refuse is found in almost all waterways and has formed massive floating islands in our oceans.

After encountering numerous plastic and glass objects on land and in water, I chose to begin incorporating these found objects directly into our work as a sort of "supplemental lens." The distorted view of the landscape created by these objects is emblematic of the negative impact they have on the environment. At the same time, the subtle beauty of the images reminds us of the resilience of nature and the capacity of humans to solve this problem if there is enough will.

Examples of the types of “supplemental lenses” employed in the Like Water Through Plastic series. These objects were found in the immediate vicinity of Lake Baikal in Eastern Siberia, the world’s oldest, deepest, most voluminous, and most biologically diverse lake.

In years gone by, I used to think it was sufficient, as an artist pursuing socially conscious projects, to suggest that “raising awareness” was my primary goal. In the last several years, as the worldwide climate crisis worsens and makes its early effects known, we know that raising awareness is not sufficient. Not only artists, but all those who are aware of the significance of the challenge, must at least do their small part to contribute to advancing change.

Today, the task is even larger. In the face of obstinate opposition to change that enhances the chances of a cataclysm, we must do our part to link our efforts together with environmental activists, scientists, students, and other allies around the world. The goal must be to create a motivated, powerful and committed movement that can prevail over time. Only through worldwide cooperation and concerted action can we hope to prevail.

The Visual Catalysts exhibition is a good step in this direction. It suggests that all of us must be catalysts for meaningful action. Now it is up to us to persevere in the long-term and turn that initiative into accomplishment.

Social Justice, BLM, and Atlantika: Who Speaks for Me?

“Before I learned to speak the grown-ups in my world stole my language, my right to speak. My mind has always been jumbled with images of Satan and God and my first memory is of fog and images no one else could see. I stopped looking in the mirror when I was 11, until I went into foster care in high school, because my mother told me I had 'seven plus one demons' in me and I could see them so I stopped looking at myself. Can you see that demon to the right? Mocking me. When I turned 13 I started having migraines that felt like if I opened my eyes someone, one of those demons, was stabbing me in my skull all the way down to my eyes. I had no words; just fear, pain and demons reminding me I was damaged. Not even God could love me.” — Taylar Nuevelle

Social Justice, BLM, and Atlantika is a series of posts by Atlantika members that focus on the critical issues of race and social justice. The year 2020 has tragically brought together a pandemic with outsized impacts on communities of color and ongoing protests against the murder of George Floyd and the many others who have lost their lives as a result of racist violence. As our mission statement makes clear, Atlantika members have always valued “social responsibility, community, and nurturing a contemporary humanism through art.” However, in the wake of recent events, which are critical to the future of the nation and the world, Atlantika has renewed its commitment to make racial and social justice a lasting focal point -- and to do our part to bring about a powerful movement for change.

Atlantika Collective members Gabriela Bulisova and Mark Isaac have done extensive work on issues related to mass incarceration, the racist policy that inordinately targets people of color, subjecting them to lengthy prison sentences, often for nonviolent crimes. Their work has included in-depth and intimate accounts of people’s encounters with the criminal justice system, the difficulties faced by returning citizens trying to reintegrate into society, and a special focus on the impact of mass incarceration on children. In this project, titled Who Speaks for Me, the duo collaborated with Taylar Nuevelle, a Black activist who served four-and-a-half years in prison and now advocates to end the “trauma to prison pipeline” for justice-involved women with mental illness.

Please be certain to read the other posts in this series thus far:

Gabriela Bulisova, Mark Isaac and Taylar Nuevelle

One of the most shocking injustices associated with mass incarceration is the fact that our prisons have become a dumping ground for people who have experienced severe trauma, resulting in mental health issues. Instead of receiving the needed treatment, they are subjected to additional abuse and mistreatment. This project is a collaboration with Taylar Nuevelle, who served four-and-a-half years after she was charged with breaking and entering the house of a former girlfriend and attempting to commit suicide. Taylar was diagnosed with PTSD, trauma, and severe anxiety disorder, and a pre-sentence report recommended that she be treated rather than sent to prison, but the judge overruled this recommendation. In prison, rather than receiving treatment, she was raped, locked in solitary confinement and placed on suicide watch.

We adopted a novel visual and storytelling strategy that allowed Taylar to personally represent her experiences. First, we photographed her and created digital negatives. Taylar then took the negatives and distressed them to represent her abuse. For example, she used bleach as a means of depicting the times her mother scrubbed her skin with a metal brush and bleach. We passed the images back and forth, working on them until we fully represented her pain. Some of the photographs also incorporate text from her writings and diaries. The final images expose the manner in which our criminal justice system has dehumanized those with mental health issues. By sharing her deeply traumatic and painful experiences with us, Taylar is opening the door for others to find their voices, challenge societal stigma and bring about much-needed reforms. She now leads a non-profit named Who Speaks for Me? that is devoted to ending the “trauma to prison pipeline” for women with mental health issues.

