Sofa Issues
What If We Decide This is Something Worth Our Time?
“When was the last time you were walking on a sidewalk and didn’t step on a crack so you wouldn’t break your mama’s back? With a question you can bring us together to focus on something in our shared space that we otherwise wouldn’t see.”
Caryn Aasness
Lately, I’ve been experiencing something akin to interview fatigue. Although I’m chatty by nature and endlessly curious about the people around me, I’ve wondered what’s standing in the way of my enthusiasm for conducting formal interviews these days. Am I asking the wrong questions? Am I thinking about the container of the interview in a limiting way? What does it mean to really listen anyway? In recent years, I’ve learned to find interest in these stuck points, believing that a more informed and authentic way through is just under the surface if I listen closely enough. So when I began to notice feelings of dread around this form of exchange, I decided to turn to my favorite small talker to think more about the art of the chat.
Caryn Aasness is an artist, scavenger, and a Grade A problem solver. Lucky for me, Caryn also happens to be one of the best listeners and question askers I know. We initially connected over our love of hot dogs and our interest in finding more expansive ways to measure time. Through collaborative party planning, calendar building, and good old fashioned scheming, we’ve discovered ways to approach our daily lived experiences and art practices, with all their predicaments and pleasures, with a shared sense of playfulness and inquisition. On a rainy morning following a calendar workshop we facilitated at a local senior center, Caryn and I pondered what makes a conversation a good one and how we might invite more of them in each day.
Clara Harlow: How do you identify people you want to talk to? Are there certain people that you specifically feel drawn to having a conversation with?
Caryn Aasness: Some of that has to do with me and if I’m feeling brave enough. And some of it is if I have an interesting enough thing to say. But I think people kind of give off an attitude if they want to be engaged with or if they aren’t interested in talking to me right now, but sometimes that’s fun to challenge too.
Clara: What do you think makes us or other people open to unexpected conversation? Because I feel such a difference when I’m in New York and having unexpected conversations versus with people here in Portland. I wonder if a big piece of it is convenience. There’s a lot about time and pace cause people are moving really quickly and have a lot to do. Like if you’re on the subway people are usually down to help with directions if you ask them, but they’re not necessarily going out of their way to have a conversation.
Caryn: I have never been to New York. My sense of it is based on movies, but does it change when you’re on the street versus if you have a captive audience in the subway and you’re going to be on this ride together for at least, I don’t know, how many minutes. Are people more willing?
Clara: Right. Definitely. I think it does change. And there’s something about, like, no matter how busy you are, there are moments where you just have to turn to someone and be like, “get a load of that!” you know, where you just need to share a moment that’s so hilarious or moving or concerning and you just kind of need to be seen in that regardless. It’s such a human desire to share that with someone actually.
Caryn: I’m thinking back to what you were saying about how to know if you’re gonna talk to someone. And now I’m thinking, how often do you strike out when you try? How often do you go up to someone and try to engage and it just doesn’t work?
Clara: Yeah, I’m pretty cheeky, so I don’t really feel afraid to try, and also I don’t feel so wounded if someone’s not down. And I get it because sometimes I’m that person getting groceries and I’m so hungry and tired and blah de blah. But I feel like my days are better when I’m able to find a way to be open to that moment of exchange or acknowledgment with someone. And I think it’s a lot of just getting out of your head and your own life and all the pressures and endless to-dos that we’re all carrying, and actually just paying attention to what’s around you. Being open to some kind of unexpected little moment.
Caryn: Totally.
Clara: I will say another thing that evokes conversation for me is when you’re in an objectively absurd circumstance with others. If someone is doing something slightly out of the ordinary, like wearing a fluorescent outfit or carrying AstroTurf on the subway, I’m more likely to try to talk to them. Like you’re already disrupting this sort of social code where we’re going along with things and trying to pretend not to pay attention to each other and it feels like they’re kind of puncturing that social expectation, which can invite in some weirdness.
So I have a sort of controversial conversation question, but how do you feel about weather talk?
Caryn: I don’t know, sometimes the weather is really interesting. I think you can get to a lot of places from weather talk, so I don’t hate it. I think sometimes you have to go a little further, but also, I guess I can see that this person is trying. And like, I might wish they tried a little harder, or in a weirder way.
Clara: But it offers a jumping off point.
Caryn: But talking about weather to people who are not in the same place as you, like now that I’ve moved away from my family and we talk about, “how’s the weather there, where you are,” it feels a little different because I’m picturing what that feels like there and what they’re experiencing. It kind of gives me some flavor for whatever story they’re going to tell me next.
Clara: So if you don’t want to go the weather route, what are some other options for people who are trying to have compelling conversations with loved ones and strangers alike?
Caryn: Yeah, that’s a good question. I feel like a useful starter is a question that everyone can come up with an answer for, but they maybe haven’t necessarily thought about it before. Cause then you sort of see people working it out, like, showing their work. There was a long time where I just had a go-to question, one question I’d ask everyone. For a while it was, if your favorite sitcom dad and your least favorite sitcom dad got into a fight, who would win? And usually people are like, wait, okay. It takes a second to figure out which is which and then we kind of get to go through the fight, you know? I feel like no one’s expecting that question, but you could probably come up with something. And if you can’t, then maybe we’ll have an interesting conversation about how you grew up without TV.
Clara: Yeah, or you’re like, wait a second, why are all the dads on sitcoms bigger and the moms on sitcoms so thin? Like why is that such a trope in all American sitcoms and cartoons?
Caryn: And it often seems like there’s a dynamic in sitcom marriages of like, the dopey kind of gross dad.
Clara: A total doofus.
Caryn: A total doofus! And then there’s the mom who deserves better and is doing so much for the family.
Clara: Including the doofus! Wow, that’s a really good conversation starter. I can already feel it sort of coursing through.
Caryn: I think it’s clear right off the bat that we don’t have to work up to something. Like, we don’t have to volley it back in the exact way that it is scripted in an English textbook or something.
Clara: Yeah we’re just going there. What happens if we decide this is something worth our time and or is just fun to think through together?
Caryn: Totally, and I guess maybe that depends on where you are and how willing people are to meet you there. I also like to ask people what’s something they recommend. And it’s a good icebreaker when you have to have a formal icebreaker in a room. I think it’s nice when you ask people like, okay, what’s your favorite ice cream flavor, but usually I’m not gonna remember everybody’s favorite ice cream, but if you can recommend anything then I’m going to remember more of those, and maybe have something to talk about with this person later.
Clara: Yeah or maybe try it and then get back to them about it.
Caryn: And I like that, I like being able to see what direction people take it in, because sometimes people are like, this is a snack combo I love, and then some people will go an advice route, like today during our workshop at the senior center when people gave you recommendations on soon turning 30; slow down, don’t try to speed through certain parts of your life, because it’s going to go fast anyway. So you get a real broad range of recommendations.
Clara: Yeah, it allows people to kind of find their voice within the container. It’s not too directed, it’s an invitation.
Caryn: I think people can handle it.
Clara: Yeah, I think they can rise to the occasion, for sure. One thing I’m wondering is what you think the difference between an interview and a conversation is?
Caryn: I mean, the recording of it in some ways, and whether or not you stick to it, there’s sort of like a formality presented as like, you are the interviewer, and this person is the interviewee. I feel like even just right now, I’ve been talking a little bit differently than we would normally chat. Even like, tone of voice, maybe that’s just me.
Clara: Uh huh. Well, I am laying down for the audience at home. That might be part of it.
Caryn: Let the record show.
Clara: I’m laying on the ground.
Caryn: Is that allowed in interviews? To lay on the ground? I was thinking about one of the first interviews that I wrote for my high school newspaper, but I did it more magazine style, where I was like, “Principal Zahn leaned back in his chair and chuckled.” You know, like, “The air smelled of…. whatever.”
Clara: A real Vanity Fair intro.
Caryn: It’s interesting to think, like are you as the interviewer technically allowed to be laying down because, you know, that could be interesting in adding flavor and setting the scene.
Clara: “Caryn said as they outstretched their hand to me.”
One of my go to questions in a group of people when there’s a lull is what’s the weirdest thing that happened to you today?
Caryn: I like to ask people, what do you think is in those couch cushions? Like, if you had to guess, what would we find in there?
Clara: Or like what’s under your bed?
Caryn: That is a good question.
Clara: What’s under your bed, Caryn?
Caryn: Currently I have just a mattress stacked on the floor. I do own a bed frame, but I moved my bed into the corner for the winter.
Clara: Wait, I moved my bed into the corner for the winter!
Caryn: Yeah and how would we have known that about each other if we hadn’t done this dance.
Clara: I know, what a thrill. One thing that I’m wanting to learn is how to be a better listener. And I think that could maybe be connected to being a better interviewer as well. So I was just curious if you had any listening advice for me?
Caryn: I think of being a good listener sometimes as remembering a thing that that person said.
Clara: You do have a great memory.
Caryn: I will remember the weird little thing that you said. So maybe that’s a cheat code for listening, but I do like that when people remember something that I said, of course. Especially because I think it gives you an opportunity to relate something from the person’s life to what’s happening now. I think sometimes someone will tell you a story, and they’re like, well, I don’t want to go into all of this. They’re trying to shorten it or they think you don’t want to hear about that.
Clara: Yeah, but you always do!
Caryn: I do want to know about it. They might be like, “So my grandma, blah, blah, blah,” and then I might be like, “Oh wait, your grandma who lives in Texas?” So it becomes more of a map and I always think it’s more interesting.
Even in regular research I like to find out the context around a fact. Like if I look up a fact on Google, I’m not going to remember that. It’s kind of like the ice cream icebreaker thing. If it stands alone, it doesn’t stick with me the same way. But if I can find out why that happens, how they discovered this thing or whatever, then it’s more interesting and easier to remember. So I like building that context for myself in what somebody else tells me. And I think sometimes people are a little thrown off by it.
Clara: Yeah they’re not used to that level of detail and attention. I feel like it’s a real gift that you give people when you do that. The amount of attention that you can give someone in a conversation is so rare, actually.
Caryn: Well, I think so much of the stuff we do is not worth paying attention to or is sort of engineered to manipulate our attention? So I feel like we get used to this idea that it’s easier or better or more fun not to pay attention to things, but paying attention to the things that you’re interested in is interesting.
Clara: Right. I even find that when I’m having a really boring day or something goes wrong or is really inconvenient, like I have to go to the DMV or something, I think actually paying attention is what saves it from being a total bust. I think if you can actually really be present and look around the room and be like, “Oh, wait, what’s that sign?” Or like, “why is that upside down?” It actually adds so much delight, you know?
But it’s funny because when you’re at the DMV, all you want to do is be on your phone and not be there anymore, you know? Same with commuting anywhere. Like, it’s crazy what’s happening on the subway all the time, even the really small details. There’s this Instagram account that I love, maybe you’ve seen it, called Subway Hands, where a photographer takes photographs of zoomed in hands on the subway, holding things or doing things and they’re just totally beautiful and simple, but profound. It’s just this zooming in and paying attention to these really mundane moments that you could easily miss, but that actually tell us so much about ourselves and each other, you know?
Caryn: Yeah I feel like that is kind of connected to why certain questions work well in a group, because you’re drawing attention to the potential weirdness of a place that we all are constantly passing and might not pay any attention to. When was the last time you were walking on a sidewalk and didn’t step on a crack so you didn’t break your mama’s back? With a question you can bring us together to focus on something in our shared space that we otherwise wouldn’t see.
Clara: Yeah, I feel like it comes back to this question that my friend and mentor Dave [McKenzie] used to always say in relationship to his practice: What if it could matter? Like, what if we just decided this thing—anything—was worth paying deep attention to? And that’s how we make meaning, in our art practices and in our daily lives. I think we’re both really drawn to toying with things in the everyday that people take for granted or aren’t so curious about anymore. How can we play with the frame or contrast, so that we can disrupt expectation and begin to actually think about quotidian things like the calendar grid in different ways? What if this mundane thing actually is really fascinating, we just need to engage with it differently?
Caryn: Yeah, and I guess part of the draw towards listening is not even necessarily that people aren’t curious about it, but there’s someone out there who’s thinking about this thing so much. If I ask a bunch of people a bunch of weird questions and start weird conversations with them, I’m gonna find the person who might have a special interest in that thing.
There’s a David Sedaris essay where he’s talking about getting bored of the conversations he usually has at his book signings, and so he just started asking random questions. And he asked someone when did you last touch a monkey? And their response is, oh can you smell it on me? Because they happened to work with monkeys or have a monkey. So I feel like part of what’s interesting for me is the idea that you might find the person who’s super interested in this thing and they don’t expect to get to talk about it.
Clara: Totally, and remembering everyone has at least one of those things.
Caryn: And so find it.
Clara: Yeah, exactly. And that’s actually something that I’ve realized in recent years, that every single person has something interesting about them, if not many things. You just need enough time to find the thing.
Caryn: Totally, and sometimes maybe part of what takes time is building the trust that I’m interested in what you have to say. Like, I’m here for it. Tell me about what you’re interested in. It’s not always immediately clear that I’m actually interested in learning what you’re thinking about because we have so many mundane conversations all the time. It’s kind of like people just predict what we’re gonna say.
Clara: But I think the thing that we can do for each other is saying, take me on that journey with you. Like, let’s really go there together. And I think that’s something you’re so good at.
Caryn: Have we been on some journeys together?
Clara: Oh without a doubt.
Caryn Aasness (they/them) is a queer artist from Long Beach, California living in Portland, Oregon. Their practice is an exploration of and an outlet for their obsessive compulsive tendencies, their (often bashful) gender-fuckery, and their temptation to play with language. Working responsively to place and public, Caryn seeks to identify patterns and form connections. Their work is an invitation to stretch a category or collection to its illogical extreme. Caryn has a BFA in Fiber from California State University Long Beach, an MFA in Social Practice from Portland State University, and a snake tattoo.
