art – American Disasters

January 26, 2014December 16, 2020

Disastrous Capitalism?

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In Eli’s post “The perverse and often baffling economics of disasters,” he examines Kevin Rozario’s “What Comes Down Must Go Up: Why Disasters Have Been Good for American Capitalism.” Rozario believes disasters may have positive economic effects particularly on capitalism. It does seem odd, as Eli notes, that a disaster where homes are damaged, property destroyed, resources ruined, industries interrupted, and lives lost may be counted as an economic good. It appears that any economic good may happen in the long run rather than immediately after the disaster. This argument reminds me of an article we read last week, Richard Schneirov’s “Thoughts on Periodizing the Gilded Age: Capital Accumulation, Society, and Politics, 1873-1898.” Schneirov credits much of the United States economy and capitalism to Civil War and Reconstruction. Schneirov does not state capitalism took off immediately at the end of the Civil War. Rather, the Civil War started economic trends that continued through the Gilded Age and Progressive Era.

Eli’s comparison of disaster and capitalism is an interesting one. Disasters, he writes must destroy things, and capitalism must also clear previous technologies to move forward. As Rozario puts it, capitalism “must constantly destroy to create.” I think the point holds to an extent, but capitalism and progress does not always need to destroy the past. Casting capitalism as a destructive force seems negative, and also belittles the effects of disaster. New technology often—if not always—builds on previous knowledge. Eventually, the advancement may come to replace earlier models, but it is not the same destruction inherent in a disaster.

Another point I find unusual in Rozario’s article is that many Americans have “a longstanding conviction that calamities are blessings.” Disasters are useful for exposing flaws in society and motivating people to address the issues. They can clear space for innovation. I do not entirely agree, however, that Americans commonly perceive disasters as blessings. It seems that people might have a tendency to be hopeful or optimistic; they must look for the best or the disaster could be overwhelming. The art on Hiroshima from the State of Emergency that I examined suggested this optimism. The pieces, while about something as terrible as thousands of deaths, held a sort of peaceful promise in their serene colors. Disasters are much more than economics; they involve people’s lives, hopes, and dreams.

January 24, 2014December 16, 2020

Simple Words Trump Sheer Size

The “State of Emergency” art exhibit in the Belk Visual Arts Center on the campus of Davidson College almost seems ironic at first glance. An exhibit that shows off artists and their interpretations of crisis is actually remarkably clean, modern and spacious. When I think of disaster and crisis my mind doesn’t picture sleek, white walls and a spacious gallery, however, this is what I saw at the “State of Emergency” exhibit. To me, this unique and somewhat mislead structure, describes the meaning of the entire exhibit as a whole. To me it represents how these works of art are providing different ways at looking at disaster and crisis just as the exhibit structure provides you with a different visual viewpoint. Furthermore, because of this unique design, I found myself leaving the area with most of the art pieces and focusing on the room across the hall. At first, I couldn’t tell if it was a piece of art or a building structure or what; it was massive. As I began to lean in I realized it was a wall with names all over it. But it wasn’t just a wall; this wall represented the massive size of the 2008 Sichuan earthquake.

This work was called “Namelist and Remembrance,” by Ai Weiwei which commemorates the school children lost in the 2008 Sichuan earthquake. According to the exhibit curator, “Namelist” will cover the gallery walls with the names of 5,196 schoolchildren who perished in the earthquake because of shoddily constructed schools. The names of the deceased will be read aloud in the audio work, “Remembrance.” As background, Ai Weiwei is a Chinese contemporary artist, active in sculpture, installation, architecture, and social, political and cultural criticism. As a political activist, he has been openly critical of the Chinese Government’s stance on human rights and has even investigated government corruption, in particular the Sichuan schools corruption scandal following the collapse of so-called “tofu-dreg schools” in the 2008 Sichuan earthquake.

