Creative Placemaking and Relational Art

When discussing creative placemaking, think about marginalization, gentrification, making people invisible because they represent something the white population doesn’t want to see or acknowledge, or restricting the movements and futures of people because they aren’t white, are poor, and live on the edges of larger communities while living within their own communities. The ways in which Rasquachification (Bedoya, 2014), Waiting for Godot in New Orleans (Chan, 2007), Redlining (City Life/ Vita Urbana, 2015), A Subtlety (Walker, 2014), Project Row House (Lowe and Theaster Gates Foundation, 1993), Shamiyaana–Food for Thought: Thought for Change (Araeen, 2016-17) address these on-going issues are both subtle and obvious. Creative placemaking, placekeeping, and deeply historic referencing within the above mentioned works reflect distinct voices from within marginalized communities. Voices of Black, Latinx and Chicano, poor, and even sanitation workers chime together, ringing like church bells calling attention to time.

In each of these cases, it is long past time to pay attention to the reality faced by these communities. As explained by Bedoya, Rasquachification is an example of creative placekeeping as some Chicanos paint and decorate their homes in representations of their vibrant communities, heritage, and culture. Bedoya (2014) discusses “the white spatial imaginary” as a way in which the white majority utilize stereotypes and white fragility to develop gentrification policies disguised as ways to improve areas. These ideas relate to Bedoya’s (2012) article, “Placemaking and the Politics of Belonging and Dis-belonging,” in that gentrification uproots families and communities, scattering them to more marginalized or downtrodden areas in the name of progress. Ignoring the histories, racial implications, financial statuses, and relationships of people within these already marginalized communities only compounds the problems. When this uprooting occurs, people move from a place of belonging to one where they are new and may not feel as though they belong. As Bedoya discusses, placemaking or placekeeping is enacting identity, creating personal and communal histories, and strengthening relationships within communities. The voices of those impacted by gentrification need to be heard.  

Recently, in Lowell, MA, there was a citywide fight about the public high school (LHS) and how to address the buildings’ issues. One side wanted to relocate to the outskirts of the city while the other side insisted the school stay downtown. The new location (Cawley) side focused on a brand new structure without consideration of the majority of students, who are minorities and live near the school’s current location. Cawley folks claimed new businesses and luxury condos could be built, rented or sold, and bring new funding sources to the city’s tight budget. At the same time, the opposers (Downtown) focused on the costs, traffic and transportation issues, air and noise pollution, and the destruction of a small patch of woods. Downtown people claimed the additional expenses of eminent domain on residents’ homes and several small businesses, widening streets, adding sidewalks, and new traffic lights were not considered in the total cost.

Ultimately, the high school is staying downtown, though the reasoning is attributed to the ballots cast in city elections. The voices barely heard above the yelling were the ones that represented the people living near the current LHS location who spoke against gentrification, which has occurred in the city multiple times over the years, and the resource impacts for students from low-income families. Why their voices were not given more attention matters. Undiscussed issues of gentrification and marginalization got backburnered, yet again. The white people dominated the conversation with white spatial imaginary (Bedoya, 2014), ignoring the marginalized communities that had more at stake, more to lose, than anyone else, much like New Orleans’ Lower Ninth and Gentilly residents who were left stranded after a hurricane decimated their homes.

Chan’s 2007 outdoor production of Beckett’s Waiting for Godot (1953) in two Hurricane Katrina-damaged neighborhoods in New Orleans reflects the ways these people were still waiting for the needed assistance to rebuild. Some of the ravaged areas are still waiting, as is Puerto Rico since Hurricane Irma struck in 2017. Similarly, the Project Row Houses (DPA interview with Lowe, 1996-98; Theaster Gates Foundation, 1993) rejuvenates a downtrodden neighborhood. Breathing new life into dilapidated buildings often associated with poor black families, Project Row Houses brought multiple communities together through socially transformational art. By renovating the abandoned shotgun buildings as office, art, and community spaces, this project honored the history of the building style, the people that are most often closely associated with row houses, and relied on community contributions of funding and physical labor to change the neighborhood’s narrative.