Clara Harlow (she/her) is an interdisciplinary artist and educator interested in the question of how we can make today different than yesterday. Her work operates as an invitation into themes of celebration, exchange, and alternative ways of measuring time and value. Through parties, workshops, and interactive objects, Clara is invested in how we can turn the dilemmas of the everyday into an opportunity for experimental problem solving and collective delight. Her practice aims to create responsive public containers for unexpected joy and connection, but if she can just get you to forget about your To Do list for a little while, that’s pretty good too.
People First
“What has been the linchpin of my practice is recognizing that these are people first before they are a book topic or exhibition material. They’re people first and foremost, they want to know that they are not just commodities, they need to feel they are valued.”
Dr. Kiara Hill
I met Dr. Kiara Hill at one of my classes for the MFA in Art + Social Practice at PSU. Her way of weaving social justice into the history of art and holding space for us to find our questions, ethics, and problematic thoughts made me feel both safe and challenged. Which is what good stories and educational experiences are all about.
We discussed her thoughts on the importance of telling complex stories, treating people as humans, not commodities, and having learning spaces that are conducive to critical thinking. Her warm demeanor, I hope, steams out of the words here recorded.
Adela: Kiara, on previous occasions, you have talked about curation as storytelling, and about the fact that we have the responsibility to think about whose stories we are telling, whose artworks are we showing, and whose stories are left out. So I wanted to start by touching on the importance of centering narratives that are usually excluded, both in your work and your personal life.
In that sense, I would love to know: what was the first exhibition, TV show, or artwork that you felt was reflecting your experience?
Kiara: Growing up, I went to a black Baptist elementary school, which I don’t even think exists anymore. And while it had its issues, especially with the Christianity portion of it, the cultural aspect was way more pronounced than any school that I went to after that. I didn’t realize at the time that everybody didn’t go to culturally specific schools where they could learn about their history as a people.
On top of that, my godmother, who has been instrumental in my life, has been collecting 20th-century African-American memorabilia and material culture since before I was born. And so I grew up with the sensibility that black culture and the narratives of black people were important.
Also, I should say that I came from a community-oriented context. I’m not religious or active in the church now, but I grew up in the black church. And I was part of various social programs of the church aimed at uplifting black achievement.
However, when I think about my time in the church, there were also questions I was raising that people could not give me answers to. One of them was: Why does it seem like women are doing all of the work, yet men get the credit and are not dealing with the same restrictions?
At the same time, I had a sensibility around queerness and saw that even within black spaces the experiences of cis hetero black men were the ones that were often being told. The Martin Luther King and Malcolm X figures were more prominent—sometimes you had Rosa Parks or Coretta Scott King mentioned, but it wasn’t the norm. So this sensibility of knowing that ‘this is not the full story’ is something that I’ve had for a while.
Fast forward to the first art exhibition I curated, which was for an African art show where there were five graduate students chosen and I was the only one who did not come from the art department. The perspective that I brought to my curation was looking at African feminine figures in relation to African cosmology and spirituality.
I should also say that I have a master’s in Women’s Studies, and because of that I had an adequate command of black feminist thought and black feminism. Learning about that was what changed my whole perspective, more than any one artwork.
When I’m thinking about the moments when I saw myself for the first time, it was while being exposed to black feminist thought in various iterations.I felt seen because it gave me the language to talk about racial issues in connection to gender, class, and sexuality. It allowed me to understand the positionality of black femmes in society; particularly how black femmehood functions within black communities.
Adela: Were there any specific texts or entry points into black feminist thought that you found impactful? And is there an example that embodies what you mean when you say ‘how black femmehood exists within the community’?
Kiara: Yeah, I think that one of the first texts that I read was Bell Hooks’ Feminism is for everybody. I also remember being impacted by the work of Patricia Hill Collins and June Jordan, who is one of my favorite Black feminist writers, period.
To go back to your other question, the ways that women were told to behave and act in a demure posture did not make sense to me.Looking at my aunts and other commanding women in my life who got shit done, but when it came to men for some reason started to shrink. I did not understand why they did that. But reading black feminist texts helped me understand structures of power.
I remember, for example, when I was in my master’s program, my thesis was about how black women relate to their sexual identity and looking at it through the lens of reality television.
But that topic came out of a conversation that I was having with my mother where she was essentially saying: ‘Ladies don’t act like that, or ladies don’t do that’. I was like,‘how did you get these ideas? Where does this come from? Because you seem to know what ladies are supposed to do, and other women seem to know what ladies are supposed to do, but I don’t. I’ve also seen examples of women not adhering to those standards and seemingly being happier.
Adela: That resonates with me, even knowing that my experience is different in the context of a white-passing Latin person. My research is about family stories, and what I realized within my family was that the women in my lineage are wild, but they married men who were not brave enough to love them as they were.
Kiara: Exactly, and connecting that with black feminist thought made me understand that experiences are a lot more complicated than history often allows. And that even though black femmes are not always allowed to be complicated in the public sphere, they are complicated beings. And they should be allowed to be complex in ways that white people are allowed to be.
I think we’re at a different moment now, to be honest, from where I was when coming up and coming to these ideas. You have way more depictions of black womanhood, black femmehood, and black queerness. I’m happy that that is the case. But I also think that there are moments where things could be pushed further, because complexity is part of what it means to be a human being.
The conversation I had with my mom about gender ignited in me the desire to tell nuanced stories where there is more at play than what you may see on the surface.
Adela: I feel like telling those nuanced stories is pervasive in everything you do. And it seems to me that it translates also into your teaching style.
Having been your student in the MFA of Art + Social Practice and reading about your experiences in KSMoCa curating alongside school students, I know the importance you bestow upon spaces of mentorship and teaching experiences of joy in art. So I would like to know: how do you see yourself as an educator? What’s your style?
Kiara: As an educator, one of the things that I strive to do, in addition to imparting the content, is to help students garner the tools to think critically about themselves, their experiences, and the world around them.
A lot of that comes through being able to talk things out. Because when you’re thinking about something, you can’t hear or recognize the contours of your own thinking because it’s so familiar to you. But when you say your thoughts out loud you’re able to see them. That’s why my approach to teaching has always been discussion-based.
Because the only way I’ve learned is by asking questions. And it’s important to me that people feel confident in their ideas and their ability to defend them. But it is also relevant that they feel emboldened to recognize when they don’t know something, that they understand that not knowing doesn’t have to be the end of the world. That they are open enough to sit with the discomfort of uncertainty, open enough to listen.
When I think about the moments that have shifted my thinking, it is the moments where I have been offered the opportunity to take in new information and I took it. I want to teach students how to do that too. Because to me, the point of college, the point of being in the university setting, isn’t just about regurgitating information. You could do that on your own. It’s about learning how to think, it’s about enjoying thinking critically.
I also model the fact that I don’t know everything. Yes, I’m a professor. Yes, I have a PhD, but I don’t know everything. I can learn some things from you too.
When you make students feel like they are valuable contributors to the classroom environment and the ongoing body of knowledge, I have found that that is how you get the best out of students.
Adela: Speaking about getting the best out of students, you curated a KSMoCa exhibition with the kids with the concept of a Happy Place. And I am curious about what space, song, person, or activity you consider your happy place.
Kiara: My apartment is a happy place for me. But also, one of my other happy places is listening to people talk about themselves, listening to them narrate their lives and experiences. It is fascinating what they choose to say or not to say, and what memories are not even on the horizon until a certain word or phrase is spoken.
Adela: Absolutely. I share that. And I want to discuss your way of doing precisely that, community storytelling and archiving the stories of black elders. What does that process look like for you?
Kiara: The artist who I’ve been working with, specifically archiving his belongings, comes from the Black Arts Movement. He is part of the visual arts collective, AfriCOBRA, which is probably one of the most prolific groups to come out of that period. I’m also currently spearheading a Black artist archival project here in Portland.
In terms of the process of doing that work, one of the things that I’m realizing is that relationships matter. I have also been taking it upon myself to be flexible in my approaches.
Before I came to Portland, when I was trying to do some research on black artists here, I essentially hit a wall. Maybe one or two links popped up—this was before the Black Artists of Oregon exhibition opened up at the Portland Art Museum.
And even though you have some of these Black Arts Movement artists who reach national and international acclaim, that was largely not the case. This was a community-oriented movement, so I ended up finding info about these less prominent figures in people’s basements and in places that were not an archive or repositories.
But for someone to feel comfortable with you coming into their house, you also have to demonstrate yourself to be somewhat trustworthy. I think doing this community storytelling work comes down to that, to being someone with manners. While at the same time recognizing your positionality with them. Because, even though I’m black and I’m interviewing black people, I’m a representative of the University.
Another important piece of it is that I pay people for their time, because nobody, especially in this economy, should ever be doing things for free. Everybody I’ve interviewed has gotten paid.
In terms of the methods in general, I do research on the person beforehand and try to be methodical about the questions, but I am more flexible now. Before, I would have like twelve questions and I would break them off into like three different categories: their early life, their practice, their career in Portland and navigating the Portland art scene as a black artist.
I also keep in mind that these narratives that I value are people’s lives. So there’s a certain kind of reverence and sensitivity that I bring to each interview because people don’t have to tell you anything.
It is interesting that one of the ways that I end up getting a lot of good information outta people though, is because at some point in time, they forget that they’re talking to a professor, now they’re just talking to someone interested in their work and life experiences.
I think too, because I’m someone who looks like a lot of people that I interview, that also helps. People see me as being just like their niece or cousin. One of my collaborators sent to me recently that they were like ‘You wouldn’t even know you had a PhD. unless you ask,’ because that’s not something I lead with.
It is about who you are as a person and what you’re bringing to your process. Because you can do the same thing that I’m doing, but if you’re someone who is not consistent, who has demonstrated yourself to be only there for what you need and you are ready to get out, then you’ll get nothing.
What has been the lynchpin of my practice is recognizing that these are people first before they are a book topic or exhibition material. They’re people first and foremost, and that is something that I am attentive to. Because they can feel when you just want something from them and don’t give a fuck about them.
I think that for me as well, it is the fact that I am so interested in the mundane, the ordinary, the quotidian. And this goes back to your earlier question about telling more complex stories; there are things that you can learn on a macro scale by looking at key figures, but I think if you’re gonna get to the minutiae of something, you gotta go to the everyday, ordinary people.
When I think about the women that I grew up around, they weren’t the who’s who of whatever. They were just women in my community who were doing the things that make a difference. And their lives are not more or less valuable than Martin Luther King’s.
If anything, the people that I’m looking to are more representative of most people. And most people don’t think their life is that important, or that experiences are that valuable. And I think making people feel like they are is necessary and important.
Adela: In this action of making people’s experiences feel valued, I think there is also the responsibility to hold their pain. How do you hold other people’s trauma and make them feel safe when you are doing this community storytelling work?
Kiara: An interview that comes to mind is one with a woman who was the niece of an artist named Charlotte Lewis. She talked about her mental health issues and her aunt’s mental health issues, about her nervous breakdown and how that breakdown came about from being in an abusive relationship.
But her niece touched on how, from that breakdown, her aunt finds her calling to become a community artist. During that time, though, her family doesn’t understand what she’s doing. Having to live with mental illness, as a black woman in the seventies and eighties where there was little to no conversation about that publicly, and the shame that comes as a result of having to deal with those situations on top of feeling misunderstood and alienated from your family, that takes a toll on people.
So as her niece was telling me the story she just broke down crying saying, ‘My family didn’t understand who she was and what she was doing and if they had only supported her, maybe the ending of her life could have been different.’ And I just stopped the interview, went up to her and hugged her and we waited until she was back at a place where she could continue the interview.
So, for me, in those moments, I respond like a human being. Maybe a professional would give them ten minutes, but as a human being if you’re breaking down crying in front of me, my instinct is to go in for the hug or to go make sure that you’re okay, and that’s what I did.
People want to know that they are not just commodities. People need to feel they are valued as people
Adela: Yeah absolutely. And in that direction, a lot of this storytelling work has to do with archiving people’s stories and experiences and giving them a valued place.
I want to learn what frameworks other people have designed to archive, because I know this can be of service to other people who do not know where to start with the belongings of their loved ones. What has that looked like for you?
Kiara: I think that archiving, like a lot of things, is more intuitive than people think. And people go to school for that, which I am not trying to disregard, but think there is part of it that is instinctual. The name of the game is preservation. It is like curating, in that sense. I did not go to school for museum studies, but I think that at the core of curating is the ability to care for the objects.
Similarly, with archiving, the objective is preservation. Now, when you talk about wanting to get those archives into certain repositories or create an index, then that’s a different situation where certain techniques are needed.
But I will say that for the archival project that I’ve been working on, I am part of a team of people and one of them is an archivist. She has helped create an inventory list, helped think about putting it together in a specific way, and what materials to use to better preserve what we found.
I have contributed to the team by knowing what I am looking for, since I have studied the Black Arts Movement in depth. Being a researcher, I also know what materials would be useful for me if I had a project to research. We all bring our strengths to the table.
But for me, in the end, the biggest objective is just the preservation aspect of it. There was a time when, since people did not move around as much, your grandma was living in the same house that she had been living in for the last fifty years, and in the basement, she kept her mom’s baby pictures. What I’m saying is people have naturally been archiving for a long time. At the core of it all is caring and preserving our history. I’m always excited about the things that we take for granted.
Adela: I am too. That is why I am shooting videos of recipes or how to do hummus for plants, passed down from my grandma and great aunts. They have never cooked with measurements and neither do we. So our recipes and their stories would otherwise get lost.
Kiara: Exactly, and I think that is so important because people take a lot of things for granted until you realize how quickly the world changes.
For example, when I was growing up, cursive was one of those things that you had to know how to write, but they don’t teach that anymore. When I was in grad school one of my classes visited a historic house and while we were there one of the preservationists mentioned that highschoolers these days don’t know how to read cursive. Many of them had a hard time analyzing some of the older documents from periods where people exclusively wrote in cursive. I never imagined that would be a thing.
Some traditions and things will just die out without preservation intervention, which is why it is so important. But there are moments when I question, ‘Man, is what I’m doing even important?’
But it is paramount because the thing about community arts is that for a lot of these people, their livelihoods were in relation to a very specific place. And their contributions shifted the culture, and if their stories aren’t preserved. It’s like they did not exist.
