Sofa Issues

Let Singing Serve the City

“Rise above all of that and ask, “How can I make the world a better place?” For me, that’s the only job we have: to make the world a better place. How you do it doesn’t matter—whether you’re teaching, singing, or picking up garbage—everything has its own value.”

– Mari Schay

Mari and I met during my summer job as a peer mentor for incoming freshman students at Portland State University. Mari was the teacher for our class, preparing these fresh-out-of-high-school students to pursue creative studies at PSU. It was a really interesting role, especially because I was not only a mentor for these students, but also lived with them in the dorms and hosted various engaging activities to help familiarize them with the campus and make them comfortable. These activities included, but were not limited to, doing henna tattoos in the dorm, playing hide-and-seek in the science building late at night, and guiding walks around downtown Portland. I showed them important tips, like how to get into the art museum for free and where to find art supplies without burning a hole in their pockets. Together with Mari, we created a fun start to their school experience—something I personally wish I could have had when I came to this school exactly one year ago.

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Simeen Anjum: How did you end up here at Portland State, in Lincoln Hall, in this room?

Mari: I grew up with a musician mom and started playing classical guitar at 8. I later switched to percussion and drums. In college at Willamette University, I initially wanted to major in Russian but the teacher scared me, so then I decided to major in English, but I was in music classes, and I just kind of got more and more into playing and practicing. By the time I was in my second year of college, I was working really hard and making a lot of improvement and kind of getting a lot of recognition for the work that I was doing.

At first, I didn’t want to be a teacher, but I realized that getting a teaching license would let me stay in school and keep practicing. I went to the Cincinnati Conservatory as a graduate teaching assistant, and while I didn’t enjoy the experience overall, I discovered that teaching was the part I liked the most. That got me thinking about a career in education.

After moving to Texas, I taught middle school and then elementary school for 23 years. When a position opened at Portland State University, a former student teacher encouraged me to apply, and I ended up getting the job. So, this is my fourth year in this building, in this office, and in this role.

Simeen: You’ve spent a lot of time teaching despite not initially planning to be a teacher. What aspects of the profession drew you in and made you enjoy it?

Mari: Yeah, it definitely wasn’t my plan. From my second year of college through grad school, I practiced six to eight hours a day and rehearsed with bands for another four or five hours. I eventually hit a plateau in my progress.

I realized I didn’t want to play in an orchestra, which is what I thought I was training for. I prefer playing a variety of music, especially modern and avant-garde pieces. The idea of repeating the same works year after year just didn’t engage me, and I found myself drifting away from that world.

I started teaching classes at the conservatory, and I enjoyed it. But it wasn’t until my second full-time teaching job that I truly found my passion, especially working with special education students—kids with Down syndrome, severe autism, and other disabilities. Their pure and joyful approach to life inspired me and made me realize that music could be a wonderful way to connect with kids while teaching them.

A few years later, I became really interested in curriculum development and how to help people change what they know and what they can do. I focused on the steps and sequencing involved in that process. I became invested in helping others learn, just as I had been with my own music. Now, what drives me is finding ways to help people see their potential and feel empowered in their own learning journey.

Simeen: I think that’s really special! What do you aim to give to the students you teach?

Mari: I think it’s about agency. Everyone is a learner, and even if you don’t identify as a scholar or academic, I believe everyone is curious. Sometimes, the education system can make learning feel less enjoyable.

If we provide people with experiences that help them see their curiosity and encourage them to explore it on their own, they don’t necessarily need a teacher; they just need their own inspiration. In that way, there are really no limits to what they can accomplish. And by “accomplish,” I don’t mean just tangible things like papers or projects, but rather a meaningful way of living.

So yeah, I think the thing to give people is a belief that they can learn, but also that they have to learn.

Simeen: It makes me think about what going to college really means and what value it holds.

Mari: For many of our students, especially first-generation students, college doesn’t feel like the next natural step. There’s often a lot of self-doubt and fear about whether they’re ready for this journey.

College is broadly seen as a way to get a better job, and while that’s true, it should also be a path to discovering your passion. Ideally, your job should nourish you and prevent burnout because it’s something you love doing. I hope that for every college student, something sparks their curiosity—that feeling where you just have to pursue what excites you.

I feel lucky to have had a fulfilling life, and I want to help others find that too.

In the arts, it’s often easier to encourage this exploration because you’re already challenging societal norms that push you toward more conventional paths.

Simeen: You mentioned creating an inspiring environment for students coming to college. Do you think there are specific actions we, as students or the PSU community, can take to make this a better environment for everyone?

I feel like we often cap people by saying, “You’re good at this” or “You’re not good at this.” Sometimes, there’s an attitude that if you’re not good enough, you don’t belong here. But belonging is essential—it’s what makes you want to be part of a community and feel that you have a place in the world. Anything that doesn’t support that sense of belonging shouldn’t be part of our environment. We’re not Harvard or an elite conservatory.

There’s some confusion about what our university’s mission should be, especially behind closed doors—in the music department and, I’m sure, in the arts and other fields as well. It often feels like the message is, “You’re not good enough to even start.” I don’t understand that because you can’t know what someone is capable of until you give them the opportunity to try.

When I first got here, a teacher—who has since retired—said that if you come here and aren’t ready for it, you don’t belong. He compared it to the math department, where they don’t teach you how to add and subtract; you’re expected to know that when you arrive. Similarly, students in music are expected to already know how to read music and perform certain skills. I see it differently: we should welcome anyone who wants to try.

It’s challenging in music because there are performance levels that you’re expected to achieve right away, but we should give everyone the opportunity to learn something new. I wish we would embrace the idea of PSU’s motto “Let Knowledge Serve the City” more fully.

Simeen:  Is there anything specific you intentionally incorporate into your teaching practice?

Mari: I am intentional about helping my students find a personal connection. I spend a lot of time thinking about how to foster those connections, encouraging students to engage in conversations with one another in class. This way, they can see each other as experts and relate to the concepts we’re discussing.

Simeen,  you seem really capable of finding connections. I really admire how you know who’s who and who to approach for different resources. It’s impressive how you’ve come from the outside and figured out where to go for various things. You seem to truly belong here; you’ve found your sense of belonging.

Simeen: Thank you! Yes, when I first arrived, I didn’t know anything. I’m really grateful that my cohort and colleagues went out of their way to help me find that sense of belonging. They consistently encourage me and create space for me—not just cheerleading, but also providing critical feedback on my work and engaging in meaningful discussions. We’re learning together.

Mari: You’re really open, too. You’re willing to accept new ideas, and it feels like it goes both ways. You have to be open for the experience to be meaningful.

Simeen: Yeah, I’ve always believed that there’s more out there because I grew up with many boundaries and limitations surrounding my identity. Even though I didn’t know Portland existed, I believed that there was more to the world than what I was told. There are ways of being beyond those limits.

And even today, I feel like it’s an ongoing process; we’re on a journey to build a better world, no matter where life takes us.

Speaking of connections, there’s something I wanted to bring up about the act of singing together. Since you have a music background, I thought you might have some insights on this. During my university years in New Delhi, we had a strong culture of singing songs together. After long, challenging days of protesting, we would gather in a circle and sing songs historically associated with marginalized groups in India. Sharing those songs brought me so much joy and empowerment, especially because it was my first time experiencing this. I was also unaware of the stories and perspectives of working-class and marginalized people in my own country, and it opened my eyes to a whole new world.

Mari: Yeah, there’s really a lot of research around what singing together does. It even brings your heartbeats in alignment, like everybody’s heart rate slows down and matches and it releases endorphins, which are essentially the chemical equivalent of being stoned. It relaxes you, it calms you. It comes from the vibrations that people experience together, that they’re all essentially vibrating together.

So there’s great research about singing and the power of it. One of the most powerful singing experiences I’ve had, I don’t know if we can do it after COVID, but you take like a hundred people and you cram them in as close together as they’ll get and you just say, ready, set, sing.

Everybody just goes whatever pitch they want, it doesn’t matter. They’re just singing any sound and it creates this vibration that is just the weirdest, most cool feeling. then if you let it go, people will find the same pitch. Everybody will get to the same note and nobody has to say anything, people just naturally bring it into resonance. How do we make one big sound out of however many we have? So yeah, I think that this idea is really, really cool and could make a big difference.

Simeen: I feel like these songs are like stories that have the power to humanize others. We often perceive different communities as “the other,” but through my project, Songs Against Dark Times Like These, which invites people to come together and sing historical songs of resistance from various cultures, languages, and social movements, I am exploring how we can shift that perspective. I believe singing together has the potential to help us connect with people in a deeper way and feel differently about each other’s experiences.

Mari: Yeah, for sure. And especially if you have people from different countries and cultures sharing their music. There’s a lot of power in that and see that it kind of doesn’t matter where you’re from.

We all have struggles and we all need to protest. I mean, maybe there are cultures that don’t need protest, but I think things need to evolve in any culture and I think it’s the young people that tend to push that change and protest songs are one powerful way to do it.

Simeen: Have you ever sung songs like that? What’s your top song?

Mari: Well, I love spirituals. It’s a bit strange because I’m not religious at all, but I really enjoy singing them and hearing them. I used to teach a whole unit with my students about protest songs and how spirituals were used as protest songs during the abolition of slavery, even while slavery was still in place.

It was a big study I did with my kids every year. There’s this fascinating concept related to quilts—do you know what a quilt is? It’s a blanket made from sewn fabric, and different quilt patterns each have their own meanings. Some quilts were made as samplers, featuring various patterns, and the leaders within the enslaved community would teach these songs using the different patterns.

They would hang a quilt over a railing or fence, displaying a specific pattern while singing that corresponding song. It served as a way to signal to others that something was going to happen. For example, there’s a song called “Ezekiel Saw the Wheel,” and there’s a quilt pattern shaped like the spokes of a wheel. That pattern would signal that someone was coming that night to help them escape.