Barriers to necessary aid and improved living conditions are not always visible. For example, the 1936 Federal Housing Authority’s (FHA) redlining maps prevented generations from becoming homeowners because of where they lived when applying for loans. In Redlining (2015), CLVU draws a visible red line around the Jamaica Plain (JP) neighborhood near Boston. People living within the redlined district were denied mortgages, denied a chance of a better future so long as they lived within those red lines. This line, marked on maps, was given to potential mortgage lenders and used as tools of federally-sanctioned racism.

Walker’s A Subtlety (2014) also speaks directly to government-endorsed racism in the forms of slavery and sugar. Too many people are unaware of the black lives lost to the growth and refining of sugar. Installed in a Domino Sugar factory, Walker’s sphinx sculpture with the “mammy” head highlights many of the atrocities blacks, more specifically black women, endured during a shameful portion of American history and the resulting stereotypes that persist. The mammy head speaks to the enslaved women that had to nurse and care for the white slave-owners’’ children, often at the expense of her own— if she was allowed to keep them. Surrounding the sculpture, smaller figures of children made of and holding sugar products combine with the sphinx’s large round breasts and protruding genitalia to represent the rapes (both literal and figurative), genital mutilation, and resulting generations of children born of slave women. At the same time, the location refers to gentrification and oppression of not only black people but also the lower working class that powered the Domino factory, except for a 20-month strike. Refined sugar is present in many households and most restaurants, as are the histories of the enslaved people that provided the food ingredient and pantry staple for centuries.

In a different approach, Araeen’s (2016-17) installation Shamiyaana–Food for Thought: Thought for Change created an interactive space in which viewers became visitors under colorful canopies inspired by Pakistani wedding tents. In these Shamiyaana, discussions of positive social change over freshly cooked Mediterranean food were encouraged. When people have these necessary discussions and consider the dynamics of public spaces, as well as the social problems in the surrounding areas, and the history of the space itself in a hospitable context, more solutions can naturally unfold. By allowing the discussions to unfold instead of being forced upon one group by another, more equitable solutions can be found. While the discussions of marginalization, racism, xenophobia, and misogyny dominate the reality, not enough is said in public to alter the course. We, as an increasingly global community, need to have these conversations and listen to other views, especially those of the people directly impacted by social injustices.

Displacement and Community

Displacement, community, and how one thing— a symbol, act, or art work or project— can change the path of one to another are important to consider when discussing or thinking about refugee crises, immigration and border issues, as well as the current political climate. Refugees and immigrants are displaced people seeking stability, safety, and a better future. The barriers and borders that repel or confine refugees and immigrants are dehumanizing tools that ignore the affected communities. The communities may be physical locations, like Kassel, Germany or San Diego, California, or groups of people, like the Peruvians that fled to Ventanilla and created shantytowns with no modern conveniences. The ways in which these situations and topics are approached by artists, and the responses to the resulting works, send messages about what we, the people of the world, will and will not tolerate.

Francis Alÿs’ When Faith Moves Mountains (2002) made a statement about the creation and endurance of a community working together for a common goal. In this case, the goal seems both inconsequential and monumental: move a sand dune by 4 inches. On one hand, the idea of moving an entire dune seems implausible, impossible. On the other hand, Alÿs’ gathering of volunteers to shift the dune in a line, one shovel full at a time, comes across as, simultaneously, pointless and deeply meaningful. In an essay, the artist states, “we have attempted to create a kind of Land art for the landless . . . we created a social allegory” (One Thousand Words, 2002). The idea of faith moving mountains is, typically, found in religious references, and yet Alÿs shows it takes more than one person’s belief to make some things happen.