Adela: Thinking about place, and community, I want to know what makes you feel at home.
Kiara: You know what? I love mangos.
Adela: Yes!! There’s a mango at my window tree back home.
Kiara: Amazing. As a child, my mom used to tell me that she ate a mango and sweet potatoes when she was pregnant with me.
I also love watermelons, and how they signal the beginning of summer, a shift in the season. It also reminds me of home, of California. I only understood when I moved to the East Coast that getting good watermelon for cheap was not a thing everywhere. And so sweet watermelons are summer and home for me
Adela: Finally, if someone were archiving your home and belongings, what is one object they would find that speaks to who you are today?
Kiara: I have recently introduced the juicer in my life and I love juice but I never made it because it is not a quick task. But doing it now is fulfilling because of the effort it takes to make, it is meditative for me
Adela: I get it. It’s a simple thing you do just for you.
Kiara: Yeah exactly!
Adela Cardona is a “profesional en ver las maricaditas lindas de la vida” (professional in seeing the little beautiful things of life). She’s a universe made being that sometimes poses as a poet, a storyteller, a gatherer or Sustainability/ Social Impact Director. Her universe given gifts include an insane ear for music, as well as weaving words and people together. She’s now in the process of getting her MFA in Art + Social Practice at PSU, in Portland, Oregon.
As a Colombian-Lebanese, Autistic x ADHDer, Queer woman she is constantly inhabiting the borderlines and bringing her roots everywhere, to help other people flow with the rivers of their own stories. Her art touches on the themes of family, legacy, mental health, fashion, community storytelling, identity, creativity and sustainability.
The work she’s in the muddy middle of is The GrapeVine, a space to tell stories and inherit the skills of our ancestors, alive, dead or nature being. She’s also in the process of making a series about neurodivergent people and wanting to develop spaces to tackle decay and grief. She has a thousand ideas on her mind at a time.
She’s the co-founder of an Open Mic called Mujeres No Graciosas, that has held the stories of more than 2000 women and LGBTQ+ people, since 2018. She’s also the producer and host of the podcast of latinx creators, La Bombillera. She has written articles in both English and Spanish on topics ranging from Alzheimer’s disease to drag culture and sustainable fashion. Her journalistic work can be seen in magazines and portals such as Bacánika, Eco-Stylist, Malpensante and her own Medium. Her poetry can be read, heard and seen at the IG: oceanasoyyo.
Kiara Hill is the James DePriest Visiting Assistant Professor of Art History in the Schnitzer School of Art + Art + History + Design at Portland State University. She teaches courses on African American art and socially engaged art in the Art + Social Practice MFA Program. Hill earned her B.A. in Mass Communications at Sacramento State University, her M.A. in Women’s Studies at the University of Alabama, and recently completed her Ph.D. in Afro-American Studies at the University of Massachusetts. Her research focuses on the Black Arts Movement of the 1960s and 1970s with an emphasis on Black women artists and cultural workers. Hill is also a curator of African American visual art and culture and curator-in-residence at Dr Martin Luther King Jr School Museum of Contemporary Art (KSMoCA).
Move Up, Move Back, Make Space, and Take Space
“There are definitely moments in the performances where people bring some really big shit. And, where do you put it? Put it here. Put it in the performance, but the space will hold it. It’ll do whatever it’s gonna do. There’s a whole range of what people are bringing into it. But it tends to be perceived as quite intense, which it is and it’s also not.
I just love the absurdity– the sheer cosmic thrill of absurdity and humor, which are also so involved in the whole thing…”
Maxx Katz
Recently, I’ve been tempted by the idea of being loud. As someone who expresses themselves sometimes quietly, I think the idea of yelling and screaming may act as a cathartic release. Since this growing interest, I’ve had several colleagues and friends share with me “The Yelling Choir”, a vocal group which practices the art of yelling. I wanted to interview Maxx Katz, who founded the vocal group, and try to understand the absurd, expressive powers of yelling at the top of our lungs.
Gwen Hoeffgen: Maxx, thank you again so much for agreeing to do this interview– I’m so excited to talk to you about your work. So, as you know, I am very interested in your project, The Yelling Choir. Could you tell me how the project came together? What motivated you to create this group?
Maxx Katz: I was at an artist residency in Florida and they had a little introductory session for everybody and I’d shown just a video of me. I think I was playing the guitar and yelling and then afterwards there were 5 different women who came up to me and asked me if I could teach them how to yell. I was like, “okay, sure.” So I put together a little workshop. I figured out some things we could do, and I taught three different kinds of yells.
We did some hilarious yelling exercises. We would ask a yes or no question and respond, but we yelled our answers. We would ask, “should you dress salad?” and we would yell “NO!!!” It was hilarious and so great. It’s so interesting because there are a lot of people who don’t know if they can yell. It seems like there’s this initial barrier to get through, so it can be so exciting when people find their yelling voices. For some people it’s extraordinarily liberating.
Gwen: I totally understand that. I think that’s one of the reasons that I’m very attracted to this idea of “The Yelling Choir.” I feel like I’m a very quiet person and very timid and shy at times. It’s so interesting for me to try to understand why I feel this way, and why others in society feel this way. Are women socialized to be more timid? I feel less empowered when I feel quiet, and the thought of playing with the idea of being loud is fun for me.
Maxx: Yeah, I was also super quiet. I was the quietest kid on the planet. I would never have thought I would do vocalizing of any sort in public, much less when I was younger, and now here we are. And it is obviously often very gendered in our culture but sometimes it’s not, you know, like there are plenty of non-women who also want to learn to yell and it’s really important to them.
Gwen: After doing the original yelling workshops, do you continue to use the same kind of techniques within the Yelling Choir rehearsals?
Maxx: Occasionally I’ll do workshops and I’ll have a pretty similar structure to what I originally came up with. It’s definitely evolved. I do workshops that are just one-offs for people, but with the ongoing group, it’s different now. We’re often really focused on whatever performance we’re going to do. But also, there’s so much to the choir. It’s using the voice but it’s also using the “voice” –where it’s like creative processing, creative flow and just generating things. If we have enough time in rehearsals, that’s where a lot of the juice is. We play around with voice, with movement. A lot of the process of the Yelling Choir for me has become about creating a somatic template for belonging and community, and using that social engagement system to support people’s being in a creative flow place. It’s kind of balanced between intellectualizing and embodied subconscious processes and finding a way to get into a play zone with people and see what comes out.
Gwen: That’s the goal, isn’t it? To find a sweet spot sort of multi-brain community, that you feel supported by, and that you feel safe around, and that you’re able to make things with.
Maxx: Multi brain, yes. Multi brain, multi body. Yeah, totally.
Gwen: In the past, I worked as a dancer and the work that I do in my visual art is about the body, our movement, how people carry themselves and hold emotional experiences within the body. So I wanted to ask you about whether movement comes into your practice organically or if it’s a conscious decision to use movement in this way. I’m really fascinated right now with the link between movement, the body, and sound.
Maxx: It’s very intentional to use movement for a number of reasons. First off, moving at all helps turn the inner-critic brain off. Especially for people who aren’t trained vocalists, it can feel really vulnerable to use the voice at all. So, throwing movement in there just helps to grease the whole mechanism. I did this workshop once with Meredith Monk, and she talked a lot about the whole linking. And she had some exercises about linking movement and vocalizing. The way that she did it was almost like Qigong. There were some very gentle, specific movements along with different sounds. I wouldn’t particularly use that style myself, but it was very interesting. Anyway, I have a vision that is still obscure to me about what being fully embodied would look and feel like, especially in a performance. And of course there’s movement involved. It’s like being able to actually be fully whatever this being is, and whatever the performance space is. What is that? How do we try that out? I don’t know, there’s a lot of wiggling that I’m doing as I’m saying this that probably won’t convey in the written interview.
Gwen: Yeah, it’s very worm-like, I think–the process of trying to figure it out. I was in a class the other month and we had an artist with a background in performance who was speaking to us. And, a student asked, “how do you feel confident in your body?” It’s a really important question. How do we feel like we are actually a part of our bodies? And especially in the way that we move, and express emotions through the body. How do we do that? I think it’s connected to the way that we vocalize too. I mean, the voice is realized due to vibrations and movements.
Maxx: Yeah, the voice does something. Even just getting the vibrating going, I often just use it to get out of a freeze response. A lot of times I’m stuck in a little bit of a freeze, and I’m not alone in this. Just using the voice at all, it helps. And then if we can get into movement, that’s helpful too. But both together, that’s a power pack combo.
Gwen: And that’s true, too, you’re not alone in this. It’s one thing to vocalize and move in isolation. But it sounds like a big piece of the Yelling Choir is that it’s in communication. The group is able to be heard and to listen.
Maxx: Yes, the community piece is huge and also for me kind of difficult. I don’t often feel comfortable in groups or with people, so I wanted to create a community that I would feel comfortable in, which involves a certain amount of freedom of expression and authenticity and just liking people. But also the practices of the choir and the structure of the rehearsals– It’s mostly about check ins and snacks. We do some playing around, too. We have a shared cause, and it has become a community of people in the flavor that I like, and some other people would like. In the practices there’s these elements of embodiment, awareness, expression, like emotional processing and there’s also these practices of exchange of attention, of taking up space, so while someone’s taking up space, there’s someone else holding the space. And then you flip back and forth.
And there’s this polyvagal theory, you know, this nervous system regulation theory. And it says, as you start to speak at all, there’s this nervous system brake that has to let off. And then when you go back to being quiet, it comes back on again. So, sometimes people get stuck in one position or another. Being able to move fluidly in space– Move up, move back, make space, take space, in groups. It’s being part of it and also having a lot of others be part of it. That’s the way I think of it. It’s a crucial part of the whole practice. We’re practicing the skills to be in community together in a way that allows tolerance and inclusion.
Gwen: It’s interesting to think of what that looks like in a physical and spatial way.
Maxx: And to practice it, literally practice it, body, voice, being in space with people.
Gwen: Have you thought of ever extending the project more? I recently listened to a documentary about Bill T Jones and his survival workshops. I thought the way that he explained his relation to the workshops was so beautiful. I’ll paraphrase, but he basically said that he was just someone who needed their hand held. And for you, similarly, it seems that your community is serving an intimate need. Have you ever thought of extending the project into more public spaces?
Maxx: Yeah. Definitely, I have. I’ve written grants that I haven’t gotten for larger projects that involve a lot of people. I mean, it can be hard. You can only do so much community building in a larger group, given the scale of where we’re at here. So, I’ve been keeping workshops somewhat small and just experimenting with how many people can really be in the space. But if there’s less focus on that, like with a shorter event, with more people, I’m definitely trying to figure out what that would look like and how to make it happen.
Gwen: So how are the performances? What is it like sharing this group with a live and reactive audience?
Maxx: It can be really varied. I tend to focus a lot on space and what the context of the space is. Outdoor performances versus indoor performances are different. And then is the audience in chairs or are people free to move around? It turns out audiences tend to be a little blown away by the intensity of it.
Gwen: I can imagine.
Maxx: With yelling, people tend to bring so much of their own perceptions to what the yelling is about, so to speak. And I remember playing metal shows and I would yell just from sheer joy and power. I remember this one metal show, this guy came up to me and was like, what are you so angry about? And I was like, “I am not angry at all, motherfucker.” But yeah I think because there’s so little experience of public intensity and yelling, it can be perceived in a number of ways. There are definitely moments in the performances where people bring some really big shit. And, where do you put it? Put it here. Put it in the performance. The space will hold it. It’ll do whatever it’s gonna do. There’s a whole range of what people are bringing into it.
But it tends to be perceived as quite intense, which it is and it’s also not. I just love the absurdity– the sheer cosmic thrill of absurdity and humor, which are also so involved in the whole thing, which I feel leavens it a bit. That may or may not come across. It kind of depends on the context and the venue, really. Some people that see the show are super energized after and they feel like super in their body and just like really awake and they want to try yelling stuff. And then, some people need a break. I remember talking with some kids after a performance and they had so many great questions. They were very curious and really trying to figure it out.
Gwen: Yeah, I think the act of vocalizing can be perceived in so many different ways. I’m interested in understanding my voice and vocalizing. And I had this idea about going outside and screaming as a group. This was right when the election was happening, and you could tell on our campus, there was this collectively pent up energy. You could feel it, like it was thick. So, I said, “let’s just go to the park and scream.” And even just me saying that seemed to be perceived in different ways. I think it’s an association. To me it seems cathartic, and I think it may not be that way for everyone. And then, of course, having an audience screaming in a public setting is a little scary too, I think.
Maxx: Another interesting thing that happens with the audiences is some people kind of create their own context and some people are thinking, “Oh, they’re yelling at me.” And some people are like, “Oh, they’re yelling with me,” or, “They’re yelling for me.” People situate themselves in vastly different ways. I was teaching somebody ages ago, like before this whole yelling choir business. We were in an apartment in Brooklyn, and we were on the balcony. And we were working on some yelling out into the courtyard, and from across the way, someone yelled back, “Are you okay??”
And there was this one time at a campground I was doing a little yelling workshop with some people. But, beforehand, I went around to every campsite and was like, “We’re just gonna do a little friendly yelling down the way. Nothing to worry about. Feel free to join in.” And that just did wonders for the reception. So, just telling people in advance a little bit is helpful. But, really, I haven’t figured out how to frame it yet, honestly.
Maxx Katz is an artist, composer, and performer based in Portland, Oregon, whose work draws on vocabulary from performance art, free improvisation, jazz, contemporary classical, and heavy metal. A classically trained flutist with an M.A. in Music from the University of Virginia, Katz uses flute, electric guitar, voice, and movement as instruments of radical transformation.
Katz has been commissioned to create work for the Portland Jazz Composers Ensemble and the Oregon Contemporary 2024 Artists’ Biennial, and has created work in collaboration with musicians and dancers including Tyshawn Sorey, Linda Austin, Tahni Holt and Muffie Delgado-Connelly, John Niekrasz, Julian Otis, lauren jean crow, and Eddie Bond.