I think it’s really powerful how one form of art was combined with another to help people find freedom. It’s an inspiring story. What’s your top song?

Simeen: In middle school, we sang a Hindustani version of “We Shall Overcome.” Singing that song still makes me feel so nostalgic.

Mari: “We Shall Overcome” is such a powerful song on its own, and it’s amazing how you learned it as a kid and it’s been translated into a different language. It still holds that same power. We sang that song every year in my school.

I also think a song doesn’t have to technically be a protest song to be used in protests. In the 1960s in the U.S., many songs brought people together and served as forms of protest, even if they weren’t explicitly labeled as protest songs.

It’s really interesting because it depends on what you choose to draw inspiration from and where you find your values.

Simeen: I think it’s because I’m coming from a place that has very strict boundaries about who you are and what you can and cannot do based on your name. I’m really grateful that God put me outside of that structure I was originally meant to function in, so I want to use my freedom in the best ways I can think of.

Mari: That’s a perspective that most people don’t have. We often take everything for granted. I’ve never had to consider that perspective. Being a woman in America is different from being a Muslim in a country that doesn’t welcome you, and that presents another big barrier and challenge. But you seem to rise above all of that and ask, “How can I make the world a better place?” For me, that’s the only job we have: to make the world a better place. How you do it doesn’t matter—whether you’re teaching, singing, or picking up garbage—everything has its own value.

Simeen: The last thing I want to ask you is from the values you intentionally incorporate into your work, what is the one value you’d like to share with me as I continue with this project?

Mari: Community. I think of it more as connection—bringing people together.

I truly believe we’re all stronger when everyone has a role to play and when we’re all together. When we help people feel connected, it drives empowerment and allows them to succeed in whatever they want to achieve. So, yes, I think that’s something you should keep close to your heart.

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Mari Schay (she/they) is a music educator who has dedicated over 23 years to teaching in elementary and middle schools. She currently inspires future music teachers at Portland State University. With a background in percussion performance, Mari loves fostering creativity and community through music. She has authored several books for music educators and frequently leads professional development sessions. Mari is working on making music education accessible and engaging for all students.

Simeen Anjum (she/her) is a social practice artist based in Portland, Oregon. Her work explores the creation of safe spaces and community in a world increasingly shaped by conflict and competition. Through collaborative projects, she seeks to foster connection and understanding in environments that encourage openness and inclusion.

Currently in her second year of the MFA program at Portland State University, Simeen is also a teaching assistant in printmaking, where she supports students in their artistic development while continuing to evolve her own practice.

Conocimiento Migrante: A plea for the humanness in us all

“I’ve always thought it’s important not to lose our humanity. It’s top of mind in my interactions with the people I hang out with or meet. That’s been something very shocking for me here in the United States: that it’s so easy to become a number or a box on a form, for people of color or BIPOC. I’m always advocating for taking it easy, for slowing down, looking into each other’s eyes, and recognizing that this is a person”

– Diana Marcela Cuartas

I met Diana when I was considering the program of Art + Social Practice two years ago. She’s a fellow Colombian who attended the program. We only met once, when I was in Portland, not at my best. But true to her Caleña upbringing, she was still welcoming and agreed to talk to me about her work. She facilitated the creation of an incredible book of  Mexican stories, rituals, recipes, and calaveritas, called A donde voy, el hogar viene conmigo. 

The process that brought it to life was a friendship built in the context of Diana’s work. She is a social worker who handles the cases of latino moms. Her first client, Reina, became one of her closest friends, and they embarked on the project of creating a book in which Reina and the other moms could pass down their traditions from el Dia de Muertos.  From this endeavor emerged an activist collective called Conocimiento Migrante that now advocates for community spaces and the rights of latinx people in the East of PDX. 

I thought this interview was going to be solely about this book, about her work, about her way of producing spaces for community storytelling. But it was so much more than that. It was about her, as a human, and her plea for humanity in us all. 

This interview was conducted in Spanish, and as a personal and political statement, I decided to publish it in both languages. If you want to read the original, scroll way down and you’ll find it. We are both funnier and spicier in Spanish, as Sofia Vergara would say.

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Adela: Darling Diana, I’d like to start by asking you, as another Colombian transplant, why did you end up in Portland, which is basically at the end of the world?

Diana: For love. Portland wasn’t even on my radar, but my partner, who is Colombian-American, and I were enjoying our love in Colombia, and at some point, he had to return to his planet. So, to stay together, I ended up coming to the States. First we went to Arizona, to live with his mom, which also helped us save money.

He had applied to different graduate programs, and Portland offered him the best scholarship. We visited one weekend, and it was lovely. It was spring, and sunny, and there were flowers everywhere.

Adela: That happened to me too! Sunny Portland seduces you and then throws the overcast skies on you, not unlike Bogotá’s. It pulls a fast one on you!

Diana: Totally! So when we first came here, I went to the King School Museum of Contemporary Art, and that’s how I ended up in the program, because I was looking for art, community, and public engagement. And here we are, five years later, still living here.

Adela: The universe, queen. I went to Portland for the first time in the fall of 2021, at the end of September, to visit my sister, and I fell in love with the city—it seemed divine. 

But now that you’re more rooted in Portland and simultaneously have roots in Colombia, what I call, eldoblearraigo (double-rootedness), I would like to know: What Colombian rituals or traditions, from your family, do you continue practicing in Portland? 

Diana: I think something fundamental for me is that my partner and I share our culture. I don’t think I could’ve ever fallen in love with a 100% gringo.

For me, the ritual is food: cooking, sitting down at the table, enjoying that moment, knowing what we’re eating. One of the things that’s been a cultural shock for me is seeing people eat a sandwich for lunch and then have a huge burger for dinner…

I think that’s why people are so messed up—those hormonal imbalances affect your mental health. How can you feel good if you’re not nourishing? You go to people’s houses and everything is canned and sugary,  and people are eating at weird hours.

For me, it’s like my aunt used to say: have breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and eat dinner like a slave. But I don’t eat like a slave; I always try to eat like a queen! (laughs)

When we lived with my mother-in-law, who is super gringa, I was trying to keep up with her. But that thing of grabbing whatever for lunch and then eating real food before going to sleep—I thought, my God, ‘this can’t go on.’

So that ritual of how we eat is key for us. Because if I eat like that, I’ll feel depressed, I’ll be sad, I won’t be able to do what I do, I’ll be tired. I’m still tired, but for other reasons. (laughs)

Another thing I maintain from our culture is Joyous Sundays. For example, every Sunday morning, I always tune into a radio station called Madrigal Stereo, from Soledad, Atlántico, and they have a program called Sundays of Flavor. The music is amazing; it puts me in the mood to put myself together. That’s the day that reminds you not to let that go-go-go routine, of eating whatever and keeping it moving, take over you.

Sometimes it’s hard because we have to do what we have to do here. But it’s about putting on some music to shake off the grayness of it all.

Adela: Speaking of food, what’s a recipe that makes you feel at home?

Diana: It depends on how busy I am. If I’m short on time, I make a chicken stew that practically cooks itself. But if I have more time, I make beans.

Adela: How do you make your beans? What do you add? Because every family is a world in itself, and that translates into the kitchen. For example, once a friend added panela to her beans, and I was like, “What the heck are you doing?”

Diana: Well, I was going to say that when I have panela, I add it too. (laughs) 

One of my variations is I boil them with garlic, bay leaf, and thyme. Also, separately, I make a sauté of onion and tomato; sometimes grated bell pepper and, if I have plantains, I throw in some green plantain while I’m cooking. I also make this sauté, this hogao, with cumin, thyme, whatever herbs and spices I have around, and cilantro. At the end, I like to sprinkle some grated panela. And sometimes, because it’s easy to find here, I swap the carrot for a piece of squash.

Adela: And in your house, who made the beans?

Diana: My mom and I. I’m the child of a single mother. It was my mom, my sister, and I.

Adela: I ask you about your rituals, because you made a book about the ritual of Dia de los Muertos with the moms you work with in Latino Network. And just as their rituals were important to them, I believe yours are also. 

Having that in mind, if you could immortalize or pass down any ritual from your family, what would you want to pass on to your kids (or your cats if you don’t want to have children)?

Diana: Oh, I don’t know, it’s hard for me to think about immortalizing something because nothing can be immortalized. We’re all going to die. Books will disintegrate. They will rot, burn, and turn to ashes; we’re all going to end up as ashes. 

I’ve always thought it’s important not to lose our humanity. It’s top of mind in my interactions with the people I hang out with or meet. That’s been something very shocking for me here in the United States: that it’s so easy to become a number or a box on a form, for people of color or BIPOC. I’m always advocating for taking it easy, for slowing down, looking into each other’s eyes, and recognizing that this is a person.

How is there such a horrible genocide happening and here people are more worried about getting the lesser evil? In the end, nobody thinks about the fact that we’re talking about people who are being killed every day. It’s frustrating.

I feel like here in Portland, it’s very easy for people to stay in their little bubble of organic coffee and tree-hugging. It’s easy for people to lose social awareness or never develop it at all. So that’s the legacy I want to leave: that the spaces I’m in, the friendships I build, don’t lose their humanity and aren’t ignorant of the context. That they have cinco centavitos de conciencia social (five cents of social awareness). 

Adela: I love that because it’s a legacy you’re creating with every interaction in your life, something you’re building with every person you engage with. And since a big part of engaging with each other in our latin culture is through dance and music, I wanted to ask, do you have a playlist that makes you feel at home, but also like a la perra, la diva, la potra, la caballota?

Diana: Right now, there’s one song I’ve been playing on repeat called. Estoy Enamorada, Mi Padre No Me Entiende. It’s hilarious, from Yolanda Pérez, La Potra, and I love it because it captures the biculturalism of Mexican immigrant families in the United States. It features a teenager telling her dad, “My boyfriend called me,” and he’s like, “What do you mean you have a boyfriend?”