Subsequently, Weiwei’s work, “Namelist and Remembrance,” is a continuation and political expression of his investigation into the scandal following the earthquake. The 2008 Sichuan earthquake, according to official figures, stated that 69,197 were confirmed dead, including 68,636 in Sichuan province, and 374,176 injured, with 18,222 listed as missing. Besides the sheer size of the artwork by Weiwei and its evident resemblance to the size of the earthquake, I believe his work is making a much bigger political argument than just commemorating the lives lost. I think this piece offers a unique window into the terrors of the earthquake, and in Weiwei’s attempt, probably the terrors of the Chinese government. This piece details all of Weiwei’s work in the past on the corruption of the Chinese government but shows us intimate details about that event like no other kind of historical evidence can. As this piece is a reaction to disaster and crisis, it is fitting that in Ai Weiwei’s past he led a team to survey the post-quake conditions in various disaster zones. I think this artwork can shine some light about the time and place where this crisis occurred and maybe more importantly, something about the human values of this civilization. With the background of Weiwei and the source information from the Sichuan earthquake, I believe his argument is a response to the government’s lack of transparency. By creating this sculpture with all the student’s names on it, I think he is doing what the government didn’t do in revealing names of students who perished in the earthquake due to substandard school campus constructions. A political statement against the Chinese government takes on the simplest of forms, as the artwork is just a list of names; an extremely powerful message.

Weiwei’s piece highlights and certainly speaks true to the message given by exhibit curator Lia Newman when she claimed, “The goal of the exhibition is not simply to present images of horror or ‘disaster pornography’ but rather to open a dialogue about the role artists can play in bringing attention to disasters while working toward recovery.” By not only commemorating those who had passed and taking political action through art, Weiwei is an excellent example of artists using their role in society to shine light on disaster relief and crisis situations at all ends of the earth.

Source: (Ai, Weiwei (2011). Ai Weiwei’s Blog: Writings, Interviews, and Digital Rants 2006-2009. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press. p. 209.)

January 24, 2014December 16, 2020

“Juarez Series” Rising from the Ashes

They are nothing more than a burnt outlines, hollow images lying dead on paper. They empty and anonymous. These pieces, as part of Miguel Aragón’s “Juarez Series”, are chilling windows into Juarez, the heart of the Mexican drug trade, and one of the deadliest cities in the world.

Since 2007, drug wars in Juarez have claimed the lives of over 10,000 men, women, and children. At stake: entry to the American drug market valued around $40 billion.[1] It is a war that is constantly changing shape, having evolved from a war between large and powerful gangs into a daily battle between more central and localized drug cells. The method of the fighting the war has changed as well. Dating from the Nixon administration in the United States to the end of President Calderon’s term in Mexico, authorities from both nations waged a full out war on drugs that debatably spilled more blood than it saved. Currently, however, President Nieto is enacting a policy change that promotes education for youth and conditional cash transfer programs to reduce drug violence.

Miguel Aragón’s piece, however, reminds us that despite all of the policy changes, Juarez is far from safe. His piece makes the war personal, forcing us to step back from the numbers and ideologies that muddle the debates, and to look at the war. Really look at the war. When looking at the painting we become emotional and feeling beings.

And when I do, I feel uneasy. Aragón’s piece is quiet and subdued. A sense of thoughtfulness draws me near and it serves as a reminder, in Aragon’s words, that “our physical existence is finite.” The violence rages on in Juarez and yet Aragón chooses to create images that are still and colorless.

But these images are grounded in reality. Aragón sources photographs from the media of Juarez and transforms images of violent deaths into really beautiful works of art. He uses a laser to create cardboard matrixes, and as the cardboard burns away, a layer of soot is created that is subsequently transferred to the paper. In this way, Aragón creates a great deal of tension as he transforms photographs of brutal slaughterings and makes them in quiet works of art. The tension between the two demands that we pay attention.

In a city where murder is a part of everyday life, as common as a breath, we fear desensitization will outshine compassion. But Aragón’s piece directly challenges this notion – mandating that we rethink disaster as a feeling people. Because while numbers and dates are helpful in understanding of disaster in an intellectual and removed way, that way is only a part of the puzzle. But Aragon’s series is unique as the war continues today; Juarez is not our history, but our present. And allowing Aragón to retool how we think about disaster helps us to not only understand our past, but also enables to make better decisions and policy changes today.