They have toured extensively across the U.S., Europe, and Canada as part of various collaborative and solo projects. Katz was a resident at the 2019 Banff International Workshop in Jazz and Creative Music with Vijay Iyer and Tyshawn Sorey, and Atlantic Center for the Arts with flutist Nicole Mitchell. They compose work for ongoing ensembles including Yelling Choir and Floom.
Their Yelling Choir project has debuted compositions at the Portland Institute for Contemporary Art’s Time-Based Art Festival, Oregon Contemporary 2024 Artists’ Biennial, the American Choral Directors Association NW Conference, Congress Yard Projects, Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity, and ACRE Artist Residency. They have led Yelling Choir workshops at Banff and ACRE as well as Portland State University, Atlantic Center for the Arts, Inward Bound Mindfulness Education teen and young adult meditation retreats, and Portland Public Schools.
Gwen Hoeffgen is a visual and social practice artist who currently investigates the physicality of emotional experiences, and how those experiences live within the body waiting to be released. After receiving her bachelor’s degree in psychology, she worked as a social worker in the mental health, addiction, and cognitive health fields, and then received her MA in Drawing at Paris College of Art. Currently, as an Art and Social Practice MFA student at Portland State University, she use mediums of painting, drawing, photography, sound, and conversation to explore how we find stories within pieces, creases, breaks, and bends.
Watch Where You Point That Thing: A Talk on Ethics and Photography
“I think with socially engaged photography, or at least my approach and intent with it is a lot to consider—the ethics of making work collectively with the community instead of, of a community.”
Emily Fitzgerald
Coming from a background in street photography, I was motivated by the human experience and allowing others to tell their own stories. There was a contradiction within this as street photography usually leads you to capturing photos in a voyeuristic manner where confrontation, weird looks, and surprising conversations aren’t foreign but come with ethical implications. This conflict led me to Emily Fitzgerald, a Portland State University professor and artist who primarily works with photos. I was seeking answers on how to practice photography in a way that gets you from point A to point B with ease, with relationships leading the way. Emily’s words are simple yet transformative, they evolved my appreciation for subtle ambiguities and a photo’s capabilities. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed hearing them. Remember, always watch where you point the lens.
Domenic Toliver: Thanks for talking with me. I’ve been struggling with how to go about things, so I’m curious, what is your approach to photography within the context of social practice, especially when the focus seems to shift away from the final image and towards the process, interaction, or broader narrative the image contributes to?
Emily Fitzgerald: That’s a good question. I mean, there are so many different elements and that has been a lot of what my research has been about, the different methods and approaches in utilizing images. Collaboratively making work, making work with people as opposed to taking photos of folks. It depends on what the project is, but I think a big part of my practice is collaborative storytelling and using images as part of the process as opposed to thinking about myself as a photographer. My practice has really shifted from being a photographer who takes photos to someone who uses images collaboratively and collectively. Sometimes that looks like me shooting photos, but sometimes it looks like working with archives, working with other people who take photos or using found images, or creating structures that people can plug into that are somehow image based or text-based, and sometimes photography is not central to my practice, sometimes it’s more peripheral, just depending on what the project is. My practice often examines things like who has the agency to make images and decides what images are used. Though I’ve always been a photographer, sometimes taking pictures feels less important or it isn’t as necessary. In some ways, the camera can feel like a barrier instead of a connection. So photography sort of ebbs and flows within my practice. I think images are extremely compelling and photography has always remained a strong part of my practice, but maybe more or less central within certain projects. I often use archival photos, and writing, then sometimes I’ll kind of work as a curator, as opposed to a photographer. There are a lot of different ways of working with images, but I just really like collaboration through every stage or at least some stage within the process.
It’s always a balance. Like right now I’m thinking a lot about how to make images that I feel are aesthetically compelling and also conceptually strong, where there is a lot of agency, and that can be tricky if I’m working with folks that don’t have a background in photography.
Lately, I’ve been working a lot with students who are making their own work while I am building this photo program at PSU and right now teaching is interwoven with my art practice.
Dom: Wow. It seems like there’s a lot of space for building connections, experimenting with different ways to tell stories, and also just fun new ways to use images. Would you be able to talk a little bit about one of your projects? Maybe, Being Old, and how that process you just explained worked within that one in particular?
Emily Fitzgerald: Yeah, that project was, gosh, so long ago.That was my first work with the senior center which was called the Hollywood Senior Center, and now is called the Community for Positive Aging (CFPA). At that time, I think my grandma was still alive, but I had started working on this project with my grandma who was really a soulmate of mine. It was the last year of her life and we were collaboratively making images. My grandma was a beautician so she would tell me how to do my hair and makeup and I did a lot with her. I would curl her hair, and roll her hair in curlers. She would tell me how to roll her hair and how to put on her false eyelashes and all of this stuff. So while we were doing this I had a remote shutter release and she would press the shutter. So we were making images of ourselves collectively. It started as a documentary project of her, and when I started making it, I realized it was more about our relationship. So I started making images with her.
Then I moved to Portland and I was in grad school and I had all these friends my age, but I didn’t have relationships with older adults here yet. So I wanted to build that for myself and for others. I approached the senior center, and Amber, who is still the executive director there, and I talked. I decided to do some sort of storytelling workshop, or at least that’s how we were framing it, but I was asking myself what a photo-based social practice looks like at a senior center.
I think there was a group of about 10 or 12 folks. There were seniors and then some of my peers who were in the social practice program came with me to some of the workshops. Then Amber and I talked about what she felt the center needed. That’s another element of working with the community. Thinking about what are the needs of that community and how and if images could serve those needs. So part of it was community building and like you said, using my camera to talk to people. A lot of the seniors at the center wanted to take photos. So they took photos of each other, and they brought in family photos, and archival images from their lives. We used those images to talk about family, home, and life experience . We were using the images to learn about people and their experiences and their histories. The organization wanted them to humanize the building. Because the building was a neighborhood center, but you couldn’t tell from the outside at that point. We decided that we would utilize the photos as a large-scale installation on the front and the back of the building to just sort of bring the inside out. The participants did a lot of writing about the images as a tool to engage folks and conversate. We decided to make a publication and because the publication included so many of their words along with their images, as a group we decided we were going to do a book reading, so the seniors read their words that they had written in the publication.
Dom: That sounds awesome. It sounds like powerful work, not only for them but for you.
Emily Fitzgerald: From there I kept working with the senior center. We collaborated with Beaumont Middle School pairing each participant with someone from a different generation.
And at that point, we were thinking, oh my gosh, who rides TriMet a lot? There were a lot of seniors who couldn’t drive anymore and a lot of young people who couldn’t drive, so we decided that the installations from that collaboration would be on TriMet bus stops. Both of those installations are still in the CFPA. So the building’s very lively. A third installation that I did with the third-year MFA students and participants from the CFPA we installed in the spring.The partnership with the senior center sort of ended up being like an ongoing, self-proclaimed residency.
Dom: I didn’t realize it had gone on for so long, I just saw the first project and was instantly hooked. Older people are often disregarded or cast aside in society after a certain age and what you did seemed to bridge that connection back to the community while also allowing them to share their stories.
Emily Fitzgerald: Now I’m sort of trying to develop a more formal relationship with the Senior Center and the MFA program. I think my plan is to run a class every winter there. And maybe something in the spring if I can swing it too.
Dom: That would be dope. I would love to get in there soon and see what it’s like.
So you said you had a lot of intergenerational relationships and I guess working with that community would probably not be as tough as if you were to try to do something socially engaged with a community that you have no idea about. For example the annual Assembly, it’s pretty site-specific and I’m not from here, so I’m challenged with putting something together within a community I’m not at all familiar with. What’s the best way to approach that? In an authentic way.
Emily Fitzgerald: That’s a good point. A lot of my work is site-specific. I’ve worked on a long-term collaboration, it’s finished now, but I think it was like eight or nine years long. It’s called People’s Homes. It started as a graduate project for the MFA program. I think a lot of it stems from my own curiosity about something personal for me. My collaborator and I, Molly Sherman, were at the time both living in Northeast Portland, and we were thinking about how we’re both white, middle class, cis women, our identities as artists in this neighborhood the racist history and gentrification in N and NE and with this interest in creating intergenerational exchanges and conversation.
I was new to this area, so I didn’t know a lot, but it was my curiosity that drove me, and for that project, we paired some of the oldest homeowners who are long-time residents of the neighborhood with younger artists. Lisa Jarrett was one of the artists that we paired with this amazing woman, Thelma, who passed away many years ago. She was in her 90s at the time and had survived the Vanport Flood. Each artist responded to the homeowner’s story. It was very place-based in the sense that we were like, what’s happening in our neighborhoods, and how do we talk to our neighbors? Part of the reason the first iteration was so strong was because we spent a lot of time on it. Artists made these images in response to older residents’ experience. It could be drawing, text, photography, mixed media or whatever as long as it was responding to their stories. We turned the artist’s work into small-scale billboards that were displayed in the front of the homes. Then we made a newspaper publication that was also distributed at the homes.
The next iteration was during the pandemic and was driven by what this project could look like on a systemic level. So we worked with nonprofits and paired them with older residents.
Then the third iteration was in San Antonio, Texas, where my collaborator Molly Sherman lives. So now we were responding to a completely different place. What does that look like within the context of the framework of this project that we’ve set up? There were many collaborative decisions and discussions between Molly, the cultural organizations we partnered with, and the art space that commissioned the project, The Contemporary at Blue Star, and the residents. So I think it was kind of a fluid collaboration but I think that it is helpful that it is durational work. I often end up working on projects for a long time which helps to build the relationships and connections
Dom: Yeah I can see how developing relationships and having those conversations would help you learn more about the community and the space. It seems more authentic. It makes me think of the ethics in social practice. As a photographer, I think a lot about language. We say “take” and “capture” when asking to photograph someone. Do you ever worry about how you come across? Or do you feel like having good intentions is enough when photographing other people?
Emily Fitzgerald: It’s probably why I don’t do street photography anymore. I just feel like that reciprocity is harder to come by with street photography. I don’t think it makes sense because of the relational way that I work. I do think a lot about the ethics of work but I try to integrate different means of reciprocity within the project. So if that’s an honorarium or some sort of exchange that feels ethical. I think it’s a lot about representation and self-representation and thinking about how people want to be represented. Historically I’ve never used, at least since I’ve been thinking of myself as a socially engaged photographer, I never used an image that someone didn’t want me to use. And that’s a hard choice. Sometimes I feel like, oh my gosh, this is such a striking and stunning image, I love it and then, the person that I’m working with doesn’t want me to use it. So honoring that feels like the right choice. In my projects I’m often focused on the process as opposed to the outcome or as opposed to the aesthetics and that helps keep it about the people.
Dom: I get that. If the focus is on the people and reaching their needs, then it should just flow. I get that. You said you did street photography. I didn’t know that.
Emily Fitzgerald: I did more lifestyle but I did do some street photography and travel photography. I guess that’s what I fell in love with, I still love it, but it never had the depth I wanted. I questioned myself and the ethics of that way of working. I think people do it beautifully and brilliantly. With solid ethics, it just feels much more difficult and rare.
Dom: Yeah, I fell in love with street photography because I felt it was about the world around you, all the things going on, people living, and the random complexities of humanity. It felt like I was just showing these people telling their own stories, but then you’re also stealing something from them and not having that communication or collaboration. I’ve run into a lot of people trying to push my camera out of the way. Which is understandable.
I think that’s why I’m here now. How do I do what I like, while also using it to transform the people I’m taking photos of. It comes with the intent of changing and raising awareness, but thinking that the process and work with the people is doing that, rather than the photo being that tool itself.
Emily Fitzgerald: Yeah. I think you can do it though, and I don’t feel like I’ve done it successfully, but I think you can do documentary projects that are more socially engaged or have strong consideration of self-representation and ethics. People are doing it, but it’s harder.
Dom: Yeah, I have so many ideas for projects, but it’s all about trying to find the right way to do them. That’s kind of the hardest part for me right now. Not tugging the wrong strings. And it’s not only understanding why and how but then trying to do it for others, with others. I need to have the courage to make mistakes, but also learn, grow, and fix them.
Emily Fitzgerald: Yeah, there’s no right way. I think that’s part of it and so much is just learning as you go. Like life in general.
Dom: Learning and growing as you go, that’s true. So the last thing I wanted to ask was what are you doing right now? Anything upcoming?
Emily Fitzgerald: I’ve been working on a project with the same collaborator that I did People’s Homes, Molly Sherman, and we are both interested in the spectrum of reproductive experience, from abortion to parenting to pregnancy loss and how people undergo this as a spectrum rather than isolated events, reflecting the varied journeys many individuals face throughout their lives.
During the pandemic and when we were finishing People’s Homes I had a baby, I also had miscarriages and an abortion. This was all happening along with the Supreme Court’s reversal of Roe v. Wade, so our project is called the People’s Clinic for Reproductive Empathy, and we’ve been doing different sorts of smaller projects under that umbrella. But the project we are working on right now is with the Flickr foundation to make a photobook about the spectrum of reproductive experience.
Dom: I’m really looking forward to seeing more! You have so much going on, it’s amazing. Thank you again for speaking with me and sharing. I feel a little more confident, and a little more ready to tackle some of these ideas.
Emily Fitzgerald is a socially engaged artist, photographer, storyteller, and educator. Through her work, she investigates what it means to collectively tell a story, equally prioritize the relational and the aesthetic, collaboratively make conceptual and visual decisions, and co-author a body of work with the ‘subject’. Her work is responsive, participatory, and site-specific. Emily brings large-scale art installations into non-traditional, public, and unexpected places in order to deepen our understanding and reframe our ways of relating to one another. She is the co-founder of MATTER Gallery and Works Progress Agency. Emily is an assistant professor in photography at the School of Art + Design at Portland State University.
Domenic Toliver is an interdisciplinary artist whose practice bridges film, photography, performance, and socially engaged art. With a background in sociology, he began his career as a behavioral analyst working with autistic children before shifting his focus to filmmaking. He earned an MA in Film and Media, pursuing directing while also acting in several films.