In a similar political vein, Olu Oguibe’s Monument to Strangers and Refugees (2017), constructed for Documenta 14, can be viewed as a focal point in the on-going, global battle between right-wing extremist and more democracy-based political ideologies. The welcoming biblical reference inscribed on Oguibe’s site-specific, concrete obelisk stood in opposition to the anti-immigration stance of right-wing parties. Visible from the four corners of Königsplatz, the gold letters of “I was a stranger and you took me in” (Matthew 25:35), inscribed in Arabic, English, German, and Turkish (Batycka, 2018), may have been viewed as a welcoming beacon for those seeking refuge in Kassel, Germany. What is interesting about the controversy, which brings up questions of subterfuge, is Batycka (“On Day of German Unity,” 2018) mentions a loan agreement in place between Kassel and Oguibe until Sept. 30 and a failed crowdfunding campaign to raise $700,000 for the city to purchase the work from the artist. If the work was on loan and the crowdfunding campaign failed, did the artist sell the work to the city (Batycka, “Dispute Erupts;” “On Day of German Unity”) or did the sale fall through? While the city denies the allegation that an anti-immigrant party influenced the city’s decision to remove the obelisk, essentially destroying it in a manner that harkens to Serra’s Tilted Arc (1981), the rise of right-wing extremism and neo-Nazism in Germany may play a larger role than even city officials recognize or are willing to acknowledge. A nearly 54 foot monument to visitors and refugees in a city center, near major transportation hubs, with a welcoming message being removed on the day Germany celebrates unity sends too harsh a message to indicate otherwise.

Like Oguibe’s obelisk, Ai Wei Wei’s Good Fences Make Good Neighbors (2017) references immigrants and refugees. Ai’s multiple installation project focuses on the ways in which these vulnerable groups are confined and controlled by immigration laws, the rules of refugee camps, and immigrant internment facilities. Installing works that people can utilize, such as fences that also serve as bus stop benches, or are easily recognizable in Manhattan, like turnstiles, enhances the implications of barriers that can be overcome by some people. I say some because not every immigrant or refugee escapes the confines of the rules and laws that restrict their lives whether they are deported or assimilated into communities. The traumas inflicted upon people that flee from violence are psychological barriers that can take years or, in some cases, a lifetime to overcome, no matter the outcome of seeking safety. By showing the faces of refugees on lamppost banners, Ai counters some of dehumanization of these populations. Placed in a way that shines a soft light on the faces at night, the banners present visual reminders that both groups contribute positively to their new hometowns.

Ai mentions his father was a famous Chinese poet sent to a labor camp before banishment to the provinces (Loos, 2017) and, as a dissident, the artist understands the confinements faced by today’s immigrants and refugees. As a side note, the artist’s biographical information reminds me of Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress (2001) by Dai Sijie, a novel in which one character living in a labor camp is the son of a famous poet. Returning to Ai’s Public Art Fund project, installing these reminders of restriction within a city known as a major immigration point enhances the idea that we all come from somewhere else and people should be treated with dignity.

Like Ai’s installations, the land art installation Repellant Fence (a social collaboration, 2015) engages the community not only through the presence of a temporary “fence” with 28 tethered balloons but also with the location, crossing over the border fence between the United States and Mexico. The two communities of Douglas, Arizona (AZ) and Agua Prieta, Mexico (MX) share more than a border between two nations, they also share a common history through indigenous ancestry, an ancient trade route, and desire to maintain binational dialogue (Postcommodity, 2016). In today’s political climate, fueled by rhetoric, the loss of long-term dialogue with neighboring communities, especially when the interconnectedness of said communities is threatened, is vital to find a solution for a complex issue. Following this idea of collaboration and in the guise of a symposium, Cruz and Forman’s (2017) performance, Border-Drain Crossing, confronts the intersections of militarization, run-off, ecology, and institutional protocols and injustices. Pointing out that “[t]he construction of border walls for the sake of security is only exacerbating insecurity . . . [through] future environmental and socioeconomic degradation,” Cruz and Forman highlight the problems of one community, nation, or region do not occur in isolation but rather are global issues. Mutually beneficial arrangements can be achieved through collaboration and adjusting social norms that deter the spread of xenophobia and racism. 