“I’m not afraid to stare down the demons. I’m getting ready. The head is born first then the rest comes. The fog will lift and one day I will walk free and clear. I am giving life to myself and will bury that child born into demon-laced fog and pain…

“I’m not afraid to stare down the demons. I’m getting ready. The head is born first then the rest comes. The fog will lift and one day I will walk free and clear. I am giving life to myself and will bury that child born into demon-laced fog and pain.” — Taylar Nuevelle

“There is not one day that goes by that I do not look at my neck and those small specks of discoloration from birth and not remember. I stand in the mirror fixing my hair, brushing my teeth and saving the jewelry for last because then I have to look and remember. Ajax, S.O.S. steel wool pads and my siblings watching as my mother scrubbed my neck raw down to the white meat. Blood and white and no pain, because she saw dirt where there was just a skin discoloration. 'You always filthy. Now this tha color your neck ‘sposed ta be.' Blood, white meat and no tears--a mother who scrubbed me clean.” — Taylar Nuevelle

See my eye? How many times did Ma make my eyes swell shut? I lost count by age 10. Life for black women and girls is very hard. I can see, not clearly, but I can see I never stood a chance. And I cannot make anyone love me or hurt me.”—Taylar Nuevelle

“I laugh because I am lost and I see the fog demons. Look closer, I am not laughing I am grinding my teeth something I started doing at age two. The grinding focuses my mind and so I am not lost completely to the demons that grow from the fog of violence I was created by and hatred I was born in to.” — Taylar Nuevelle

“I love butterflies. Always, but especially after my son Kalil was born and ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ was our favorite book. See the butterflies above me? I am becoming that beautiful butterfly because I am learning to nourish myself and transform.” — Taylar Nuevelle

“Sepia creeps in because my mind and body were bruised beyond their actual years. I have lived many lives and the aged me is inside of my cracked mind and soul that will never know youth. Sepia creeps in so you can see where I’ve been — never young;…

“Sepia creeps in because my mind and body were bruised beyond their actual years. I have lived many lives and the aged me is inside of my cracked mind and soul that will never know youth. Sepia creeps in so you can see where I’ve been — never young; never a child. Made a woman before I knew what being a child was all about.” — Taylar Nuevelle

"This is my chest and it bleeds from the inside out. My disability is not apparent, yet it has been present and acute since childhood. As a child I remember when I first started self-harming—I was in the second grade. I used to take straight pins and stick them through the flesh in my chest, cover myself in a shirt and go about my day as the pins tore into my skin. This was nothing compared to the physical violence I endured almost every day from my mother and/or stepfather. The straight pins turned to razors and scissors, and I found release from slicing and cutting other parts of my body. Sometimes life is too painful to carry, and I feel like I might explode and slice here and cut there, and the pain inside will be transformed. I don’t use pins, knives, razors or scissors on myself anymore. I had to stop because I take a blood thinner for a hereditary clotting disorder. My ability to self-harm has been snatched from me, but not the desire. The ache of life’s traumas is etched in my memory and carved in my skin—there will never be relief." — Taylar Nuevelle

"Mug shot of what would be seen of my trauma-to-prison pipeline. Outside the nurse’s office, when I was in elementary school, was a poster titled, ‘Children Learn What They Live.’ I saw this poster often from kindergarten until fourth grade because I became nauseous and vomited often as a child. As I waited outside the office I would read the poster and stop after line seven. Then I would think, ‘There are no good things in my life.’ I knew this by age five. Over the years I have thought about that poster often and then I was given a copy one day while in prison. If mug shots could speak mine would tell you how much I understood as a child about being abused and how often people looked away at the obvious signs that I was living a nightmare. I believed I did not deserve goodness, kindness or gentle touches—Love." — Taylar Nuevelle

"Most scars are easily hidden, but not from the mind—not from my memory. My mother used to burn me with hot combs. These are iron combs placed in fire to straighten the hair and sometimes she burned me with curling irons. Then I went to prison, and there was a woman that worked in the hair salon and one day she burned me on purpose with a flat iron right next to the spot my mother had burned me as a child. This woman in prison laughed and told the other inmates she did it because she did not like my voice and all the hair I had on my head. My mother used to burn me saying, 'All this hair‘n you got a nerve ta be tenda headed. Didn’t git all this hair from my family it’s from yo’ fatha’s side.' Abusers despise me for things I cannot control. I can hide many of my scars, but not from my mind, and it cracks over and over because my memory burns." — Taylar Nuevelle

"The abuse in my family is generational. My great- nephew was born, while I was incarcerated, to my niece who is my older sister’s daughter. When my niece was born, I was in foster care, but I went to the hospital the day she was born and I whispere…

"The abuse in my family is generational. My great- nephew was born, while I was incarcerated, to my niece who is my older sister’s daughter. When my niece was born, I was in foster care, but I went to the hospital the day she was born and I whispered in her ear, “I will never let anyone hurt you." — Taylar Nuevelle

"After prison, people who you have loved a lifetime have no idea of how trauma before prison merges with prison trauma, and they act and do things accordingly. Twenty-two years of friendship and love. Goodbyes hurt but are also freeing. My beautiful lips (yes, they are beautiful to me) show I’m determined. I can let go. I deserve people in my life as lovely as my lips that ask, 'Who Speaks for Me?'" — Taylar Nuevelle

"I am just learning that it doesn’t get any better just because the sun shines and the rainbows appear. Rainbows and sunshine are not love if they come after you’ve been raped, beaten and told you are worthless—unlovable. Rainbows can be deceitful l…

"I am just learning that it doesn’t get any better just because the sun shines and the rainbows appear. Rainbows and sunshine are not love if they come after you’ve been raped, beaten and told you are worthless—unlovable. Rainbows can be deceitful like abusers." — Taylar Nuevelle