[1]. Jeremy Relph, “Growing up in the World’s Deadliest City” Buzzfeed. 7 March 2013 http://www.buzzfeed.com/jeremyrelph/growing-up-in-the-worlds-deadliest-city

January 24, 2014December 16, 2020

Individuality vs. Anonymity: the “Ubiquitous Yet Indescribable” Nature of Art

Blog Post #2 (for the State of Emergency exhibition)

A black and white spreadsheet envelops an entire wall, each row representing a young victim of the 2008 Sichuan earthquake. Chinese characters denoting name, gender, and birthdate fill the cells. The language prevents me from being able to speak these words, making the incident seem foreign and distant, but the length of the list alone is disturbing. A startling number of the cells have been left blank, representing unidentified victims. Ironically, what’s distinct about these victims is that nothing is known about them. They have been given their own space on the spreadsheet yet remain indistinguishable.

Ai Weiwei’s “Namelist” demonstrates a grim dichotomy between individuality and anonymity. The piece is as much a list of information as it is a work of art, and viewers are inclined to see it as both. When observed as information, viewers interpret the data and focus intensely on a small portion. But when observed as art, viewers observe the entirety of the piece and their focus is scattered. The victims are represented with individuality in the former approach, but with anonymity in the latter. “Namelist” is both commemorative monument and a provocative message in this way. I feel some reverence for the victims of this disaster, but am mostly unable to connect with them. Instead, the sanitary, apathetic presentation and sheer vastness of the piece disgust me as much as the wreckage probably would have.

A second piece accompanies the first. In “Remembrance”, voices read off the names of the victims. Each name is read by a different voice. After listening to the track play for a while, the names and voices both become indistinguishable. Much like the spreadsheet did, “Remembrance” pays homage to each victim individually, but they are all eventually forgotten in the multitude. Also like the spreadsheet, my inability to understand the language restricts my ability to feel sympathetic for each victim. Because the sounds are meaningless to me, each name blends into the next. I cannot identify one name from another, and I do not have friends or family with these names. Once again, I feel both reverence and indifference simultaneously.

In his essay “Disaster: A Useful Category for Historical Analysis”, Jonathan Bergman explains that a disaster is “ubiquitous yet indescribable” (Bergman 934). He tries to pinpoint a definition for the term by examining its origins and evolution, but ultimately determines that broadness makes the term a useful category for historical analysis. The grim dichotomy between individuality and anonymity seems consistent with Bergman’s conclusion: this dichotomy is easily recognizable in Weiwei’s work, yet escapes verbal definition.

Disasters are interdisciplinary subjects that span the fields of environmental science, sociology, history, and more. They can be quantified in terms of physical damage, casualties, or psychological impact. They can be defined as natural, unnatural, or a combination of the two. Only art can project sensations—like Weiwei’s dichotomy—that are complex enough to accurately represent the complexity of disaster. Like disaster, art is “ubiquitous yet indescribable” and therefore better suited to tell the story.

January 24, 2014December 16, 2020

From Trial to Triumph: Art and its Role in Beginning the Healing Process

On Friday, March 11, 2011, Japan was hit off the Pacific coast of Tōhoku with most powerful earthquake known ever to have hit their countryside. It was the fifth most powerful earthquake in the world since modern record-keeping began in 1900. This undersea megathrust earthquake triggered a powerful tsunami waves reaching heights of up to 40.5 meters which, in certain areas, travelled up to 10 kilometers inland. This earthquake tsunami combination inflicted damage on a colossal scale in terms of death, injury, infrastructural damage, and psychological damage. A report completed by the Japanese National Police Agency on September 12, 2012, confirmed 15,883 deaths, 6,150 injured, and 2,643 people missing. The earthquake and following tsunami inflicted extensive and severe structural damage in north eastern Japan, leveling thousands of buildings and partially leveling thousands more. In addition the tsunami initiated nuclear accidents. Areas surrounding the nuclear power plants were evacuated, while at least three nuclear reactors suffered explosions due to hydrogen gas that had built up within their outer containment buildings after cooling system failure.