I relate to it because I think about the families I work with, and I’m like, “that’s the cultural gap for kids growing up here, with parents who came from rural Mexico.

And a song that embodies that feeling of ‘necesito, poder, espíritus’ is El Mapalé. For me, listening to that song is like being possessed by it. It’s a power that takes over you. It’s for when you’re feeling like “I need to get out of this funk” or “The party is amazing, let’s turn up the heat” or “I’m feeling low, let’s spice up these arepas.” You can dance to it and sweat it out: it’s total catharsis.It’s one of my favorites; I play it on my birthday and days with friends. Any excuse is good for El Mapalé.

Adela: 100%! My mom is from Cartagena, and I remember dancing to it with my cousins. I’m about to play it when we get off this call to shake off any inner demons.

And, speaking of demons, I’d love to talk about the death rituals, which were the foundation of the book you made with your first social work client from Latino Network, Reina, and the other moms. The book  A donde voy, el hogar viene conmigo encompases their Día de Muertos rituals. If you had to design an altar for your family to build on the Día de Muertos, what would you tell your loved ones to put on it? El Mapalé, maybe?

Diana: When I was working on that project, I was listening to the song A la Memoria del Muerto by Piper Pimienta. It goes:

“I don’t want to hear about sorrow or suffering. I want to live my life joyful, happy, and content. The day I die, I don’t want tears or prayers. Ask them to bring a lot of aguardiente, and let everyone dance happily and sing in memory of the dead.”

And I thought, that’s what I’d want. Make it a party. If someone remembers me and says, “Let’s honor Diana’s memory,” they should play El Mapalé, enjoy good food and take time to truly feel like themselves. My altar should have plantains, guaritos, a shot of mezcal, some super coco, drawings, palm trees, tropical iconography, and Madrigal Stereo radio station. 

Adela: I ask you this not only because of your book’s theme but also because I’ve been working on the topic of death from a lovely and compassionate perspective of celebration. I’ve always wanted a party. I want people to dress in red, put on some lipstick, share stories about me and dance to reggaeton until your feet hurt.

Diana: Absolutely!

Día de Los Muertos: A community is born 

Adela: Talking about our death rituals is the perfect segway into your projects and processes. Specifically, the book A donde voy, el hogar viene conmigo, which I understand served as a way for the migrant women you work with, starting with Reina, to pass down their Día de Muertos traditions to their families. What happened during that process?

Diana: What happened with Reina is tied to the fact that I became a social worker—though I’m not one—but that was the job I landed because I speak decent Spanish. Like I said, I’m the daughter of a single mother. I support my mom, and I needed some cash.

So, I stumbled into this job after a long search in the arts. I thought, “surely, my ten-plus years of experience has to come in handy here.” But this opportunity felt somewhat related:  even though it wasn’t about programming art or engaging the public through art; it was about engaging it through education. And Reina was my first client as a social worker case handler.

And I could have established  just a client relationship, but I’m an artist, and it’s hard for me not to be one. So what ended up happening during that process was friendship. Same with the other moms. 

I was doing the MFA and working at the same time, so I didn’t have a chance to be creative outside of work, you know, during that magical neutral time. Sometimes I was in class while answering work calls.

And for me, one of the failures of art is when there’s this disconnection, when it’s only aimed at a specialized audience, when people in art are just talking to other people in art about art. For me, it’s a priority and an interest to connect with everyday life and as many people as possible.

That’s what I did in my work back in Colombia. We’d have this amazing exhibition, and I’d think, “What can I come up with so that a lady who lives around the corner and has no clue about this space feels curious enough to come and see if something resonates with her?”

So, talking with Reina, I said, what do I know how to do that’s useful? I can put things together in a PDF and make it look pretty. Is that useful here in this group of people? Ah, well, yes, so let’s make a book right away.

Adela: Let’s talk about the book itself, A donde voy, el hogar viene conmingo.  I found it interesting that you asked her point blank, “What kind of book do you want to make?” You put her in the center from the get-go.

Diana: Exactly. My role was more about facilitating and coordinating, making sure this person had the agency to say, “Okay, I’m getting this chance to make a book: I’ll decide how I imagine it, how I want it.”

And that’s where it all started. We invited moms from other schools where we held meetings and different workshops. That’s when some connections became stronger, and some friendships formed because COVID was just a crazy time. I mean, I spent an hour and a half on the phone with a lady, just listening to her. So I feel like that particular experience during COVID also changed the client-social worker relationship.

So we invited other moms until we ended up in a group of about six or seven. There were tons of Zoom meetings, basically just to listen: we have a platform, what do we want to include? They were all from different parts of Mexico,  and were saying, “No, in my region, we do this,” “No, in Oaxaca, we do it like this,” “In Guerrero, we do it like that.” It was a really beautiful space that felt like a cultural exchange, even though they were all Mexican. 

I was just trying to coordinate what I could. They’d say to me, “Oh, I remember we used to write calaveritas in school.” And I’d be like, “Would you like to write more calaveritas? I can find someone to come and teach us how to make them.” 

In the end, we became a collective called El Conocimiento Migrante. The experience of making the book morphed into this platform to continue sharing. We held potlucks and chatted for hours asking “What do we need? What do we like? What interests us? What are we missing?”

Creating these deep relationships takes time. The problem is that when you’re a student, you’re on a tight schedule, and everything has to happen quickly. And I had this conflict of having to rush things to deliver. Because that was precisely a space for us to slow down and really get to know each other. 

I’ve always questioned how one can just llegar en paracaidas, as we say in Colombia, and say, “I’m working with a community,” if I haven’t taken the time to connect and understand what’s going on there.

I feel horrible when people arrive and say, “Bring in Black people, latinx people, and let’s do this thing that has nothing to do with anything.” I don’t believe in those projects where people have zero agency; that’s not part of my ethics as an artist. And I think I also learned that in this space. I realized that I enjoy taking the time to be present and truly listen so that whatever I do has a relationship with the interests of these people.

Adela: And how did you create this collective with the participants with whom you formed these deep bonds?

Diana: In my work, I organize workshops for parents in the families I’m assigned to.

I started in the far East of Portland, which is a pretty unique district; it’s the poorest, the most latino. As a rookie social worker, I felt like I had arrived as a mix of  Francisco, El Matemático, with the Simpsons.

There’s a predetermined framework of what you offer to the parents of the enrolled kids. But in my creative practice, I thought, “Well, I can do this other crazy thing; I’ll invent a field trip to the Portland Art Museum, or we’ll have a celebration with crafts.” Doing things that nourish our spirits.

Adela: What did you take away from this process?

Diana: I feel like I came away with reaffirmations. Especially that you can’t go through life without looking people in the eye, without recognizing each other as human beings. I also took away the recognition that this is a labor of love. I did everything because I wanted to; nobody forced me, and it was a lot of work.

But the most important thing that came from it was a group of friends that I adore—a genuine community. I also ended up feeling tired, but in a good way, like a happy kind of tired. And I left with a desire to fight—not to “fight against the world,” but to change things.

For example, right now with the Oregon Humanities Fellowship, I met with the collective again and told them there was a chance to have an article published. In the end, the conversation turned to the lack of spaces for the community, specifically in East Portland.

Adela: Speaking of building friendships and community, how did you choose or find the poet, Luna Flores, and the illustrator, Eliana Enriquez, the collaborating artists in the project?

Diana: It was also organic. In Luna’s case, she led the calaveritas writing workshop, and I met her through Pati Vázquez Gómez, a teacher from the Art + Social Practice program. For me, Pati was a lifesaver. Thanks to her, I connected with a network of latinx artists. 

When I was feeling crazy, she invited me to a party. I danced after months of not dancing, and I was so happy. I spoke in Spanish. It was everything I needed, and I hadn’t realized how badly. Among those people, I connected with Luna Flores. She is also an immigrant and a mom. I asked the collective if they thought it was a good idea to bring her, and I did.

And with the illustrator, it was magical. In these programs, you work in pairs. I was responsible for connecting with parents; another person was the youth engagement specialist, who connects with the students. My partner was Eliana Enriquez, who is also an illustrator, and the moms adored her; she was a part of the family.

So, in the end, the book is the result of building community. And that community needs to be nurtured and respected. If I start inviting them to share their ideas, I can’t just leave it there. That would be disrespectful to their participation. And I appreciate the fact that they participate; I appreciate interest and willingness. They could say, “I have to cook, or take care of my husband,” and not come. And I feel that they appreciate the space for collective thinking.

Adela: And in that process, were there any moments of friction? Domenic Kim talks about the concept of “social lubrication”. Did you have to lubricate at any moment of tension?

Diana: One of the frictions was that some moms with more availability and better economic situations came in super prepared. But there were others with less availability. And I started to notice something weird. When I asked them what was going on, some indignantly told me that so-and-so “always arrives late and never brings anything of substance.”

So I sat them down and said, “This space is for all of us to participate to the best of our ability. This isn’t a job.” I told them:

“You love to cook. But not all of us are in the same situation. Neither am I. Maybe because you see me as the teacher, you don’t criticize me, but I’ve also shown up with a soda from the store. How would you feel if you were rejected because you didn’t bring something that someone else did? You have a husband. The other doesn’t have a husband. The other one works and has kids, and she gets here earlier. And she contributes in other ways. Everyone brings to the table what they have, and from that, we take what interests us and what serves us. That’s where we make the sancocho.”

Adela: The last question I want to ask you, Diana, is if you had a magical wand and all the money in the world, what’s the most beautiful version you could imagine for the collective El Conocimiento Migrante?

Diana: A huge house in a community center in East Portland with a dance floor, a projection room, a giant kitchen. Space for workshops, an art studio, y para hacer la guacahafita. It has to be over there in Rockwood, in Fairview, not here. 