As a street photographer, Domenic explores themes of presence, perception, and narratives. Now pursuing an MFA in Art and Social Practice, he is particularly interested in the intersections of his practices and how storytelling can be a valuable tool in promoting social change.
Finding Propósito
“When people talk about the Bay Area, the culture is Oakland. It’s not San Francisco. The core of that culture is Oakland, California. We deserve to have world class sports organizations and hopefully Roots can play a role in that.”
Edreece Arghandiwal
Since 2020 my hometown of Oakland,California has lost its three major sports ( Raiders, Warriors and A’s). The teams played in This has left a tremendous void in the city from both an economic and cultural perspective, however that doesn’t mean people aren’t other emerging sporting organizations hoping to inspire future generations. This interview was an opportunity to learn more about the purpose-driven football club,Oakland Roots, from one of its founders ,Edreece ,who has found a way to amplify Oakland’s cultural voice through football that has long been silenced by previous sporting organizations in the Town.
More than anything else it allowed a space for two Brown Oaklanders to talk about their experience growing up in the Town and find common cause in culture, language and place.
Rafa Moraga: Tell me a little bit about what growing up in Oakland was like for you?
Edreece Arghandiwal: I was born in Oakland and lived in the Bay Area my whole life. I was a product of Afghan refugees fleeing Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion. The first place they landed was the Bay Area. My parents met each other here and got married. Some of my earliest experiences as a youth was in Oakland; particularly with the Oakland Athletics. I also was fortunate enough to see the Warriors win a championship there.These experiences shaped my identity growing up, as well as my family’s identity. Oakland is one of the most diverse places in the nation, and so to have been able to be a part of that in the early years of my life really led to the perception I have in totality.
You know, we grew up seeing baseball, basketball, football, but never soccer at the Coliseum outside of random exhibition matches that drew 30,000 – 40,000 people. I knew that our community had an appetite for it, especially considering how diverse we are, but it just never it never actualized until we asked the question why not professional soccer?. And that question led to the ultimate creation of Oakland Roots Sports Club, and here we are.
Rafa: Did you play soccer growing up? And what clubs were you following?
Edreece: Yeah of course. Football is in the bloodline. My uncle was a goalkeeper for the Afghanistan National Soccer Team. My dad managed the club in his hometown in Afghanistan. Football was everything though baseball was the first sport I played. I adopted soccer as my dying passion around 12 or 13. I grew up loving OG Ronaldo, Inter Milan was my favorite team growing up, and Zlatan Ibrahimovic played for Inter right after. I also played semi professionally at Raimondi Park in West Oakland for the Bay Area Ambassadors. Not many people even know that team was a reality, but I know because I played and I twisted my ankles on those potholes at Raimondi.
I always kind of craved and wanted a pathway to become a professional in Oakland, and that was part of the bummer. I have seen a lot of very talented Black and Brown kids not having a pathway towards professional and we asked that question. I am very proud to say that Project 510, our development platform, has developed eight Academy contracts this year, meaning we’ve been able to harness the talent of all these young 14 and 15 year olds in the 510 area code. And now you got kids from Richmond, Oakland participating in professional environments when that pathway just never existed before.
Rafa: I think the thing with Project 510 is about accessibility. I would have loved to have played football growing up.I played basketball, because that’s what was around, but I knew I was not gonna be playing in high school. I think it’s great to have this pathway because growing up there all of these elite private clubs. Kids I went to school with were playing in these elite clubs, and if you’re a working class Black or Brown kid from East Oakland or Fruitvale, it was almost impossible. So it seems to me like Project 510 helps open up that door to having more accessibility in football.
Edreece: That’s absolutely right, that’s the whole premise of Project 510. So typically, professional clubs will create this academy system where they suck the money out of the communities. It’s pay to play, and then when the player doesn’t work out they move to another club. This is just a cluster of really bad kinds of infrastructure building, and that’s led to the demise of talent developing in America. This country has 300 million people, and should be one of the best soccer playing countries in the world, but because we’ve created this pay to play blocking mechanism, it’s led to, unfortunately, the leakage of talent throughout the entire United States.
I remember bro balling with Mexican kids who would show up 10 minutes late to a game, and they would bang in six goals and leave but they never got discovered, because they just never had the infrastructure. They never had the pipeline or the proper kind of guidance. Project 510 is one of the first development platforms in the whole Bay Area, and even in the United States, that is entirely not pay to play. We have something called Roots Recognize Initiative, where we work with local youth clubs to find the best talent. The best talent at ages 14 -16 come to the Roots to train in our state of the art training environment, which was the old Oakland Raiders training grounds. We develop them, we provide them with professional resources, and we hone in on their abilities. It’s about finding real talent, then introducing them into the professional environment. This year we’ve had eight Academy contracts, which means that over the course of the past five years, eight young kids from the 510 are now playing for the first team. I would look into Athletic Bilbao in Spain as a kind of base for what we are trying to do locally, and really allow the focus and the core to be Oakland and the East Bay, and then that developing into the best talent in the world one day.
Rafa: And so you mentioned Athletic Bilbao football, are there other clubs that you pulled inspiration from?
Edreece: Yeah, we try to really focus on the model that we’re developing. It’s very easy to turn to other inspirations, but honestly, a big part of our motivation is to do it differently. Bilbao is one of the clubs that we look at as as a source of inspiration But in so much of our action, we’ve literally paved the path, whether it’s the fact that we broke the American sports history record for most raised by the community, $3.8 million now and 6000 plus investors, like that just doesn’t happen, and we’ve broke the boundaries there. The other way in which we’ve broken a boundary is our purpose work. We’re one of the first purpose-oriented pro teams in America, and that means that everything we do has a tie back to our community and in the way in which we impact it. It’s not that we’re perfect, but we’re certainly trying to be that for the community, and then that manifests in our curriculum. We’ve coached hundreds and thousands of coaches now on how to create a more inclusive game as it relates to gender and racial equity, and these are topics that teams are just not thinking about. We actually approached it as, what is Oakland doing that is inspiring, not other professional teams, and we use that as our source of inspiration.
Rafa: Going off of that, what does it mean to have local legends like Marshawn Lynch, Jason Kidd, and Gary Payton investing in the club?
Edreece: It always helps when you have buy-in from big names. It helps spread the word. There’s a sense of community. But one thing about that is that people from Oakland and from the Bay have a tremendous sense of pride of being from here, and we know that, and so working with these big names is actually a way for them to contribute back to the building of something meaningful. We’ve lost three pro teams. These pro teams were a source of inspiration. They’re a source of jobs. They’re a source of so much for the community, and the fact they’ve left, you see the impact of that. So for us, it’s really about getting the mobilizers, the galvanizers, together, and doing something positive for our community. And when you get big names involved it adds a lot of street cred. Having Marshawn, Billie Joe Armstrong, is also different in the sense that all of these people are hyper localized. They’re from here. It’s not that we’re getting people in our investment group that are not from the community; that is not Oakland, that is not East Bay.
Rafa: It’s still kind of a huge thing when you talk about the A’s, Raiders, and Warriors that gives me chills. How do you negotiate filling that sporting void and rebuilding trust within the Oakland sports community?
Edreece: Yeah, I mean, personally it sucks to lose all those teams. The A’s were my first sports experience ever, and that has a profound effect on my identity. It sucks to see that no longer be the case. And I grew up a Niners fan because when my dad came from Afghanistan, his first job was as a bank teller in San Francisco, and during one of his first gigs, he saw the championship parade with Montana, and that just stuck with him. And despite being born in Oakland, you know, I am a Niner fan. And so seeing the Raiders leave was devastating, because they actually were one of the most iconic sports brands I’ve ever seen. It’s just saddening to see that being stripped away from a community that shaped its identity so closely with the brand. The Warriors going to San Francisco is not as bad, but in my opinion, is still difficult. Playing in Oakland is different than playing in San Francisco. I respect the organization, but again, doubling down on the Town is super, super important and I take it personally, man. And that’s partially why I developed Oakland Roots. It’s to bring something back for myself personally, but also for people that are craving to see Oakland as a world class city. When people talk about the Bay Area, the culture is Oakland. It’s not San Francisco. The core of that culture is Oakland, California. We deserve to have world class sports organizations and hopefully Roots can play a role in that.
Rafa: Can you expand a little bit more on Oakland’s mentality, because a lot of people feel dissed with these teams leaving, right?
Edreece: No it definitely is the case. I think the thing we’re trying to do is move from this chip on the shoulder mentality to fully accepting that we are world class. So here’s the interesting thing about having a chip on your shoulder. It means that you haven’t accomplished something yet. It is because it insinuates that there’s a gap between the action and the reality. And what I want is to try to transition our mentality to taking Oakland to the universe because we deserve that. We are expecting anything to be given to us off of reputation we have to earn it. We have to develop the best brands and we have to develop the best product. We have to develop great experiences that are not replicable, right? Like the word always has to match the action, and that’s why I want to shift from chip on the shoulder to world class brand.It’s easier to focus on the work and to develop something that lets the work speak for itself, rather than to just be angry at the world because they don’t see you. And that’s how I’ve navigated it personally.That’s how we do it at the Roots.It’s not for everyone but if there’s a group of people that appreciate what we’re doing, there’s 8 billion people in the world. That means there’s more of those people that will like what we’re doing. You know, we sell merchandise in countries you would not even believe and it’s not that those people are from Oakland. They just rock with the idea of being who we are and connect to it.
Rafa: You’re talking about a mentality shift, right? I do think there is a stigma associated with Oakland. People would always ask me “oh you must be getting shot at all time” growing up and it develops that sense of insecurity..
Edreece: People fear what they don’t understand, man. A big part of everything in life is making a connection to people. You can’t accomplish anything in your life without human connection, period. Work life or personal life. Our obligation is to actually educate people on the reality and we try to do that with the club every day, whether it’s highlighting local restaurants, highlighting the beauty of Oakland, people don’t understand how large Oakland actually is. People don’t get that.We have an ocean, we have Redwood parks, we have literally everything you could possibly imagine in our landscape, and it is some of the best climate in the world, and so these are the stories we have to tell. And I think the media always will look to demonize whatever they can get their hands on, because that is what sells. That is what gets the clicks. I think it’s our job to create a different narrative, and we try to do that with the club. Let’s lead with love. Let’s lead with aesthetics, good design, positive experiences, winning world class football, and give no one an option but to speak positively on our community.
Rafa: What is that like now that you are moving into the Oakland Coliseum?
Edreece: I mean it’s responsibility, it’s heritage, it’s filling a void, but at the same time, it’s giving people a new experience. I take that as a tremendous responsibility, man. It’s exciting. It’s full circle. My first sporting experience of my life. Now the club I helped co-create is playing there. It’s kind of a wild trip but it also provides me with this strong sense of pride and just wanting to do whatever it takes to make it successful. So I’m excited for the home opener, and we’re looking to break a USL record for attendance. We’re going to have fireworks post game and Too Short performing at halftime. And it will be a cultural affair. It’ll be a family affair. Hopefully the Bay shows up and shows the world that Oakland never quits.
Rafa: I think about my nephew, he’s six, and was a big A’s fan. And now, my sister has to tell him the A’s are leaving the Town? So, when you think about the youth,what does that mean to you to be able to inspire the next generation with the Roots and Soul the way the A’s inspired you?
Edreece: I’ve already experienced young kids, 10 or 12 months old babies coming to a game and then a few years later I see the growth of that child at the games.It shapes their identity and their experiences. And I don’t take that lightly, either. Man, I mean I think that’s exactly what this club is here for. It’s creating a source of inspiration for people, a sense of unity and purpose too. And also like making sure that the team that’s playing looks like the community, right? Like having a Black and Brown kids see Black and Brown players perform at a high level and succeed; and to see Black and Brown men and women in positions of power within the front office and in soccer. We are one of the very few soccer teams that has a woman at the helm as president. These are all factors that contribute to the perception change and the motivation that young kids will have. So it’s a big part of it.
Rafa: So obviously you’re hitting a different level being in the Coliseum. What are some of the biggest challenges in terms of managing the growth of the club?
Edreece: Yeah, I mean, each phase of business is different, you know, there’s different needs. When we first started in 2019 It was literally three employees. Now we’re scaled to 100 employees on the game days.There’s complexities with each stage and I think the stage that we’re reaching is one that is more focused on real estate and making sure that we secure our training facility for the long term, making sure that we have an interim stadium to play, than building a stadium for the future. You know, so much of America’s Sports issues stem from infrastructure. The reason why these three teams left Oakland is because they didn’t have a pathway towards infrastructure. So we really are doubling down on that as a business, and that’s become priority one, two and three and again, “the more levels, the more devils” I think, is what LL Cool J said at some point. You just got to navigate those nuances and details and handle them.
Rafa: How do y’all manage that situation of public or private real estate investment?
Edreece: There’s so much to work through for the long term vision right now. There’s a pathway to staying at the Coliseum for several more years. I think that securing that is the number one priority, so that we can call that home and elevate Oakland Soul the professional next year, so that they have enough dates at the Coliseum. And then the business model will really start to work. We’re able to generate revenue meaningfully and the plan is to do the build of the stadium the way in which is best for this community. And I think that is the thing that most professional teams did not do. They did what’s best for the team, whether that’s public or private. That was something they couldn’t navigate properly. It’s our full intent to not get into this battle of asking people to fund our visions. That’s not a battle we want to be in as a purpose oriented professional team. So we will operate in the best way for our community. And it’s very clear that our community does not want projects at that scale funded publicly.
Rafa: So Roots are in the United Soccer League ( USL) Championship and the Soul are moving to the USL Super league? What has the transition been for the Soul?
Edreece: So right now the Soul are amateur and they’re playing at Merritt College. The elevation of professionals means that we have a women’s team at the highest level in the American soccer structure. It means that their resources become equitable to our men’s side. It means that they’ll have full access to our training facility, expanded staff, professional environment, and we’re putting the building blocks together now to make sure that that transition happens in a way that is amazing. That reflects our ambition to create an equitable platform for women. And there’s not been an equitable platform for women in American soccer so that is something that we’ve navigated very carefully to then get to a place of fruitful outcome.