The great struggle in the wake of unexpected, large scale destruction is how to understand or conceptualize what has occurred. How can communities process the tremendous loss they have experienced, and how can we, the larger world community, understand and talk about their loss both in terms of specific incidents and in broader world context? Coming to terms with the experience is an essential part of the healing process. In order for this to take place, a platform for discussion must be established. Art is a particularly useful medium because of its reconstructive and interactive nature. Through the creation of artwork, the artist must first identify the meaning they are trying to convey, then decide how to reconstruct that meaning in a physical space. In this way the artist must come to terms not only with the effects of the event, but also with how the event fits into a greater narrative. Furthermore, once the art is created, the observer then brings to the viewing of the art his or her own previous experiences. Thus, the piece is a facilitator for a unique dialogue between artist and observer that connects them through common human experience.

The artist Miki Kato-Starr, who lived through the earthquake and subsequent tsunami, created a piece for the 2011 earthquake and tsunami for the State of Emergency Exhibit which does just that. The piece that she created utilizes two trees. Strung from its branches are light bulbs and attached to its trunk is a series of strings, one that circles the trunk and several others that connect to the boats at the very base of the tree. Each one of these boats fashioned out of paper is filled with grains of rice, and the boats are arranged in a circle. This piece of art simultaneously captures the aftermath of the disaster as well as the process of moving on. In the words of the artist, the earthquake and tsunami ravaged the land and left Japan disoriented. The circle formation of the boats was meant to invoke a sense of directionless drifting. However, with time it has become clear that the Japanese people, now a few years after the earthquake, are beginning to piece their lives back together. Thus, Miki Kato-Starr gave the boats traveling in the circle a slight direction. The boats seem to curl in, slowly making effort to travel to the tree. Here the tree, with branches full of light, represents life and a hopeful future. The piece powerfully depicts that although a clear path has not yet been established, the Japanese people are forging ahead to create for themselves a new life and future in the wake of the disaster. Her use of rice to fill the boats is poignant as well in that it transcends class and regional barriers to provide a depiction of how all suffered from the disaster. Just as rice, as a staple part of the Japanese diet, is consumed by all, the rich and the poor alike lost their homes.

Art as a medium for discussing disaster can be useful in that it provides a rare opportunity for interactive experience in a way that words may fail us. Adjectives may never be big or exact enough to communicate how the disaster has touched the lives of those involved. Furthermore, it is transformative. It allows us to forge something beautiful from the ashes of devastation.

Amani Carter

January 24, 2014December 16, 2020

Art of Disasters: Elin o’Hara Slavick and Hiroshima

Ghostly outlines of ginkgo leaves float on a sea of blue in Elin o’Hara Slavick’s artwork. She creates cyanotypes of natural material—such as tree bark or leaves—that was hit by the bomb on Hiroshima. Her art touches on the natural aspect of disasters. In what seems to be an entirely unnatural event—a country drops an atomic bomb on the city of an enemy country during war—still has an element of nature. Furthermore, Slavick’s choice of subject leads to questions about how varying perspectives alter the meaning of “disaster.” Her art also brings a poignant element to the memory of disasters that cannot easily be expressed in essays on disasters.

When the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima during World War II, it probably would not have been labeled “natural disaster.” It may have been a disaster for the thousands of people, or for the town, or for Japan. It could also have been an example of new technology or hastened the end of the war. Yet Hiroshima does not seem to be a natural disaster. Nature has not been an explicit agent in the destruction of Hiroshima. A bomb is not a hurricane, a typhoon, or a tornado. Countries employ bombs to wage war on their enemies. Man wreaks havoc on man, and nature appears to be far removed. Some scholars describe disasters as “entirely un-natural phenomena untethered from the non-human world.”

Slavick’s work highlights how nature may be an actor even in the most unnatural events and even if humans are discounted from the natural realm. In a disaster that seems so entangled in technology and politics, nature was still involved. Although nature did not contribute to Hiroshima, the bomb still disturbed nature. Slavick reminds viewers that almost no disaster occurs entirely removed from nature. Events rarely happen in a sterile sphere rather they demonstrate the connections found in the world. Perhaps Hiroshima appeared to involved men and technology alone, but Slavick has recorded the “Bark from an A-Bombed Eucalyptus Tree” and “Ginkgo Leaves from an A-Bombed Tree.” Those pieces represent hundreds of trees, plants, animals, and waterways that were likely affected by the bomb. Slavick strives “to make the invisible impact visible.” For the nature around Hiroshima, the bomb might be called a natural disaster.