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Diana Marcela Cuartas is a Colombian artist, educator, and cultural worker transplanted to Portland in 2019. Her work combines visual research, popular culture analysis, and participatory learning processes in publications, workshops, and curatorial projects as a framework to investigate the relationships formed between a place and those who inhabit it. With her projects, Diana is interested in cultivating spaces inviting people to slow down, think together, share questions, and have fun as a way to weave community and a sense of belonging.

Diana holds an MFA in Art and Social Practice from Portland State University and completed the Art Book Program at the Independent Publishers Resource Center. She founded The Migrant Knowledge Press, an initiative for cultural exchange and artistic experimentation among migrant communities through collective publishing exercises.

Before relocating to the US, Diana was the Head of Public Programs at Espacio Odeón in Bogotá, Colombia. She was also part of Lugar a Dudas, an organization promoting contemporary art practices with an international perspective in Cali, Colombia. As an independent researcher, she has been an artist in residence at La Usurpadora (Puerto Colombia), Bisagra (Lima), Tlatelolco Central (Mexico City), and Beta-Local (San Juan, Puerto Rico).

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 Alzeheimers 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. 

What Does Safety Mean to You?

“If you don’t have the actual police force on the street, but you have privatized security, that’s still having a police state. I mean, the uniform is different. The ability to do certain things or enforce certain things are different, but the emotional feeling, the response that you get in the immediate, positive or negative, from the people that are seeing it, it’s the same.” 

– Damian Bunting

When I moved to Portland this fall, I was immediately struck by the number of private security guards. Outside the Burgerville, the CVS, the shops downtown–they all had their guy (usually a guy) at the front door. While doing anti-surveillance work in New Orleans for a few years, I came upon the term “security theater”, used to describe the way the guise of things like cameras, uniformed officers, and the presence of policing allegedly add to the feeling of safety in a place, if not actually reducing harm. In fact, the root of the word “security”, transitioning from Latin “se cura” to English around the 16th century, literally means the absence of anxiety – not the presence of safety. I saw security guards as another prop in the theater of safety, and I was curious how they understood their role.

 While researching private security in Portland, I came across Portland security guard Damian Bunting’s YouTube channel. He recorded and posted his day-to-day interactions, handing out cigarettes and pointing people to resources while on duty. I don’t believe that more police and surveillance make people safe, yet I was intrigued by the way he seemed to be an outreach worker as well as a security guard. I reached out to Damian and he graciously agreed to discuss with me the state of private security and policing in Portland, his vision of safety, and how change happens. I felt engaged but challenged while conversing about a topic that the two of us see differently–there are many things I wish I would have asked that I felt unable to at the time, and also many points of connection and agreement. I hope to speak with him again. This interview has been compiled from two separate conversations and edited for length and clarity.

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Lou Blumberg: What kind of security do you do? What are your hours?

Damian Bunting: I do all kinds, everything from retail to patrol, anything from your run of the mill security all the way to a very law enforcement-esque type of security, which is what I’m doing right now. When I worked retail downtown, the shifts were 16 hour shifts. We would start at 7am and we would get off at 11pm.

Lou: That’s wild.

Damian: Yeah. I’m currently working for a company where I’m doing 12 hour shifts, generally 6am to 6pm. 

Lou: That’s still a pretty long day. I’m really curious about your YouTube channel because, as I mentioned, I’m studying art and social practice and I see your YouTube channel as a work of art, in many ways. I wonder if you see it that way. What drove you to create that? It’s such a wealth of information and it’s so prolific. It looks like you post at least a couple times a week, right? I’m curious about that and about what drove you to share your experiences.

Damian: The reason why I started it is because I really enjoy what I do. When I would talk to other security guards, especially people who are working in a completely different capacity, maybe they’re just sitting in a parking lot at some sort of shack or something or maybe they’re handing out passes or keys or something like that, they’re not doing a lot of the stuff that we’re doing here in Portland. They felt really inadequate about what they were doing, and they would say, “I’m going to try and get a job with the police department so that I can do more.” Most people were working in security because either they didn’t have anything else to do or they just needed a job at the moment and they fell into it. And I heard that and thought, what a waste! Because so many people are good at security, and here in Portland, we have 30,000 of us, we have a huge, powerful voting bloc and a powerful aspect of the workforce, but no one gives security guards a voice. No one thinks of private security guards as first responders, even though they are. No one gives any credit or credence to what we do. Most people think of security guards like Paul Blart and they make fun of them and they make fun of the industry.

I wanted people to know, what you do matters. What you bring to the table is important. And the only way to do that was to highlight it. So I’m like, I’m going to start doing that. It’s been received well. And I hope that it gives people a little bit of pride in the industry, which is ultimately the goal. 

The company I’m with, we’re working on a concept for a show. We’re talking about all the stuff that you and I are talking about right now on the street. It’s almost like an episode of Cops where I’m interacting with people on the street. I think that we have a great opportunity to kind of change people’s approach to doing security.

Lou: How did you get into the security field to begin with?

Damian: I was in the military. I did six years in the Air Force, and I’ve worked in various aspects of law enforcement. But to be quite honest with you, in a nutshell, how I interact with people like you saw on my YouTube channel and why you reached out, that more compassionate approach I take…that was not something that law enforcement wanted over the last twenty years. I worked in a county jail, I worked in a state prison. In every area where I worked, I was told, “Hey, you’re not these people’s friends. You’re not here to hear about their problems. If they don’t want to listen, you make them.” Every time that I got myself involved in a law enforcement position, it didn’t feel right. Because that’s just not who I am. 

I tell people private security’s like being a nurse as opposed to being a doctor. You have a direct impact. You’re the one that’s there when something happens. You’re the one that’s there in the moment that people need help. And I don’t like politics and bureaucracy when it comes to helping people. I really don’t appreciate the fact that law enforcement officers, whenever they feel that they are being slighted or that people are asking too much of them, they can withhold service. And that happens here in Portland. During the whole George Floyd situation, they just stopped responding. They didn’t like [the progressive prosecutor Mike] Schmidt, they didn’t like [progressive city commissioner Jo Ann] Hardesty, and so the police took the stance, “if you want to criticize us and not give us more resources, then we just won’t respond and we’ll see how you guys like it.” That’s why private security exploded, because ultimately the people said, “we’ll just hire a private company to come out and deal with it and we don’t have to be involved in politics.”

Lou: It’s interesting to hear you mention that private security ballooned during the beginning of the pandemic and the George Floyd protests. I wonder sometimes if private security is more palatable to people in the city than regular law enforcement because of those protests. 

Damian: When the George Floyd protest started, and the calls for transparency and accountability were getting louder, we saw a lot of police departments across the country who took their ball and went home, instead of them taking that bull by the horns and saying, “let’s hit reset and let’s change the way that we’re doing things.” So when you ask the question is private security more palatable, it is. Here in Portland, there are certain places where they say, look, we have to address the homeless issue, we have to address the mental illness issue, but we don’t want people showing up with guns and dealing with that issue. They can hire a private security company and say part of our contract with you, no firearms. And the private security company goes, not a problem. Here in Portland we have 3,000 police officers and we have 30,000 security guards. [author’s note: according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics there are 12,800 security guards and 881 police officers in Portland.]

Lou: Wow! That’s a big difference. I wonder if you see your role as also kind of social worker or community liaison. What do you think the role of a security guard is when interfacing with the severe homeless crisis in Portland?

Damian: Portland is so specific. You have so many competing demographics. You have the nonprofit industry. You have those who are suffering from homelessness and that demographic. You have the mental illness issue. You have drug addiction. And then on top of that, you have activism and intellectualism. So there’s all of these different dynamics. 

It’s much easier, with the dangers and the problems we have here, to train a security guard up to a base level of outreach than to go in the reverse and take someone who is in the mental health field and train them up to a base level of situational awareness with the violent things that happen here. I think that the company I’m working for started off like most security companies–they were more of an enforcement model. They took a special forces approach to addressing situations. In order to address a lot of the issues overseas they have a hearts and mind concept where, when you embed in a certain area, you have to understand the people that you’re dealing with. You have to understand what they’re going through, understand their religion, understand their politics. And by embedding with that demographic and having an understanding of who you’re around, you can better reach them from a more compassionate place to try and change things. And that’s the model that they created in Old Town Portland. So private security here in Portland does more than a vast majority of law enforcement agencies in middle and small town America. I was up for hire in a small town in Missouri, and it would have taken me 15 years working for that police department to see the number of homicides, overdoses, the types of mental illness and mental health crisis that we deal with on the street in Old Town. And we’re seeing that all the time here in Portland as security guards. It makes it a necessity that private security evolves and develops into something more, given the issues that people are experiencing here in Portland and how that’s connected to all of these different demographics.

Lou: So what is safety in your ideal world? What does that look like for you? 

Damian: I mean, that’s kind of a hard question to answer. I don’t foresee anything getting better in terms of there being less of a need for security in Portland. I think that if anything, it’ll get more privatized and more niche, like we were talking about before, how everyone can kind of tailor their service to what they want to see. If people don’t want a more dystopian police state… if we’re being honest, you don’t have the actual police force on the street, but you have privatized security, that’s still having a police state. I mean, the uniform is different. The ability to do certain things or enforce certain things are different, but the emotional feeling, the response that you get in the immediate, positive or negative, from the people that are seeing it, it’s the same. 

So, in order to get away from that, in a perfect world, a lot of things would have to change. Number one, this esoteric idealism that we have in Portland where people want to facilitate a utopian type of existence, we need to realize that’s not necessarily feasible. Because you can have the greatest of ideas; we want everyone to live together and get along and we won’t have to worry about carbon emissions and everybody’s eating clean. But you know, people have free will and it’s America and you have free choice. So it’s going to always be very difficult to get people to push in the right direction. One of the things that makes America so great is the fact that everybody can be an individual. So, I don’t know that anything would really change here. I don’t think people here want to require more accountability and responsibility from people. So I don’t really see it changing. 