Rafa: What are the goals for respective clubs this upcoming season?
Edreece: For Roots, it’s really creating world class soccer on the pitch, winning football. The goal is to really try to win a championship this year and make a gun for it, especially with us being in the Coliseum in a way that is meaningful. We want to continue to work on our real estate efforts, secure a training ground, secure our interim and long term homes. We want to meet our sponsorship goals and our ticketing goals. For the Soul it is to really develop a state of the art pathway to professional for next year. And for 510, try to develop the best possible talent pool for our first team ,and obviously try to continue to build the brand globally and make an impact.
Rafa: To wrap this up, what are some spots in town you go to decompress? Edreece: The lake. I usually go on a run every day at the lake in the evening to decompress and, you know, absorb the energy that is Oakland. There’s a lot of beauty around the lake that helps me. Redwood regional is always helpful. Going to dinner with my wife to our favorite spots, that’s key. There’s actually a new restaurant called Jaji, a modern Afghan restaurant that just opened yesterday. So if you’re ever here you should check it out. But yeah, sometimes just being in my apartment and seeing the view of downtown is enough to make me feel inspired.
Edreece Arghandiwal (he/him) is an Afghani American Oakland native. He is the co-founder and Co-founder and Chief Marketing Officer for Oakland Roots, Oakland Soul, Project 51O, a purpose driven football organization founded in 2018 . https://www.oaklandrootssc.com/
Rafa-1 is an Oakland writer and performer in the MFA Art and Social Practice Program at Portland State.
We Are What We Eat
“All of us already have a common connection to food, at least for most of us who have the privilege of having family dinners or gatherings. These foundational experiences are a great way to connect simply through the fact that most of us already grew up connecting through food. Food was the main point of why we gathered together.”
Richard Văn Lê
Growing up in a Vietnamese household, my childhood consisted of many special moments in the kitchen and around the dining room table. My grandmother was an amazing cook and always knew what ingredients could be missing with just a taste off her finger. She knew how to cook everything– Thịt kho, Bánh xèo, Bún riêu, Bánh hỏi, Bánh bao, Chả giò (to name just a few). Each week, my entire family would flock to our house to eat as a whole and always left with more for their next visit. These cook-ins were integral to the bond of our family; the adults would chit-chat and catch up while the kids enjoyed each other’s company. I grew up watching my mother help my grandmother prep ingredients, and as we all got older, my mother would take charge and I would be the one to help. Whether it was sharing a meal or helping in the process, the best connection often occurred during these moments and between. Seeing how food was so incredibly vital to strengthening bonds, I wanted to further investigate this relationship outside of the home. Because I grew up amidst many cultures that shared the same relationship with food, I already had an existing curiosity about food being a vessel for cultural exchange and understanding, as well as a great marker of identity and a reminder of home. For more insight, I decided to head towards the Alberta Arts District to speak with Richard Văn Lê, who co-owns the Vietnamese-American fusion brunch restaurant, Mémoire Cà Phê, and ask about his perspective of food being a channel for human connection and exchange.
As it turns out, Richard was my “rec leader” (‘rec’, as in ‘recreational’) leader for the San Jose City Parks and Recreation Department when I was a young student at Summerdale Elementary in San Jose, California. He was a part of a handful of adults hired to supervise children of working class families after school. I had reached out to Mémoire not knowing he was who he was. Prior to this interview, the last he had seen me I was still learning my time tables, and quite frankly, was a bit of a brat. But, who isn’t in 3rd grade?
Sarah: How would you describe your role at Mémoire?
Richard: My name is Richard Văn Lê. I’m the chef and co-owner of Mémoire. I made the savory food program here.
Sarah: Both of us come from San Jose, known to hold one of the largest Vietnamese populations out of Vietnam. Do you notice any differences in the community here versus the one we grew up in San Jose, whether it’s the food we eat or the different tastes?
Richard: The main difference is the accessibility for Vietnamese food. Obviously it is much higher in San Jose, whereas in Portland it’s still growing. I’m very privileged in the sense that I get to be a part of this new wave of Vietnamese businesses.
The benefit of growing up in San Jose is that we were exposed to so much Vietnamese culture, almost so much so that it was hard to find our own identity. Because we were so immersed in all of it, it was hard to be even sure where you could fit into all of that. When I moved to Portland, I was able to find a better sense of my identity because I was able to see that there wasn’t a huge community of Vietnamese people here. That gave me the ability to see how fortunate I was growing up to have a large Viet community and how important it was to my upbringing. Having that as a base layer was really profound, even in finding my own brand and figuring what that model was going to be and what Mémoire would be. Those building blocks helped build my overall identity.
Sarah: Your menu has a variety of many different ingredients that people familiar with Vietnamese cuisine may recognize. What do you hope people would take away from their dining experience here?
Richard: The goal with the menu here is to really just highlight those familiar ingredients. It’s not necessarily that we make Vietnamese food, it’s more that we make Vietnamese-American food where we can tie in together the diaspora of being American and having these Vietnamese flavors come through regardless of what vessel it’s put in.
For example, we do breakfast burritos, breakfast sandwiches and all that stuff, but all the flavors are still inherently Vietnamese. We want that essence to shine through our dishes.
Sarah: Are there any family recipes that inspire the items on your menu?
Richard: Definitely. The fish sauce bacon we make here is actually a rip off of Thịt Kho.
Sarah: Oh okay! Nice.
Richard: Yeah, I grew up making that, and I was taught by my family. My family’s own recipe is tied into the fish sauce bacon here. I also do a shrimp omelet that’s my mom’s recipe. She used to make that when I was growing up. Tomato, eggs, shrimp. I ate that a lot…
For the most part, we try to keep things real close to home. Mémoire as a business is built around paying homage to our lost parents. All three of the owners here have lost a parent. We keep ties to a familial connection.
Sarah: I’m so sorry, my condolences. Do you have any personal memories of food bringing people together in your life and do those memories influence your approach to Mémoire?
Richard: Yeah, I think here we make it a point to make it feel like you’re eating at someone’s house, as opposed to a restaurant. You want it to feel lively and fun. The music is a big part of that, and we try to make it feel like a house party. That’s the energy we want to bring! It’s a fun way to have the feeling of being in someone’s home but also pushing forward really fun food.
Sarah: Last Thanksgiving, I saw that you provided cooked meals to those in need, no questions asked. What inspired you to use food as a tool for building connections between communities?
Richard: Before Mémoire, we had a food cart called Matta and we were already giving out meals during COVID and holiday seasons. We figured that if we were going to get back to the feeling of community, a good way would be to give back in times of need to those who need company around the holidays, especially for those who are in scarce situations. It’s a great way for us to re-engage with our community. We’re not here to always make money.
As a business of course, making money is part of the game, but at the end of it all, we’re blessed that we’re even able to do this. So, a nice way to show our gratitude is to make food and serve it in hopes of making someone’s day.
I’m a transplant so I know what it feels like to not have anybody around during the holidays, so it’s a cool way to get everyone together, even for a short moment in time. So we try to keep that same tradition here Mémoire.
Sarah: That’s beautiful! I want to know, how has the local community embraced Mémoire? How have you connected with them aside from providing free meals?
Richard: I would say that because all three of us owners already have their individual businesses, we already built a large community around us to begin with. When we announced this project, even as a pop-up, we immediately got a huge response because people were just excited we were doing stuff together. The other owners—Kim and Lisa—they’re like my sisters. So we just spent a lot of time together to begin with and in a way that has translated into how people experience us as a business. Mémoire feels more like hanging out with all three of us.
Sarah: Do you think fusion cuisine plays a unique role in fostering understanding between different cultures?
Richard: I think there’s definitely a cool way to use fusion as a vessel in helping provide a new, yet not new, way of interpreting food. I think the food we do here is tied to aspects that are very inherently Vietnamese but there’s also certain aspects where you could have a very simple thing like a breakfast sandwich.
For instance, we have fish sauce in almost everything aside from the mushrooms we serve. It gives people the ability to try something that’s maybe a little unfamiliar in a vessel that is approachable and can open up to a bigger dialogue later.
Sarah: Have you noticed any moments where customers learned something new about Vietnamese culture through your food?
Richard: The biggest thing we heard the most excitement about is accompanying chili oil or Thai chili hot sauce to our food. Normally here, people are thrown back by the Thai chilis. They get a little thrown back, like “ooo, too spicy”, but the idea we try to bring across is that we find balance between all of these flavors. We try to market them to create a more open understanding. They learn that you can put these things on anything and it’ll make it taste better. That’s kind of what we’re trying to get across there.
Sarah: What do you think makes food uniquely powerful in bringing people together?
Richard: All of us already have a common connection to food, at least for most of us who have the privilege of having family dinners or gatherings. These foundational experiences are a great way to connect simply through the fact that most of us already grew up connecting through food. Food was the main point of why we gathered together.
If someone in my family was bringing in a big pot of Phở or Bún bò Huế, my whole family would come over and cycle through eating that big pot. In the same way we had that growing up, we have the same mentality here. We make a bunch of food and draw people together in a common space.
Sarah: Is there anything that you haven’t tried yet that you’re hoping to do in the future?
Richard: Yeah, I think Mémoire is still at its infant stage, so we’re still figuring out long staying items. For the most part, our items currently on our menu have been well received. I think the next step is to figure out how to scale it outside, because the space we’re in is really small. We’re eventually going to have to get a bigger space, and then maybe we’ll venture out with making stuff like Baos and the things most Viet kids grew up eating.
Sarah: Are there any local Vietnamese grocery stores that you shop at?
Richard: Hong Phat.
Sarah: Have you been to the new large one?
Richard: I haven’t yet. I’m so used to going to the small one. It’s my favorite. It just feels so much like home when I go there. It feels like San Jose when I go. Whenever I’m there it feels like I’m transported back to the hometown and I feel at ease. I know where everything is and how to get around, and they know me there too now, so it’s super cool to be able to immerse myself there.
Sarah: Wow, well thank you so much for your time. I think that’s all the questions I have for you. Thank you so much.
Richard: Thank you. Nice to see you again.
Richard Văn Lê is the chef and co-owner of Mémoire Cà Phê, a vietnamese-american brunch experience. He hails from the city of San Jose, CA, where he was immersed in a vast and eclectic Vietnamese community. Being exposed to that world allowed him to explore both sides of his identity. This space to explore allowed him to find the niche and introspective parts of Vietnamese and American food, creating bridges between the two and bringing projects such as mémoire to life. The food revolves around childhood memories, and some parts of it are homages to family and their impact on his life.
Sarah Luu is an interdisciplinary artist, writer and barista. She gravitates towards photography, ceramics, zines and print-making. As a first generation Asian American, her work has touched on themes of her mixed Vietnamese-Chinese identity, intergenerational trauma and tradition. She explores themes outside those topics by pulling inspiration from her lived experience growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area surrounded by a vibrant arts and music culture. She holds a BA in Studio Art, Preparation for Teaching from San Jose State University and is currently studying for an MFA in the Art and Social Practice program at Portland State University. She describes herself as “interdisciplinary in life”, having backgrounds in not only art but also dance, theater, music, community service, baking and coffee. Her favorite food at the moment is Bánh Canh and she can roller skate backwards.
Beyond the Cascade: To My Best Friend
“If you move somewhere new and don’t feel that sense of loss or unease, I’m not sure you’re fully engaging with the experience. It’s through those feelings that you grow, adapt, and ultimately transform.”
William Matheny
William and I first crossed paths a few years ago, just as the world stood on the brink of an event that would redefine our lives: the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020. From that fortuitous meeting, our lives became intertwined, woven together by a friendship that has navigated profound challenges and joys. Over the past five years, our bond has served as a lens through which we explore questions of human connection, cultural exchange, and resilience.
We share a background in graphic design, as well as the experience of not being from Portland. William is originally from Laurel, Mississippi, and I am from San José, Costa Rica. He was the first friend I made in the United States. This shared context has shaped our friendship, offering us insights into what it means to create a sense of belonging in a place far from home. Our conversations often touch on universal themes, from the expectations and realities of moving to a new city to the unexpected lessons of cross-cultural friendships.
In this interview, we reflect on our shared experiences and examine how friendship evolves across cultural and geographic boundaries, the concept of chosen family, and the role of art in fostering understanding. This is not just a conversation about us, but a broader exploration of the human condition—our struggles, hopes, and connections. This discussion is an invitation to consider how personal relationships can illuminate universal truths and inspire us toward a future where differences are not a weakness, but a strength.
Manfred Parrales: Moving often feels like being suspended between two worlds. How do you navigate the tension between the person you were before moving to Portland, Oregon, and the person you’ve become after sixteen years here? What’s your starting point?
William Matheny: I’m William Matheny, 39 years old, originally from Laurel, Mississippi—though I haven’t lived there for the past 16 years. My journey to Portland started in an unexpected way. I was studying design at the University of Southern Mississippi, but after just one semester, I realized I couldn’t stay in Mississippi any longer. It just hit me one day—I needed to leave.
I picked three schools to apply to and decided that whichever one accepted me first would be where I’d go. As it turned out, the first acceptance letter came from a school in Portland, Oregon. Six months later, I packed my things, moved here, and started school. I graduated, decided to stay, and, well, the rest is history.
Manfred: How do you define the person you were before leaving Mississippi and the person you’ve become after sixteen years?
William: When I moved to Portland, I was 22. Now I’m 39. That’s 16, almost 17 years of growth, and I can confidently say I’m a completely different person than I was back then.
What stands out most about that time is the culture shock I experienced upon arriving in Portland. Coming from such a staunchly Republican and conservative environment, the contrast was stark. Growing up gay in Mississippi was an experience I didn’t realize was so unique—or even unusual—until I moved here. It wasn’t until I left that I began to understand just how different my upbringing was from the values and culture of this part of the world. Portland, in many ways, felt like a completely different planet.