Eisenman's "Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe"

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (Eisenman Architects, 2004) is an interesting work, not only for the memorialization but also for the interaction with the public and visitors. 2,700 stelae, meticulously placed 95 cm apart, rise like gravestones in a cemetery and confront the viewer with questions about space, time, perception, and instability. The varying levels of the ground and stelae tops create a sense of being off-balance. The concrete presence of the stelae “makes for a place of loss and contemplation” (Eisenman, 2005) in the midst of a bustling city.

The Ort, or information center, design reflects the stelae pattern while introducing visitors to some stories of the Holocaust through photographs, letters, and contextualization of victims and survivors. The New Yorker states the memorial is inadequate due to ambiguities within the work. More specifically, while acknowledging the stelae evocation of “headstones or sarcophagi,” the article states the memorial “separates the victims from their killers and leaches the moral element from the historical event, shunting it to the category of a natural catastrophe.” Yet, the article’s author delves into the underlying meanings and intentional ambiguity of the memorial while comparing the work to specific museums and sites, including the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam. Such a comparison is unfair as Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe encompasses more lives lost. That is not to undermine or understate the memorialization of specific museums but rather to point to the difference in scale.

If we take time to contemplate upon the vast destruction of the Holocaust, no memorial is sufficient to honor and remember the families destroyed, lives lost, and scars left on survivors and the collective memory of history.

Antagonism/ Agonism and Art as Ecology

Antagonism/ Agonism:

There are several controversies surrounding Richard Serra’s Tilted Arc (1981). Serra’s essay “Art and Censorship” (1991) highlights an often undiscussed aspect of public art: political rhetoric shrouded by the guise of ownership over a work. While Serra brings up valid points about who owns a work commissioned by a government or independent agency, the artist also implies the meaninglessness of legislation adopted by a government when a key aspect of the Act is intentionally omitted. The focus on the omission of the moral rights clause in the U.S. adaptation of the Berne Convention Implementation Act of 1988 raises more questions about government enforced censorship in a nation that claims freedom of speech and expression as a founding idea. At the same time, once ownership is established, why would an artwork’s creator be allowed a say in what happens to the work? In this instance, control and ownership rights battle over aesthetic appeal, contractual obligations, and First Amendment rights. Without knowing the exact wording of the General Services Administration (GSA) Art-in-Architecture contract for the funds awarded to Serra, I am unable to speculate as to whether one should override the other.

Similarly, in Michael Brenson’s article, “The Messy Saga of ‘Tilted Arc’ Is Far From Over” (1989), the author attempts to balance between both sides of the argument. Brenson states the GSA is not an independent agency and the sculpture was doomed before the first complaint arose because the regional administrator and the 1985 Tilted Arc open hearing chairman, Mr. Diamond, did not like the work. Furthermore, Brenson states three-fifths of the hearing’s panel were the chairman’s appointees, implying an automatic bias built into the panel by Mr. Diamond. The 1988 Court of Appeals ruling resolves some questions about owership, yet opens more concerns about the censorship to which Serra (1991) refers in his essay. Both Serra and Brenson indicate art that is generally palatable to “the community” (Serra,1991; Brenson, 1989) is less likely to confront the public in a way that makes artists think three or four times before deciding to apply for government funding for a public work and homogenize the ideas presented to a diverse community.

Art as Ecology:

The works of Revival Field (Mel Chin, 1991- ongoing), Neukom Vivarium (Mark Dion, 2006), and The Farm by the Freeway (Crossroads Community or The Farm, 1974-1987) present different views of art as ecology. In Revival Field, Chin revives contaminated land by extracting heavy metals through hyperaccumulator plants in an ecologically-friendly form of remediation. Similarly, The Farm by the Freeway sought to return natural elements in the middle of an urban setting, growing food crops and teaching the involved community about the importance of caring for the environment. Alternately, Dion’s Neukom Vivarium is a fallen hemlock moved to a new setting, recontextualizing the nurse log through education and a living art system (Art 21, 2006). I say living because while the tree itself died in 1996, there are lifeforms sustained by the decomposing hemlock, bridging a gap between art and science, life and death, renewal and degeneration.