Lou: Yeah. I guess there’s a philosophical question here about free will and what it means to live in a society together. And I wonder, do you think it’s even possible for there to not be property crime anymore or for there not to be homeless people anymore, if everyone got their needs met? Do you feel like those are just going to be facts of life?

Damian: It’s going to be facts of life because you’re going to always have bad people. And when I say bad people, I don’t mean the homeless are bad people. I just mean in general, there’s going to always be people that have evil intentions. There’s going to always be people that take advantage of a good situation or the system. There’s going to always be the people that are self-serving. So even in a society where there’s very little crime, I mean, you could find a city where there’s almost no crime. There’s still some crime, right? But the more you take the guardrails off in society, the more open you are to crime.

So like, for instance, if you say that no matter what drug of choice you want to use, you’re free to use it. If you take that guardrail off, then the people that want to use drugs all the time are going to be in this area. But it doesn’t just stop with that because someone has to supply the drugs. So that opens up an opportunity for the cartel. Once the cartel is here, now you have people fighting over turf. That creates an opportunity for gangs. Well, someone’s got to supply the guns. So now people that supply illegal firearms are now in the mix. There’s all of these things that happen in the periphery of a decision to just take the prosecution away from drugs. And it’s the same thing with homelessness. If you say, look, a person has a right to exist how they want. And if they want to live on the street, they can. Well, there’s a lot of things that come with it. There’s going to be sex trafficking and all kinds of other issues that are on the periphery. 

Lou: I have an idealist side of me that imagines that if people were well taken care of, if people could find good jobs that paid them enough and places to live that were affordable, places that they weren’t getting priced out of, that having those basic things would solve a lot of the issues that people have of feeling unsafe or the property crimes. But maybe we see differently on that.

Damian: I think that that mentality and that idealism, it’s commendable, but it doesn’t align with a lot of different things. Number one, we live in a capitalist society. In order to just make that happen, you have to have a place where the people can go. You have to have the ability to facilitate the building and the maintenance of those areas. And all of that has to be paid for by someone. 

And even with that, if you could get all of that to work out, at some point someone’s ideal of what they want might exceed what they’re able to get. And when that person thinks, “I’m working a job where I’m making $25 an hour and I’m able to pay for this one bedroom apartment. And from the idealist perspective, this is good for me. But now I want more. In order for me to get more, I have to make $35 an hour.” So now that person has broken out of that idealistic environment because they have the desire to achieve more. They’re going to want to do something different. And so that’s going to cause strife or problems.

Lou: How do you know when you have enough? How do you know when you’ve “made it” or when you feel satisfied? 

Damian: You know, I grew up in Arkansas. My parents went to segregated schools. They came up under Jim Crow, literally eating in the back of restaurants, riding in the back of the bus, sitting in segregated areas. So I went into the military first out of high school. I never got my college degree. From the time that I graduated high school up until say 2016, the most I had ever made per year was probably $50,000. I have a couple of friends from high school who are famous Hollywood actors. Watching their success and seeing them on the runway and talking to them and hearing about the life that they lead, I always thought to myself, “Man, I wish I had more money. If I could just make $100,000 I would feel so proud of myself and my life would change.” In 2020 I moved here and 2021 was the first year I made over $100,000. I made that hundred grand and I was so excited, and then the next year I made close to $160,000, so I was like, “I’ve made it.” Well, I bought a house which is in a really bad neighborhood, with inflation and cost of living that’s what I could get. There’s drug addicts on my street, people literally camping right outside my door. I have not had one day–and I mean this with all sincerity–I’ve not had one single solitary day of peace in my house since I moved in.

Lou: That sucks.

Damian: I was much happier when I was in Missouri. I was paying $600 a month for a 1200 square foot apartment that had two full bathrooms, two full bedrooms, and a deck. It was amazing. I was making $35-40,000 a year. My wife and I went out every weekend. We ate out almost every night. My life was so much better! I think to answer your question, it’s not about how much you make, it’s about where you live, it’s about your experiences, the people that you have around you, what kind of job you’re doing, right? 

Lou: That’s super hard to achieve your dream and then be like, “actually this isn’t as great as I thought it was gonna be.” Do you ever think about moving back or doing something different? 

Damian: Yeah I mean, I really like security but I definitely think that my future is not in Portland. I’m getting older. I think in a perfect world I would live somewhere down South. I’ll be 50 in four years. I want to spend the next 25 years waiting for my grandkids to be born and just being grandpa and just living and being happy. But I do think I’ve never really been happy anywhere. I have social anxiety, I have depression. I don’t know that I’ve ever or will ever find a place where I’m really content.

Lou: I hard relate to that. This kind of makes me think back to my idealism and the importance of having imagination. I’m thinking about your parents growing up in Jim Crow–could they even have imagined what was possible for you or for their grandkids? I like to believe that if we’re able to imagine something better like we can we can get there one day. My family is Jewish, so I’m descended from people who were, generations back, kicked out of their homes. I don’t know if my ancestors could have even imagined what’s happening for me today. I like to think about that in terms of what the future could look like. We might not even know what’s possible. 

Damian: And you have the ability to shape that, that’s what’s so amazing. Think about what your family came from and what my family came from. Think about where we could go. 

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Damian Bunting (he/him) is a Portland-area armed security officer, second amendment advocate, and digital training instructor looking to educate, motivate, and influence dialogue and communication. 

Lou Blumberg (they/them) is an artist, facilitator, and educator with ties to San Francisco, New Orleans, and Portland. With a belief that a better world is possible, their deeply personal practice deals with conflict and its impact on our relationships and lives, surveillance and safety, and joy in despairing times. They are part of the MFA Art and Social Practice program at Portland State University. They’d like to mediate your next conflict.

Being Opaque: In Reality, Who am I? 

“So no, I don’t really care whether they get it or not. You know, one out of, I don’t know, how many hundreds that I meet will really somewhat get it. But in real time, man, like on the ground, in the trenches, this art stuff doesn’t matter to me.”

– Ibrahim Ahmed

While spending a year in Paris, France, a mutual friend referred me to a gallery where artist Ibrahim Ahmed was showcasing his work. The wall was scattered with old archive photos of his family collaged with a collection of performance images. Most striking were the juxtaposed images of his father and his own body. I talked to Ibrahim briefly that day, and the conversation quickly turned from gallery based artwork to exchanging our own life philosophies. I’ve been looking for an excuse to continue our conversation and pick his brain so I thought why not now.

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Dom Toliver:  So, you were born in Kuwait and then you traveled a lot. Bahrain, Egypt, U.S., then all the way back to Cairo. What’s that like? Can you give me a little bit of insight on your experience? What was it like growing up as Ibrahim? What influenced you and your work?

Ibrahim Ahmed: Yeah, of course. I actually just had to do a prompt for one of my classes at the School of Art in Chicago about Eileen Gray. It’s interesting because they talk about how her first home was pretty much the compass that guides her through her practice. You see, for years the whole trajectory is based  on this moment. The moment that the original home that she grew up in, which was simple, clean lines, et cetera, was demolished. And in its place they put this wannabe Tudor English home and she’s quoted in her journal saying, “Our family home was no longer a home.” So I thought it was this interesting structural rupture that then becomes what she seeks throughout her whole life. And replicated. 

I say this to say, because of that transient upbringing, I was always being questioned whether I was enough of a Bahraini, an authentic American, authentic Egyptian. Am I enough of this? Can I belong? What are these very finite indicators? As we say in Arabic, “like a huff huff”, not even a breath. If it hints towards this one finite thing, suddenly you don’t belong to us. You’re different. So, yes. Of course that upbringing of never really being enough of something, even though I felt I was an amalgamation of all these things, I wasn’t pure enough. This influences my practice. This becomes my whole practice. This is really the core of my questioning the nation state, its identity, and aesthetics. The visual language that surrounds these ideas, even how these things construct gender and all this, right? How deeply embedded in that are colonial projects, this is all that really informs my practice. 

Dom: Saying that puts words to a lot of things that I think about and am trying with my own practice. In a similar way, I felt like I was a part of so many cultures but never belonged to one. Or like you said, never authentic enough. Never really having an identity because you’re waiting on people to point out those indicators that you so much as huff toward.

So with that being said, I’m wondering what it’s like having your work appreciated by the capital A Art World in places like Australia and France. Do you think they’re really seeing what you’re putting out?

Ibrahim: (smiles) No.

Dom: (laughs) Isn’t that crazy? That’s crazy.

Ibrahim: Yeah it is, but you know, that’s not even who I’m talking to. That, for me, is a market. That is just income. First of all, I’m not even interested in belonging to anything at this point. I know some people are like, I’m quarter this, and that. I’m like, how do you quantify these things? Because within Egypt. There’s a thousand codified things within me alone. Thousands. It’s been the center of the world, the middle passage between Asia, Eurasia and the West. All the trade that came in from there into the continent of Africa and back out. So, I can’t even quantify what I am an amalgamation of. These nation states that we identify and quantify are no more than a few hundred years old. They didn’t exist, then to racialize the ancient Egyptians. It’s just the most absurd thing to me because racializing things is a colonial legacy. It is a colonial tool.

So I think for me to go deeper into that, you said what you’re saying about markets and markets are very different from my actual audience and who I’m actually speaking to. Who I’m speaking to, my longest project, my opus operandi, the one, the project that I will never exhibit, is the stuff I do within my community. The visual language, that’s like the tip of the iceberg of when I talk about decoloniality, or decolonization as an actual thing. But in real time. That work to me is behind closed doors. It’s not something I’m going to write about. It’s not going to be an exhibition. That to me is the real meat of my practice because as you see in Europe and the United States, we see where they are right now, the mask is off. And the art world is the center of the empire. The CIA funded the abstract expressionist. It’s deeply embedded in this stuff. 

So no, I don’t really care whether they get it or not. One out of, I don’t know, how many hundreds that I meet will somewhat get it. But in real time, man, like on the ground, in the trenches, this art stuff doesn’t matter to me.