There was a significant tension within me as I adjusted. It took years of unlearning and challenging the old ideas I had about how the world worked, or how my life was “supposed” to be. Letting go of those ingrained notions was difficult, but it was also transformative. It reshaped how I see myself and how I navigate the world.Moving to Portland allowed me to grow into the person I truly am. I could never have done that staying in Mississippi. Living here gave me the space to discover more of myself—my identity, my values, and my sense of belonging—in ways I never imagined possible back home. For that, I’m deeply grateful.
Manfred: When you leave a place you call home to build a new life—pursuing a dream, a career, love, or a job—there’s often a sense of loss. Did you feel that sense of loss when you moved from Mississippi to Portland?
William: When I left Mississippi and moved to Portland, the first six months were incredibly difficult. I struggled so much with the adjustment. In fact, six months after arriving, I called my mom and told her to buy me a ticket home. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I missed my friends and the familiarity of everything I had left behind. It felt overwhelming.
But my mom, being the wise person she is, told me, “You said you wanted to do this. Stick to it. I’m not buying you a ticket back home. Give it a year and see what happens.” That tough love was one of the best things she ever did for me. What felt like the hardest, scariest thing I’d ever done—leaving behind everything and everyone I knew to move to a completely unfamiliar place—ended up being a pivotal moment in my life. It was my first major life shift, and in many ways, it prepared me for others that followed.
I think that sense of loss, that discomfort, is a necessary part of growth. If you move somewhere new and don’t feel that sense of loss or unease, I’m not sure you’re fully engaging with the experience. It’s through those feelings that you grow, adapt, and ultimately transform. It’s not easy, but it’s essential.
William 2 years old (1987). Photo courtesy by William Matheny. / William, dos años (1987). Fotografía cortesía de William Matheny.
Manfred: How do you think moving challenges the concept of home? Can we ever truly belong to a single place?
William: That’s a tough one—can we ever truly belong to a single place? Honestly, I’m not sure. Even now, after all these years in Portland, I sometimes feel restless, like it doesn’t always feel like “home.” Moving has really challenged my understanding of what home even means. I’ve come to see it less as an external place and more as something internal—about who you are and who you’re with, rather than where you are.
That said, I do believe there are places we’re drawn to, places that call to us in a way that feels significant. Those places can be “home,” but I don’t think we’re limited to just one. I completely agree that we can have more than one home, and we can find home in people as much as in places.
Ultimately, though, I think the most important kind of home is the one we create within ourselves. That’s the only thing that’s ever truly ours. It’s not tied to geography or circumstance—it’s something we carry with us, no matter where we go.
Manfred: You’ve had your own experiences building community, friendships, and relationships across different cultures. In our friendship, William, do you think friendships like ours—built across cultural and geographic divides—help foster deeper understanding of each other? What moments of tension or misunderstanding have led to a deeper insight about ourselves and each other?
William: I think the biggest thing I’ve learned from our friendship and from my relationships with other people from different cultures is the realization of the privilege I’ve had growing up, and still have, simply by being from the United States.
Seeing people I love deeply struggle just to find work, just to stay in this country, just trying to survive here—it’s made me realize the extent of that privilege. The ability to travel freely, to have access to opportunities… I was really ignorant about that before meeting so many people who are struggling in ways that I couldn’t even imagine.
I think what’s been really eye-opening for me is understanding how, no matter how hard people try, they don’t always have the same access or permission to be here. And even for those who do manage to stay, they still don’t have the same access to resources that people from the U.S. do. That’s been a tough pill to swallow. But I also think that learning about these things and having conversations with people about them has really deepened my relationships. It’s made me more aware, more compassionate. And honestly, it’s changed me for the better.
Manfred: Do you have a specific memory related to that, something that comes to mind or to your heart, when you think about all the people you’ve met throughout your life, here in Portland and perhaps back home?
William: I think the memory that stands out most to me is from meeting a few people here in Portland who came with certain citizenships or visas, or who were here for school, and it never even crossed my mind that they might not be able to stay.
But then, to learn that there’s this hard deadline, and that there’s absolutely nothing anyone can do to help them stay here, was a huge shock. It was a real eye-opener for me. To find out that there are only a few legal ways to stay in the country, and that many of those options are just not accessible to most people who are here—it really made me realize how much I didn’t know about the immigration process. It was kind of mind-blowing.
Manfred: Part of these experiences require a lot of listening to others. How does the act of listening, especially across differences—like with people from other places and cultures—become a radical form of connection and understanding for you?
William: I think more than anything, in any type of relationship—whether it’s a friendship, family, or romantic relationship—listening is absolutely paramount. It’s essential to having a genuine relationship with anyone.
I’ve learned over time to listen to people naturally, but I’ve also encountered many individuals who speak over others or simply don’t listen. The feeling of not being heard is really intense, and I personally experienced that at a young age—not being heard or seen. Because of that, I think I learned early on how important it is to listen to people.
Will’s 3rd birthday party (1988). Photo courtesy of William Matheny. / Fiesta de cumpleaños de Will, 3 años (1988). Fotografía cortesía de William Matheny.
Manfred: Loneliness is something everyone experiences at different stages of life, often as a deeply personal pain despite being a universal experience. Do you believe that moments of shared vulnerability in friendships can help combat loneliness? What are your thoughts on the relationship between loneliness and friendship?
William: Yeah, absolutely. I think friendship is a balm for the soul—100%. I definitely believe it helps combat loneliness, though I don’t think it solves everything. Loneliness, in some ways, feels like a necessary part of being human. I think those moments of solitude can uncover things about ourselves that we might not discover otherwise.
But when it comes to friendship, it ties back to listening and being heard. When someone truly hears us, when they see us for who we are, that feels like medicine for the soul. Friendship combats loneliness by allowing us to share ourselves with others and to feel connected in a way that’s deeply affirming. And when we reciprocate that, it becomes a shared experience that has the power to heal.
Manfred: Has there been a moment in your life when you experienced a deep sense of loneliness?
William: I’ve actually experienced loneliness quite a lot in my life. It’s something that changes as we grow older. As we age, loneliness takes on different forms. There are expectations we have when we’re younger—about what life should look like—that we eventually have to grieve when things don’t unfold the way we envisioned. That kind of realization can bring its own unique loneliness.
I’m not afraid of loneliness anymore, though I certainly wouldn’t want to be lonely forever. There’s a difference between the kind of loneliness we can grow from and deeper loneliness that leads to depression—that’s a different, much harder experience. But where I am now, I see loneliness as something I can move through, something that can coexist with joy and connection. And of course, friendship is an incredible balm for the soul in those moments.
Manfred: You’re a graphic designer and artist, and art has been an important part of your life. How has your artistic journey evolved over the past fifteen or sixteen years, and how do you see art as a tool for building bridges across cultures, friendships, and relationships?
William: Visual design has been a skill that came naturally to me—it’s something I’ve honed over the years and used as a creative outlet. But when I think about my artistic journey, I realize that my creativity has always been bigger than just one medium. I’ve dabbled in many forms of expression, whether it’s photography, music (which was my first love), or visual design. Each of these outlets has served a different purpose in helping me connect with others and process the world around me.
Art, for me, is inherently communal. For instance, being part of the LGBTQ+ choir was an amazing way to build community. We were creating something together, expressing emotions, and telling stories that resonated on a deeply human level. Photography is another example—when I collaborate with someone on a project, it’s more than just taking pictures; it’s about creating something meaningful together, forming bonds through shared experiences.
What I love most about art is its ability to take something abstract—an emotion, a thought, or an experience—and make it tangible, something others can see, hear, or feel. It’s a way of saying, “This is what I’m feeling, and I want to share it with you.” That’s where art becomes a universal language.
The most powerful thing about art is its ability to transcend cultural and geographic boundaries. Whether it’s a piece of music, a photograph, or a design, art taps into universal emotions. A song, for example, can evoke the same feelings in someone in the U.S. as it does in someone in a completely different part of the world. It’s a shared experience that reminds us of our common humanity.
Right now, I’m rediscovering some of my creative outlets like photography and music, and it’s been a wonderful way to connect with people. Art provides a shared space for dialogue and understanding. I absolutely believe that art is a powerful tool for bringing people together, for building community, and for fostering understanding across differences.
William Matheny’s Senior Thesis Exhibition (Part 5 of a 12 piece silk screen installation): PNCA (2011). Photo courtesy of William Matheny. / Exposición de la tesis de licenciatura de William Matheny (Parte 5 de una instalación de 12 piezas de serigrafía): PNCA (2011).Fotografía cortesía de William Matheny.
Manfred: What’s a good or bad memory of friendship that comes to mind for you?
William: One great memory that stands out to me is when we went to see Sarah McLachlan in Bend, Oregon. That was such a good time! We were surrounded by a lot of white folks, but we were just living it up and having a blast together. It was freezing cold, and we ended up drinking a lot of liquor just to stay warm—it was hilarious and so much fun.
Another favorite memory is when you first moved here, and we used to hang out at my place every Thursday evening. We’d listen to the same playlist every time, starting with Regina Spektor, throwing in some Ani DiFranco, Tori Amos and even sneaking in a little Taylor Swift. It became this beautiful tradition that I’ll always treasure.
And you know what else I love? Taking trips with friends from other places. Seeing the area through their eyes makes it feel new again, like when we explored different parts of Oregon together. Those moments, those adventures—those are the ones I’ll always remember fondly.
Manfred: What do you think our friendship says about the broader human experience?
William: I think our friendship is a perfect encapsulation of everything we’ve been talking about. It shows that as human beings, we’re deeply capable of connection—regardless of where we come from.
Honestly, I don’t subscribe to all the divisive narratives happening right now, especially in the U.S., where there’s so much emphasis on labeling people by their origin. Where we come from is something we can’t control, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the character of a person. I don’t understand how anyone could look at another person and reduce them to just that one aspect of their identity.
Our friendship is proof that coming from different places isn’t something that divides us—it’s actually something that connects us. It’s a beautiful thing that broadens our minds and forces us to grow.To me, it’s a testament to how life is made better by diversity. Our friendship reminds me how wonderful life can be when we embrace all those differences as strengths rather than barriers.
Manfred: What’s something you’ll remember about all these years of friendship?
William: I think what I’d hold onto the most is personal—it’s about you and the unique bond we share. It feels like we’ve truly seen each other in ways that go beyond words, and I’ll always treasure that.
Honestly, being your friend has felt like we’ve known each other forever, like we’re family in some cosmic way. You feel like a brother to me, like we’ve been connected in some other lifetime or through some unexplainable force. I can’t imagine my life without having known you, and that’s such a powerful thing to carry forward.
Every friendship plants a seed of hope in us. Hope that we’ll be seen, loved, and understood—not just once, but over and over again. Our friendship has been a gift in that way. It’s not just the joy of being loved and understood but also the reassurance that those moments of connection can’t be taken away.
The way we’ve experienced and understood each other is entirely unique. No one else will see me the way you have, and no one else will see you the way I do. That’s what makes it so special.
We often talk about the concept of chosen family in the LGBTQ+ community, and after all these years, I know that’s what we are. It’s incredible that someone from Costa Rica and someone from Mississippi could form such a deep connection, but here we are. At this point in our lives, you are my chosen family, and I want to carry that with me until my last day on this earth.
Thank you, Manfred, for being that person in my life.
William’s self portrait (2025). Photo courtesy of William Matheny. / Autorretrato de William (2025). Fotografía cortesía de William Matheny.
William Matheny (He/him) is a visual designer and artist living in Portland, Oregon by way of South Mississippi. He has a BFA in Communication Design from the Pacific Northwest College of Art and 11+ years of print and visual design experience. When he isn’t working as a visual design lead as part of Nike’s greater Innovation Team, he enjoys hiking throughout the Pacific Northwest, taking photos with his Fujifilm X-T50, or studying music.
Manfred Parrales (He/his) is a multidisciplinary Latin artist whose practice bridges design, art history, social practice art, video, and community building. With a strong foundation in art history and visual communication, he integrates diverse media and collaborative methodologies into his work, positioning art as a vehicle for collective dialogue rather than individual expression.
His work reflects a commitment to social practice art, video, education, and research, exploring themes and projects that address nostalgia, transition, loneliness, memory, and identity. His professional trajectory has led him across Latin America and the United States, where he has gained extensive experience in museum curation, community institutions,education, tech companies, video production and video art.
He holds a BFA in Art History from University of Costa Rica, studies in Graphic Design from University of Costa Rica and a MFA in Contemporary Art Practice: Art and Social Practice from Portland State University.
The Path Taken
“After every program, I hear feedback that makes me think, “I’m so glad we did this.” That kind of reaction is the greatest motivation for me.”
Dr. Masami Nishishiba
The Japanese Local Government Management Training Program (JaLoGoMa), organized by the Center for Public Service at Portland State University (PSU), is a special program designed to help develop capacities for community development in Japan. It has been held every summer since 2004 and is open to those from Japan who are interested in building community, regardless of their English proficiency or professional background.
Since its inception, Dr. Masami Nishishiba has served as the program director, and the program has impacted numerous local government officials and community development professionals. These include civil servants, politicians, nonprofit workers, professors, and engaged citizens. Various stakeholders in community development come together to share experiences, engage in discussions, and learn from one another.
The program now has over 600 graduates across Japan. Although they are based in different regions, they remain connected through the alumni network, striving to make a positive impact in their respective fields with a shared vision of a better world. Despite facing numerous challenges over the years, the program has continued to grow and evolve, sustained by the dedication and tireless efforts of its volunteers and staff.
In the summer of 2024, I had the opportunity to assist with JaLoGoMa for the first time. The experience was profoundly impactful, as I found many elements resonated with social practice. At the beginning of the program, Dr. Nishishiba introduced the concept of “seeing things through our own internal sunglasses.” She explained that we all carry assumptions shaped by our past experiences and learning—preconceived notions that influence how we perceive the world. She likened this to seeing the world through “sunglasses” and encouraged participants to recognize the lenses they were wearing, let go of assumptions, and approach things with a fresh, open mind.