As the trees around Hiroshima might count the bomb as a disaster, people themselves may have their own perspectives on Hiroshima. The Japanese and the people of Hiroshima likely count the bomb as a disaster; it flattened a city, killed or injured thousands, and contributed to Japan’s loss in World War II. For Americans, however, the bomb may represent an advance—albeit terrible—in technology, the probable saving of American soldiers from invading Japan, and the successful end of World War II. They may be less likely to categorize Hiroshima as a complete disaster. Slavick’s choice of materials reminds viewers of the various perceptions of disaster. For instance, there is a white shape of ginkgo leaves and the negative outline of the leaves in blue. The shape is at once positive and negative space just as disaster may be simultaneously “positive” and “negative.”

Furthermore, Slavick artwork portrays a view of disaster that cannot be conveyed in an essay discussing disaster. The art may be interpreted in multiple ways, which is more difficult to do in writing. The ghostly outlines may represent the loss after disaster; the artists depicts one survivor’s experience by describing “the disappearance of the world as she[the survivor] knew it.” Slavick’s art also points forward to the aftermath of a disaster. The memory of the disaster still exists in the outline of the images, but there is something peaceful in the art. Soft white and clean blue point to a hopeful future. Disasters will always be remembered but are also able to be overcome.

January 23, 2014December 16, 2020

Art and history: an experiential bridge

I visited the State of Emergency exhibit a few minutes ago, and it was very interesting. I thought that the exhibit with the legal pads inscribed with lines which were actually tiny lines of text was fascinating, as was the exhibit on fracking.

The piece that spoke to me the most was the on e entitled “London 1940, Bloomsbury, Clerkenwell, Southwark, Waterloo.” Here, the artist used pages of a book that takes place in World War 2 London, and then built a replica of some of London neighborhoods out of that paper. He then burnt the paper in order to show the devastation of the bombings, using maps of London that had data on where bombs had fallen and the destruction that they had caused.

It is one thing to read about the bombing of a city, and to learn the number of bombs dropped, their explosive power in megatons of TNT, the number of deaths, the cost of the damage, the historic sites which were destroyed, or the other endless statistics. A story might do such a situation more justice, and I think that is what Kurt Vonnegut attempted to do in Slaughterhouse Five, where Billy Pilgrim wheels dead bodies into piles in the streets of Dresden after spending the night in the basement of a slaughterhouse.

Yet, neither literary nor historical works capture the visceral nature of something like a disaster in the same way that artwork can. Seeing the model of London laid out, I could see the empty spaces where walls and buildings had been, and it felt much more real than ever before, even though I knew previously that London had been ravaged by German bombing. It’s probably something that you can’t understand unless you’ve been there; but I felt closer to it than I did before. I tried to imagine what it was like to have that burn, that bomb, break down that wall across the street, or to walk down a street and see through to the next one, or the one after that, because the buildings in between had been leveled. I thought about what the smoldering edges of burnt paper looked like when the artist was working, and what the wreckage of destroyed buildings looked like after the bombs detonated. Viewing this piece, it made the whole city feel awfully fragile; likely no more fragile than the residents of London felt their homes were when the bombs tore through walls and leveled sturdy buildings.

The decision to use paper on which a story taking place in wartime London was brilliant. The lives and stories which existed on the paper are untold, as were the stories that were cut short or drastically changed by World War Two.

History is so often an examination of human lives and experiences in an unemotional way. This intellectualization is, of course, useful. By distancing ourselves, we can think well about the situation, and therefore, about future situations. If we truly felt the horror of most disasters, we could likely never process enough to contemplate what we could do to avert future possible similar disasters. Yet, part of understanding a disaster (or any situation) is understanding what it felt like to be there. Art has the ability to connect us in a way that academic literature cannot, in a way that even talented fiction writers often do not achieve. “London 1940” is a great example of this: it connected me, at an emotional, visceral, real level with the destruction of London, and helped me to see a sliver of a disaster through which I did not live, but which I would certainly like to understand.