Dom: Wow. I’m speechless, honestly. So now I gotta know: have you seen Kara Walker’s A Subtlety?

Ibrahim: It’s like the big sugar baby? Oh, no, it was sort of a mammy or something fucked up, right? And then it dilapidated over time?

Dom: Yes, exactly. So to me, it’s like to exploit the exploiter, you got to be exploitive. What do you think about representation?

Ibrahim: I mean, that’s one way of doing it. There are many ways. Have you heard of Edouard Glissant? 

Dom: I haven’t, actually. 

Ibrahim: Okay, he talks about opacity, the right to opacity. I think I might have said this to you before, but in a world of hyper visibility, to be invisible is power. Especially if we’re talking about photography, and that photography was a weaponized tool within the colonial, it is at the forefront of visualizing the other. The Africans, the Egyptians, the Arabs, the Slave, you know, we look at the world in the 19th century, 20th century. The propaganda is literally centered from the white gaze. We look at everything around that. So representation, when you handle photography, you have to contend with that history. They’re very specific choices. And maybe we had alluded to this last year, but you know, the first image on the continent of Africa is in Egypt.

Dom: I remember you saying that!

Ibrahim: Yeah. And it’s a deeply orientalist image. There’s nothing there, but the fantasies.  I believe in… opacity. Being under the radar. I don’t believe in representation. In a late capitalist, neoliberal world, representation is actually very dangerous. It gets co-opted and then used against you. Right? They say “look, we allow them to sit at the table with us. We’re actually quite democratic.” And then when the real stuff happens in Palestine, you understand what they really want. How they really look at the other, it doesn’t matter. It’s all expendable to them. So that representation to me is a very tricky thing. I understand it. 

But at the same time, my own practice, like my latest body of work, is completely about collapsing ideas of representation. Collapsing, as a means to decolonize the lens. I’m removing the whole body. Absence as a form of presence is more potent than my presence in the image. It’s a very specific thing of fantasy versus imagination. If there’s too much information, the person projects, especially if you’re talking about a North African Muslim Arab body that has a long history in photography of being eroticized and demonized. If I’m removing all that information, then there’s this idea of imagination and imagination is about engaging. I’m creating certain levels of opacity that forces the viewer to approach the image in a very different way than all the information being there and they say “oh look at his body, oh look all these things.”

Dom: I like that! Now they’re forced to ask questions.

Ibrahim: Or one hopes, right? But yeah Kara Walker’s practice is in a very specific context also and coming from a very specific generation. But yes, I think Glissant’s idea of the right to opacity is very, very interesting.

Dom: The right to opacity. It’s got me thinking.

Ibrahim: Especially if you’re handling photography, right? 

Dom: 100%. So earlier you were saying, working with the community is the real work, the real opus operandi.

Ibrahim: Yeah. 

Dom: So, would you consider yourself a socially engaged artist? 

Ibrahim: I’m really thinking about this, man. This is a really delicate question. It is. 

No, and I think there’s a very specific thing about it. One operates possibly as a form of art making? Maybe at least that what I’m understanding is it’s a part of an artistic practice? 

A curator came to my studio about a month ago, and said something really interesting. She’s like, Ibrahim, you know, there are artists who use politics. But you’re a politician who uses art. I don’t know how much that’s true but I think it’s very interesting because I would say first and foremost I am a very politically charged person who happens to enjoy creating visual vocabulary, vernacular, language, what have you. 

But what I’m doing locally within my locality, that’s different. How are we practicing decoloniality or decolonization? That’s the theory and then there’s the actual practice. I think of it as, show me what you’re worth. When nobody’s watching you. What do you do? How do you treat people? Somebody who doesn’t have your same cultural capital, you’re not in the same class structure, doesn’t use the same language, doesn’t have the same views as you, how do you interact with these people on all levels of stratas, how do you negotiate those power dynamics in real time? I’ve heard a lot of people who are like “decolonization”, and then there’s nightmare stories about how they treat art handlers during their museum installation. Just doesn’t make sense to me. So what I do in my community, it’s not about art practice. That’s why I would say it’s not about my practice as an artist. It’s about my fucking humanity. Really. I mean, it’s that simple. How human am I, regardless of accolades and cultural capital. How do I engage with the world that’s very different from mine? Egypt is a neo colonial state. It’s not an independent state. So you’re dealing with hardcore colonized minds. Hardcore, man. Like they’re deep in it. So how do you engage with that and say, come up here. You’re not inferior. What does that look like without sounding condescending or self righteous or, thinking, you know, it all.

Dom: Yeah. Yeah. That’s the struggle. 

Ibrahim: You know, I don’t think that’s art practice, right. That to me is how can I take all that information and actually apply it in real time?

Dom: So that separation is good for you? Instead of bringing art and that practice together?

Ibrahim: Yeah, because I mean, my conversations about decoloniality in these spaces are all in English. All in English, my art. Then my Arabic is actually that of a high schooler. I have to keep it real simple because that’s all I have. I only have simple tools. It’s interesting to have to decompress into the limitations of an 18 year olds vocabulary. So that’s a very humbling experience. In recovery, there’s a thing, they call it K.I.S.S., Keep It Simple, Stupid. Just keep it simple. It’s not about grandiosity or art and this canon and what am I doing by deconstructing power dynamics. No, in real life its simple. This is wrong, there’s a history here that makes us feel this way. We are not this. Why do we treat people like this? Let’s do better.

Dom: Uh huh. Okay. I like that. I never saw it like that. 

Ibrahim: Am I making sense? 

Dom: Yes, yes you are. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about making art within a community. But when you make art, you put your name on it and there’s some things in the community that you just don’t put your name on. You don’t want to own it. 

Ibrahim: Nobody knows I do anything here. Yeah, not a single fucking person knows that I do what I do. 

Dom: And that’s always how I’ve been, you know, it’s always how I’ve lived. So, you know, you do it because that’s what’s right. It’s not because you want other people to know that that’s what you’re doing, so it is very interesting. I really like that answer. 

Ibrahim: Well, yeah. I mean, even the people within my community don’t know what I do. It’s like that thing about your left hand doesn’t know what your right hand is doing. Because it’s sincere. I think the only thing that is very clear to me is that I’ve fallen into good graces with very powerful people in my neighborhood and powerful meaning, they come from a very specific family that has a reputation. Not for their money. It’s about their word, their ability to negotiate conflicts between neighbors because there’s no police that governs my area. It’s the elders that govern the area. 

Dom: Sounds amazing!

Ibrahim: Also can get ugly. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all pretty. This particular family that I’ve become very close with, they’ve adopted me. They are the kids of one of the elders. One brother who is my chosen brother. This is my chosen family. We relate on a very spiritual level. We’re both sort of, lovers of Sufi path. Followers of Sufism, or the path, as we would call it. He never knew what racism towards the East Africans was like, he didn’t see it. I slowly started telling him, open your eyes, man, look around you. He has a restaurant on the corner, literally not even 15 meters away from me, it’s an open air restaurant, well not a restaurant that you think, it’s like a dive bar, but it’s good food. That place is an institution. And that place went from me hanging out there, to four years later, the whole East African community comes to the local bar that also belongs to his family, anything they need, any issues they have, they come to him. They call him Baba, like father. He is a protector. If this was in any other context in the West, you would say he’s a radical, anti, abolitionist slash anti racist. He’s hardcore. I see guys leaving their belongings with him. These are the things that I do talk about in which, you know, there’s these dialogues that happen, things shift here. I somehow have in this working class neighborhood, the equivalent of diplomatic status and I’m in the good graces with a certain person that has a lot of power to actually make physical changes and everybody that looks up to him. They start to have conversations with him and he’s doing, you know, God’s work. Community organically doing what it’s doing. Is that Art practice? No, that’s A practice. That’s not something you’re going to exhibit in a show, right? It’s something that’s just about humanity. How do you, actually, within your locality, effect change? I don’t believe in the system, voting. I don’t believe in any of that. Go to your locality. That’s where the work is. And actually, actually, doing something. 

Dom: That’s powerful. Seriously, thank you for that. Okay so now going back to art and getting back into your work.

When do you think you were like, this is what I want to do. I want to make things. I want it to be visual and I want it to say something like. When did you have something to say?

Ibrahim: When I wanted to be an artist, I was about 18. I didn’t know what I wanted to say through my art until 2012. Actually right about this time, October, November, 2012, something clicked. Finally, some level of consciousness came to me at like the age of 29 or 28. And I actually had something to say. I knew I wanted to be a visual maker. 18. I had something to say, 28, 29. When does that language become something very grounded and discourse and all these things? When I came to Egypt. And then you can see it in the work. I think probably 2015, 2016 shit really hit the fan. I really was in it. Because everything I was reading in books about colonialism, sort of colonial projects and this and that. And Black Skin, White Masks by Frantz Fanon, readings by Edward Said. 

Dom: And when do you know you have the right photo or the perfect title, when you said, it will always come back to you, that’s what this is called. This is what it’s going to be.

Ibrahim: I’ll tell you this. I’m from an English lit major background, right? I dropped out of college. I never got my bachelor’s degree. But I was always fascinated. That was my first love. I wanted to write.So looking at my life sometimes in third person, for example I’m sitting and talking to my father. And he says, “you know Ibrahim, no matter what I’ve done, all I’ve done, all I know is that it will always come back to you. It always comes back to the self.” And I said motherfucker!

Dom: Oh he was spitting?

Ibrahim: Yeah, hell yeah! I mean, a lot of my titles come from conversations. I’m just talking, and I’m making work, I’m just talking about the work to a friend. I don’t know what it’s gonna be called or nothing. I’m not even thinking about a title. It’s like this. My father was just chasing a dream. Like he left home because it was about this dream, but what is a dream? It’s not real. You wake up from a dream. I’m like only dreamers leave, you know, and that’s the title there. Only dreamers leave.