I believe that art breaks down deeply ingrained assumptions and biases, offering new perspectives, broadening our worldview, and fostering personal growth. As an artist engaged in both practice and research, I have often been struck by Dr. Nishishiba’s flexibility and insight—sometimes even deeply moved. Through my conversations with her, I became aware of my own “sunglasses,” such as the assumption that “those who study public administration aren’t as creative as those in the arts.” These moments have revealed vulnerabilities, anger, pain, and hopes within myself that I had never recognized before, often bringing me to tears as I shed those assumptions.
In this interview, I had the opportunity to learn about Dr. Nishishiba’s journey. To accommodate her post-surgery speech impairment, we used Google Docs as an online collaborative platform. The interview was originally conducted in Japanese and has been translated into English.
Midori Yamanaka: I understand you studied linguistics in Japan and worked as an interpreter for prominent figures like President Jimmy Carter and Bill Gates. Later, you moved to the U.S. and pursued studies at PSU. Could you share how your journey eventually led to research?
Dr. Masami Nishishiba (Masami-sensei): When I first moved to the U.S. because of my husband’s work, I intended to continue my career as an interpreter. However, I didn’t have a work visa and was unable to work at all. For a while, I commuted between Japan and the U.S. to continue my Japan-based interpreter work, but that arrangement had its limits.
At that time, an acquaintance introduced me to PSU’s graduate school. Thinking that it might be beneficial for my interpreting career, I enrolled in the Master’s program in Communication Studies. As I progressed, I found the research aspect incredibly engaging, which eventually led me to pursue a doctoral program in Public Administration and Policy at PSU.
Midori: So, becoming a researcher wasn’t your original plan when you started grad school?
Masami-sensei: That’s right. During my Master’s program, I worked on a thesis that involved data analysis using Multidimensional Scaling (MDS). That became a turning point. To learn more about the analytic process, I teamed up with three other colleagues to launch a research project. We aimed for conference presentations and worked together, exchanging ideas, debating, and navigating challenges. That experience was inspiring and made me realize how fascinating research can be, and I wanted to dive deeper into it. Ultimately, this experience solidified my decision to pursue a doctoral degree. Interestingly, among the four of us who worked on the research project together, all three Japanese members went on to pursue doctoral programs at different institutions.
Midori: That’s incredible! It’s truly rewarding for a university when students become so deeply engaged in their learning journey.
Masami-sensei: Indeed. My research journey eventually reconnected me to my interpreting background in unexpected ways. Through JaLoGoMa, I’ve had the opportunity to interpret, develop and teach an interpretation class at PSU, and take part in a grant project focused on interpreter education. These experiences have allowed me to continue working as an interpreter in a new capacity.
Midori: Wow! It sounds like everything came together as you followed your interests and curiosity.
By the way, you currently hold multiple roles: you’re a professor in the Department of Public Administration, Director of the Hatfield School of Government, Interim Director of the Nonprofit Institute, Program Director of the Public Affairs and Policy Doctoral Program, and you also direct special programs such as JaLoGoMa. How did you learn to take on and manage such diverse responsibilities? You seem to balance specialization with a wide range of leadership roles. How do you approach that?
Masami-sensei: I’d say that when it comes to management, my background in public administration helped me figure out how I approach things. Whether it’s leading a project or managing a team, I often find myself drawing on the theoretical frameworks and concepts from public administration. Conversely, being involved in actual administrative work also helps me see the gaps in theory, which can be quite enlightening. I make a conscious effort to integrate my teaching, research, and administrative work into a cohesive whole—that’s how I approach scholarship as an academic.
And, whenever I’m given an opportunity, even if it feels daunting, I try not to shy away from it but take on the challenge. Whether it’s an opportunity or a problem, I take time to think carefully, approach it step by step, and make sure to respond thoroughly. And above all, I try not to give up easily. Having perseverance and not giving up are principles I’ve always held onto.
Midori: Speaking of which, I remember the JaLoGoMa team members once saying, “We’re a group that just refuses to give up.” That must be your influence, Masami-sensei! Where does your “never give up” spirit come from?
Masami-sensei: I think it’s mainly my personality. As a child, my parents always told me, “If you start something, see it through to the end.” I’ve always disliked leaving things unfinished and prefer to keep going until I’m satisfied. That’s probably why, even with projects and programs, it feels natural to me to find ways to keep them going, ensuring that the energy and effort already invested don’t go to waste.
Midori: Was it the same with JaLoGoMa?
Masami-sensei: Yes. Throughout my career, I have fought to preserve three programs that faced the threat of discontinuation: the Executive MPA, the Nonprofit Institute’s Program Evaluation Certificate, and JaLoGoMa.
The most recent case was the Executive MPA, an accelerated public administration master’s program designed for experienced professionals. The Dean proposed placing it on moratorium due to university-wide budget cuts, despite its financial and academic value. Recognizing its uniqueness and the faculty’s long-standing efforts to develop it, I strongly opposed the decision. During my tenure as Department Chair, the program played a crucial role in student enrollment, and its suspension could have jeopardized a major donation from one of its founding faculty members, Dr. Doug Morgan. I advocated for its continuation by presenting a detailed case to the Dean and coordinating appeals from alumni and Dr. Morgan. As a result, the decision was temporarily withdrawn, with its future contingent on upcoming enrollment numbers.
The NPI Program Evaluation Certificate faced a different challenge. Initially grant-funded, it struggled after transitioning to a tuition-based model. When I stepped in as Interim Director of NPI, I had to find a way to sustain it. Careful financial management and participant recruitment helped in the short term, but the real turning point came in 2020, when we moved the program online. This shift significantly reduced costs and broadened access to participants across the U.S. and internationally. Additionally, new funding from the Oregon Health Authority allowed nonprofit organizations to receive subsidies, boosting enrollment in 2021. While I wasn’t involved in the program’s creation, I recognized its value and worked to ensure its survival. It has since become a cornerstone of NPI and a vital resource for the community.
And then there’s JaLoGoMa. When the Tokyo Foundation announced in 2016 that they would be terminating the “Tokyo Foundation Weekend School,” the precursor to JaLoGoMa, I was extremely frustrated.
Since the Tokyo Foundation was the primary “funder and organizer” while PSU was essentially a “subcontractor” for program implementation, it was not surprising that the foundation would unilaterally decide not to continue the contract and simply communicate their decision to us. After all, it was within their rights to end the contract without consulting us. However, when I received the notification, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of frustration. The thought of losing the expertise and know-how that had been cultivated over the past 12 years was particularly painful.
The first step I took was to confirm with the Tokyo Foundation that PSU would have their blessing to continue running the program independently. Once I secured their approval, I brought the JaLoGoMa team at PSU together and shared my idea to keep offering JaLoGoMa independently from the Tokyo Foundation. I acknowledged that while we might no longer have the financial backing to maintain the “Cadillac-level” program we had under the foundation, we could potentially pivot to a more efficient and sustainable “Toyota-like” program, leveraging participant fees and preserving the core expertise and methodology we had cultivated. I asked, “What do you think? Should we try this?” Deep down, I had already resolved, “We have to make this work, no matter what.”
Thankfully, the team—though I don’t recall exactly who was present at the time (likely Yachi, Dan, Randy, Chips, Yuko, and Naoko)—responded with an enthusiastic, “Let’s do it!” This marked the shift toward JaLoGoMa as it exists today: a program open not only to municipal employees but also to anyone with an interest in community development. Despite the ups and downs we’ve faced along the way, the program has managed to endure.
Looking back on the journey of keeping these programs alive, I’ve come to recognize that the three key factors played a crucial role in my decision to “not give up.” First, an unwavering belief in the significance and value of the programs themselves gave me a conviction that I should somehow figure out how to continue the programs. Second, the support of a dedicated team. In the case of JaLoGoMa, it was the collective determination of the team members who rallied behind the idea that “this program is worth continuing” that made it possible to persist. The other two programs I’ve mentioned also benefited immensely from the solidarity of those working alongside me.
Finally, the third factor was a personal one: the energy I derive from what I would describe as “a sense of indignation.” This feeling of frustration often fueled my determination. That “indignation” transformed into a competitive drive—a kind of defiant resolve to prove, “Just watch me, I’ll keep this going.” Whether it was my resistance to the Dean and Department Chair in the case of the Executive MPA, dissatisfaction with the previous director’s decision to step down without laying out any pathways for the the Nonprofit Institute’s Program Evaluation Certificate, or my frustration with the Tokyo Foundation in the case of JaLoGoMa, these emotions became powerful motivators.
Reflecting on all of this now, I realize that I’ve gained new insights into myself—things I wasn’t fully conscious of before.
Midori: I’m glad to hear that! From what I know of you, you’re always so calm, and it’s hard to imagine you ever being angry—but your determination is truly remarkable!
JaLoGoMa really is an extraordinary program. I heard from Yachi (Yachiyo Iisako, International Program Manager for the Center for Public Service at PSU and a long term staff member of JaLoGoMa) that, when it came to JaLoGoMa in 2024, the team considered the possibility of proceeding with the program without you if your health wasn’t well enough. However, as the program date approached, they saw you growing more and more energetic, which only strengthened their resolve. Even Yachi and Yuko (Yuko Solbach, also a long term staff member of JaLoGoMa) were saying, “We absolutely have to run JaLoGoMa.” It seems that JaLoGoMa holds a very special place in your heart. Could you share more about that? What was going on with you at that time?
Masami-sensei: Regarding my illness, I underwent my first surgery and radiation therapy in June 2011. Since then, I had a second surgery in 2014, chemotherapy and immunotherapy in 2020, and another round of chemotherapy starting in June of last year. Each treatment came with different progress and side effects, but every time, the goal of “returning to work” became my driving force for recovery.
JaLoGoMa, in particular, is the longest-running program I’ve been involved with, starting right after I completed my doctoral program. It has become what I would call my “life’s work.” Last year, after four years of online sessions, we finally had the chance to hold it in person again, and I was determined—absolutely determined—to make it happen. While there are several programs and projects I truly enjoy, JaLoGoMa stands out as my absolute favorite, holding a very special place in my heart.
Midori: Wow! That’s incredible! What makes it so enjoyable for you?
Masami-sensei: There are several elements that make the program enjoyable. First and foremost is the team. Working with colleagues I’ve been collaborating with for years, brainstorming ideas and discussing “this and that” freely as we build the program, is truly enjoyable.
Second, it’s the participants’ reactions. Each year brings different responses, but after every program, I hear feedback that makes me think, “I’m so glad we did this.” That kind of reaction is the greatest motivation for me.
And third, it’s the intellectual fulfillment I get from developing the program’s fundamental concepts. Last year, when I was still in the hospital, Yachi came to visit and said, “We need to start deciding on the JaLoGoMa program outline.” At that time, I was feeling quite unwell, but when Yachi showed me the program calendar and plan, I felt a surge of energy. We sat together at a table, discussing things like, “Let’s organize it this way, invite this speaker, and plan that,…” and I found myself invigorated. By the time the conversation ended, I genuinely thought, “That was so much fun.”
As part of my treatment, I work with a counselor, and she has told me that in my case, work brings me joy and serves as the driving force that gets me out of bed every day. That’s why it’s so important for me to keep enjoying my work. Among all my projects, JaLoGoMa stands out as “super fun” work—it’s truly special to me.
Midori: Super fun work! That’s wonderful! Listening to your story, I was reminded that even when working within organizations and systems, it’s ultimately up to us to shape our own lives. By holding on to what we believe in, acting without giving up easily, and finding joy in the process, we create something that later becomes a source of strength for ourselves.
Masami Nishishiba (she/her) is a Professor of Public Administration at Portland State University, holding leadership roles as Director of the Hatfield School of Government, Interim Director of the Nonprofit Institute, and Program Director of the Public Affairs and Policy Doctoral Program.
She earned a Bachelor’s degree in Linguistics From Osaka University and began her career in the International Affairs Department at the Kansai Economic Federation before transitioning to work as a Japanese-English conference interpreter. In 1991, she relocated to the United States, where she later earned a Master’s degree in Communication Studies (1998) and a Ph.D. in Public Administration and Policy (2003) from Portland State University. Her expertise includes civic engagement, multiculturalism, and intercultural communication. Diagnosed with tongue cancer in 2011, she underwent partial tongue removal surgery and continues to receive treatment while actively pursuing her work.
Midori Yamanaka (she/her) is an artist and educator based in Portland, Oregon. Her work traverses cultures, exploring commonalities, differences, and the spaces in between. She is devoted to discovering how art can open new perspectives, nurture understanding, and weave stronger social connections. She holds a BFA in Graphic Design from the Art Center College of Design and is currently pursuing an MFA in Art and Social Practice at Portland State University. Midori develops socially engaged projects that connect art and community.
Cover
This issue’s cover captures a quiet moment during the breakfast hour of our annual program retreat. Held each fall, the retreat marks the beginning of a new school year—a time when students from across the United States and around the world gather to reconnect after summer or embark on their first steps in the program. It’s a space to share perspectives, exchange experiences, and spark the connections that will shape the year ahead.
In a time of global uncertainty, this issue’s contributors explore the steady and transformative power of daily life. Through the simple acts of waking, eating, connecting with others, and building relationships within a community, they highlight how resilience, creative exploration, and social practice give us strength.
This issue invites readers to rediscover the profound impact of creating and connecting—even in turbulent times—and reminds us of the enduring power of art and human connection to inspire meaningful change.
Letter from the Editors
Can a place be a mentor? How about a disagreement? What can we learn from a beloved daily practice like singing or swimming? This fall we kick off the school year by paying homage to our teachers, be they people, moments, movements, or dilemmas.
In this issue we meet a swim enthusiast and zine fanatic who help us see our hobbies as sites for artistic research. We reconnect with close friends and mentors both old and new who show us how their practices in music, photography, or shared cultural experiences provide a fresh lens in which to investigate this moment in time. A security guard and a cultural worker whose understandings of the world differ from many of our own invite us to clarify our own views and revision the world we want to live in.
These exchanges seem to suggest that the deepest lessons are often happening outside of the classroom altogether, in places we might least expect. So as long as we keep paying attention and asking questions, we’ll never run out of opportunities to learn more about ourselves and each other. Which then begs the question: Who taught you something today?
Your editors,
Nina Vichayapai, Lou Blumberg, Clara Harlow