Dom: Wait. That’s how you got that title?

Ibrahim: That’s the title! So it’s just like that to me, it’s like those moments and something encapsulates for a title. I do know that it’s really, really important for me to allow the work to do what it needs to do. So I don’t have that, “what is it” moment. I don’t know what it is, actually. But I know that I step away from work, leave it alone for a day, a week, come back to it, stand with it for 45 minutes. Maybe I’ll work on it that day. Maybe I won’t. As I got older, I realized that you can’t force a seed to become a tree overnight. Patience is just about watering something and you water it by looking at it. It’s when the thing feels like it’s saying what I feel it needs to say. For me it’s about calmness. I try my best not to think too much. It’s about sensation. For me it’s, I feel, therefore I am. Not, I think therefore I am, or as Audre Lorde once said. “I feel, therefore, I can be free.” It’s about a different canon of existence. 

Dom: Nice. So it’s more of a feeling for you. That makes sense to me. So, I do like to ask, if you looked in the mirror and saw little you, what do you think you would think of you? Would you be proud?

Ibrahim: I never thought of that, man. I generally haven’t. Geez, you know, I think it would probably have to be a little older, like 17 year old me that started wanting to be an artist and dreamed of traveling the world, doing what I do. But I would be really blown away. When I think of it, I’m just like, holy shit, how did I pull this off? I think about the trajectory of my life, I am very, very, very, extremely lucky. Extremely blessed. Like I see it. I see the hand of the creator, moving things for me of the creative source.

But now with so much that I’ve received, how do I then offer back? So if I was young, I saw him in that mirror, wow, a moment of a lot of gratitude, but also searching. There’s a very important question. How do I offer back? So that would be my two part answer. Beautiful stuff but more work to do. 

Dom: You’re doing the work. I think little you would be in awe. That leads me to my last question. What’s next? Not only in the art world, not only what you’re working on now, but what’s next in life, in your community?

Ibrahim: Teaching. 100% I’ve been doing art in galleries and different tiers of galleries and exhibitions for almost 20 something years. I’m over it. I am. I am really over the market. I let my gallery do what they want to do. I’m very, very grateful. I do have a solo show coming up in Australia in March. I got to go to that. But, I’m hands off with it at this point. 

I’m interested in what I’m doing in my studio, pushing my practice, questioning things, new material, different processes. There’s one project that I’m taking images of rugs, collaging those images, and then going back to the factory to then reproduce them. That’s a whole project about histories and contamination of cultures and borderlessness, something I’m very interested in. 

But mainly teaching. I can’t wait. I do private lessons now for artists. I go and mentor younger artists in Egypt and Cairo and the greater region. For me, it’s really important to start countering a lot of these, very specific canons in the global North. All the people that are doing contemporary work. The only place they can get educated is predominantly in the Global North. You have Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology in Ghana, which is pretty damn good. There’s definitely some institutions on the continent and in the global South, but they tend to be, Western based. I think Ghana has created their own canon. In Egypt, we don’t have that. Everybody has to leave and go over to the West. That’s a problematic dynamic. I’m getting this thing just to validate and actually create a pedagogy that is really thinking about locality. The West, the U. S. is about locality that’s framed as universalism, but it’s not. So I’m interested in using that as a way to teach and say, wait a minute, let’s look around us. So teaching for me is fucking important. That’s really what I want to lean into. Art is always going to be there. It’s something I’m always playing around with. 

Dom: Amazing! Seriously, thank you for your words. Everything that you got going on, I see my own work and my own self in it.  So this has really helped me. Hearing your philosophy, your practice. You’ve mentored me in this little hour that we’ve talked. Thank you!

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Ibrahim Ahmed Born in Kuwait in 1984 , and spent his childhood between Bahrain and Egypt before moving to the US at the age of thirteen. In 2014, he relocated to Cairo, where he currently lives and works in the informal neighborhood of Ard El Lewa. Ahmed’s manipulations of material, especially textile, are informed by research into the histories and movements of peoples and objects. His works in mixed media, sculpture, and installation engage with subjects related to colonial legacies, structures of power, cultural interactions, and fluid identity, generating discussion around ideas of the self and notions of authenticity within the parameters of the nation-state. His work is held in many private collections and was recently acquired by the Museum of Old and New Art in Hobart, Australia, the Kamal Lazaar Foundation, Tunis and the Kadist Collection, France. Ahmed is currently completing an MFAat the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Dom Toliver (he/him) He is a photographer and performer from Long Beach, CA with an BA in Sociology/Criminology and an MA in Film. His works explores identity, emotion, and the overlooked stories of everyday life. Using a variety of mediums, he aims to capture raw, candid moments that reflect the complexities of the human experience. His work often focuses on marginalized individuals and themes like masculinity, grief, and the common threads that bind us all.

Between Art and Play, We Can Figure It Out

“And to me, there’s something kind of insect-like about this process. The body of the caterpillar dissolves inside of a chrysalis in order to transform. I think art has to be pulled from someplace like this, quite intimate, and then shared.”

Lillian Davies

While studying at Paris College of Art, Lillian Davies was my professor in a class called Marketplace for Art and Design. She developed the entire class curriculum not just for us, but with us, creating a non-hierarchical, lateral environment. Throughout the class, we explored contemporary art venues in Paris, meeting curators, artists, and directors, and I watched how Lillian genuinely connected, listened, and cared for all of the people she came into contact with. 

Her approach as an educator and community member was inspiring and collaborative in nature, and I have been eager to catch back up with her to learn more about her unique perspective on contemporary art and her thoughtful outlook on life as an writer, professor, and researcher.

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Gwen Hoeffgen: I’ll explain the project to you briefly– we have this ongoing publication led by the students in our program. We interview artists, community members, and educators, and we publish the interviews quarterly. It sounded familiar, because we were able to do the same thing in our class last year. I appreciated the “give and take” from you. We had an assignment, but also you then spent so much of your own time editing the thing. That really resonated with me, being a collaborative project between all of us. 

Lillian Davies: We met when you were doing your MA in Drawing at Paris College of Art.

Gwen: Yes. It was interesting for me because my experience studying Contemporary Art in Paris was very individualized and I felt a little isolated from the community within my practice– I started wanting to do more work relating to my background in social work. But, I really got a lot out of the MA and I still have an active studio practice because of it. 

Lillian: And now you’re doing an MFA in Art and Social Practice at Portland State University? A two-year MFA? 

Gwen: It’s a three-year program, which hopefully will allow for a variety of short-term and long-term projects.

Lillian: Learning about your program makes me think of Relational Aesthetics by Nicolas Bourriaud. That was the first time a critic identified social practice. It makes sense that now 20 years later, schools are offering programs concerned with this way of working. When we look at what’s happening in the world now, collective action is urgent. And with the exponential and under-examined development of AI, it is imperative that human brains come together. 

Gwen: Exactly!

Lillian: And in Portland, maybe there’s still hope? In Houston, Texas, more than two dozen public school libraries have been closed this year and converted into disciplinary centers. It’s George Orwell happening. 

Gwen: Oh wow, I didn’t realize the extent of that. It sounds too strangely dystopian, but at the same time it’s sad that I’m not very surprised. I’ve just recently moved to Portland. There seem to be more social programs and accessible art organizations here than what I’ve seen in other cities. Hopefully it will be nourishing to build community with. 

Lillian: Well, I’m excited about your program. 

Gwen: Me too. The first question I have for you is really broad. What do you define as an artist? 

Lillian: Oh, that’s such a good question. I love that. It’s a hard question to answer and I’m not sure I have an answer. I love Raymond Williams’s Keywords. His project defined terms chronologically, as definitions always change over time. I think if I’ve learned anything from Raymond Williams’s project it’s that what we define as art, what we define as artists, what we even define as writing or literature, is constantly evolving. These definitions change depending on who’s speaking and from where and with what life experience, body experience, and what experience they have with art making and art makers. 

What is an artist? Who is an artist? You asked, what is an artist, or who is an artist?

Gwen: What. What is an artist? 

Lillian: Right. That’s great. Because a definition can extend to an object, a plant, a stone, or a body of water. I’m teaching Art History this fall and Gardner’s Art Through The Ages, basically, the Bible of Art History, nearly 1000 pages long, begins in a Paleolithic site in South Africa (Makapansgat), where people picked up a pebble from the bottom of a riverbed that had been worn by the water because it looked like a little face. It wasn’t carved by people, but seen, and recognized by people. Someone looked into that body of water and not only saw their reflection on the surface, but saw themselves reflected, or maybe their friend or their child, reflected in this little pebble, whose surface was worn to look like a face. So, I’ll propose that idea and I’ll think about the “what” because that brings in the possibility of a non-human artist. And then I think I’ll also lean on someone else to answer the question. Recently I took my class, Writing Art and Design, to The Joyful Revolution, an exhibition of the fabulous Sister Corita Kent at Collège des Bernardins. She was an artist and she was an art teacher and she was a nun. But then she left the church because the church thought that she was being sacrilegious. Comparing the Virgin Mary to the ripest of tomatoes. Anyway, at Collège des Bernardins, the artistic director, Pierre Korzilius, giving us a tour, explained “There are three things that we do here. First, the seminary, the theological course, and then there’s a scientific research wing and third” and this is what he said, “everything that cannot be addressed in theological studies or scientific research– That’s art”. So, how’s that for a definition?

Gwen: It’s fascinating to hear about who or what an artist can be, and I’m also interested in what or who defines it. Pierre Korzilius’s response makes me think of the magic art evokes– it’s a beautiful definition. 

Lillian: Right. And also the art of trying to figure things out. People try to figure things out through religion. People try to figure things out through science. If it can’t be figured out in those two areas, Korzilius is saying, the third option is let’s try to figure it out in art. 

Gwen: I recently read art being described as something aesthetic. That was a piece of it, but also something that is communicated or transferred. So, what would you define art as then? 

Lillian: I think part of the definition includes communication- an interface. Is it art before it’s shared? And then does it have to be visible or aesthetic? You mentioned the word magic. I’m thinking of a beautiful text by Sheila Heti, in the book, Motherhood, where she debates with herself whether or not she should have a child. Ultimately she decides not to. In the book, she describes the process of creating as an artist, and as a writer. And she talks about going deep, deep inside of herself, to the mush. I’m paraphrasing terribly, but basically, the idea is she has to go into the mush in order to come out of it and make something from it. And to me, there’s something kind of insect-like about this process. The body of the caterpillar dissolves inside of a chrysalis in order to transform. I think art has to be pulled from someplace like this, quite intimate, and then shared. 

Gwen: What you said relates to what I’ve been thinking about recently in my work. Social Practice is strange because it’s technically non-object-based, right? So it’s understanding art as just that: The Mush being shared. If we take the object out of art, but we’re still sharing, and building community, is that as powerful? Is it doing something? Is it art? I don’t know. Do you consider yourself an artist, Lillian? 

Lillian: Do I consider myself an artist? It depends on what I’m doing. I think I appreciate communicating with artists. I’ll say that. And don’t we all aim to be artists– isn’t that the goal? For me, it’s an intention, a goal, to live artfully and understand an artful approach to life. 

Gwen: I wanted to talk to you a little bit about your book and workshop, Playgrounds (Drawing is Free Press, 2023). Could you tell me a little bit about how you and Chloe Briggs developed the idea for Playgrounds?

Lillian: So, I have been spending a lot of time in playgrounds during the last decade and a half with my children. It was a difficult thing sometimes because I was also writing for ArtForum, working as an art writer and as a teacher at an art school, and doing doctoral research at the Ecole du Louvre and EHESS. So when I was in the park with the kids, I felt like I was a bit out of the professional loop. And then I’d go to openings, and I remember some curator saying, “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you. Do you even live in Paris anymore?” I recently started to answer these sorts of questions with, “I’ve been at the playground.” I finally realized it was a place where the Venn diagram of motherhood and Art History overlaps. It was a long process for me because I had separated my work as a writer and my work as a mother, and, especially before the MeToo Movement, women didn’t communicate about their family life in the professional sphere. But, then things changed, and I changed. And what got me was when I started seeing all these male colleagues making a big deal about being dads. So I felt a little bit more comfortable speaking about maternity in my work, and the knowledge and experience this brings.

Anyway, I started researching the history of playgrounds and artists working with playgrounds. Many different artists have designed playgrounds, or painted or photographed playgrounds, and I cite Isamu Noguchi as one of the first. So when I was starting this research, I saw on Instagram that Chloe Briggs was making drawings of playgrounds. At the park with her son, she’s making drawings of the playground. So I said, we have to talk! And then we started looking at this place together. How do we make sense of this place? In addition to the art historical story of the playground and motherhood story of the playground, it’s also a place to consider play as a method for working and making art. A brilliant artist and scholar Mary Flanagan published a book Critical Play that talks a lot about play theory and play in the digital space, in video games. And I just read the beautiful new novel by Gabrielle Zevin, Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, and in her story about video game designers, there are some very very smart passages about what play is and how intimate play can be. 

And then we also looked at playgrounds as an alternative space for working and making art. Because where do you make your work if you can’t afford the Virginia Woolf “Room of Your Own”? Another important part of this project was when I saw a canvas by Elene Shatberashvili, a young painter from Georgia, the former Soviet Bloc. At the moment when Russia began its invasion of Ukraine in 2022, she’s painting a playground in Tbilisi. She’s not a mother. She’s looking at the structure of the playground, these fixed metal structures, the slide, the monkey bars, the whole thing, as an existing political infrastructure. And then the question is: How can young people, flexible bodies, and creative minds, move around this place in a new way? 

Chloe and I are continuing with Playgrounds in different ways now and proposing the playground as an important third space, where you can meet other people and interact, maybe, playfully. A French curator Vincent Romagny, in partnership with Gabriela Burkhalter, published an encyclopedia of artists’ playgrounds, which is great. My project with Chloe is not that. It is about the lived experience of female and maternal users of the playground. And I’m hoping that what we published last year is the first chapter of a longer project.

Gwen: It sounds like you’ve already developed so much into this project, but I’m excited to see how the idea of the playground, and play as a method of working and creating, will evolve within this workshop and publication. I am intrigued by the users of the playground, specifically seeing the playground as a third space where caregivers dwell, socialize, and create work. I wonder about the many types of shared relationships that exist due to playgrounds. And it’s also fascinating to think of a playground as a political space, and of how the infrastructure is created. I’ve never thought about playgrounds in that way. 

Lillian: Well, yes. The way playgrounds are set up is completely based on belief systems. In the United States, there’s the current belief that parents should be very present and interactive with children. So playgrounds in the U. S. are bigger than they are in France– they’re big enough for an adult to climb up on the structures too, right? Whereas in France, the play structures are much smaller. Adults can’t really fit in all of them. And in French parks, there are benches everywhere for parents to sit down and watch the children play because there’s a belief following the child psychologist, Francoise Dalto, of letting children go and explore. If you go back and look at some of the first playgrounds that Roosevelt’s Playground Association of America built in the early 1900s, those were created as public health projects. Society was being transformed, and playground equipment was imagined as exercise machinery so that the children (no longer working in factories) could physically build muscle. Then there was a change in playground design post World War II, when Europe and the UK developed adventure playgrounds. It was a sort of a free-for-all pile of junk. The kids were meant to build their play areas because the thinking was that we needed to rebuild and reimagine. But then by the time the 1980s arrived, capitalism was cocaine-fueled, the obsession was safety, and playgrounds were no longer for adventure, but containment. There’s padding, fences, and there’s this idea of the safety threat. So it’s very interesting to see how belief systems have shaped playgrounds. 

Gwen: It’s interesting to think of how structures like the playground change due to how our society is shaped. I wonder if we can see changes in other spaces, like the grocery store, or the “office”, which is now reimagined due to remote capabilities. The playground seems to be metaphoric for our understanding and perception of society.

Lillian: Yes, maybe so. Anyway, that’s where I am right now. Of course, most of us had playground time as kids. But I look at the playground differently now, returning there with my children. What do we believe about play in France in 2024? What was Noguchi’s experience with playgrounds? There’s a story that he had a traumatic experience in a playground in Japan as a kid, and I think he might have wanted to fix that by returning to playgrounds, in design and art, his entire life.

Gwen: I can imagine that someone would want to repair something where there was a traumatic experience. Maybe he wanted to exist within the playground again but in a different context, similar to how you did. 

Lillian: You ask about art and artists, right? I mean, we all can agree that Noguchi is an artist and I don’t think we should consider his playground designs separately if it’s coming from Heti’s mush-place and intended for another to experience life in a beautiful way. However, beauty is complicated too. I’m writing now on Miriam Cahn for ArtForum. And her work, as beautiful and painterly as her canvases can be, is essentially about violence. Do you know the work of Miriam Cahn? 

Gwen: I do, yes, I researched her when I was studying artists who investigate trauma. 

Lillian: It’s tough. Some of her paintings are truly terrifying. 

Gwen: Well, there’s a question of the sublime. It is possible to find something beautiful that also instills a sense of terror. It’s contradictory, but I experience that a lot with art. 

Lillian: You’re right to bring up the sublime. It’s like Noguchi’s process of going back to trauma, using it as material or site, or a proposal for a resolution through play. 

Gwen: Yes, and to fully close the circle- Back to the question of what is art. If you can’t figure it out by science, and you can’t figure it out by religion, you have to figure it out through art. I think those questionable places most times exist within our memories, perception of experiences, and emotions. Sometimes I think our brains are just too small for our hearts. Using art as a language allows different processing, and maybe an ability to find truth.

My parents moved last week from New Orleans, Louisiana up to the top of Maine, where it borders Canada. During my road trip with them, my dad (who isn’t an artist) told me that artists are good at seeing and expressing the closest possible truth. 

Lillian: That’s beautiful. Good for you for driving with them. 

Gwen: Well Lillian I enjoyed talking to you. Thank you so much for making time to chat with me. 

Lillian: Thank you. Big questions. I hope something made sense. 

Gwen: It did, it did! It was a phenomenal conversation. Thank you. 

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Lillian Davies 

Art historian and author of multidisciplinary artist Mounir Fatmi’s first monograph (Suspect Language, Skira, Flammarion), Lillian Davies writes for Artforum, Flash Art, Interview, Numéro, and Objektiv. Guest lecturer at École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris; Ecole W (Université Paris-Panthéon-Assas); and Parsons Paris, Lillian is an Advisor for L’AiR Arts and Atelier 11 at Cité Falguière and Adjunct Professor at Paris College of Art and Sciences Po.

Lillian earned a BA in Art History and Comparative Religions from Columbia University, a Masters in Curating Contemporary Art from Royal College of Art, and recently conducted Doctoral research in a Troisième Cycle at the Ecole du Louvre, presenting her work on modern and contemporary art in the Arab and Muslim worlds and their diasporas at conferences hosted by EHESS, Université de Genève and Akademie der Künste der Welt, Cologne. Lillian is a recipient of AICA France’s Bourse Ekphrasis.

Gwen Hoeffgen

Gwen Hoeffgen is a visual and social practice artist investigating the perception of psychological trauma and dissociation of the mind and the body. Previously, she had experience working as a social worker in the mental health, addiction, and cognitive health fields, and she currently uses mediums of painting, drawing, performance, and conversation to explore how to find stories within pieces, creases, breaks, and bends.

Letter from the Editors

As the year draws to a close for us at the Art + Social Practice program, thoughts on time and its passage weave its way into our current interests, as expressed by the interviews in this issue. 

For the graduating third year students, the end of their time as students brings about an interest in exploring time on a more personal, even familial, scale. Olivia DelGandio interviews their mom, Lauren DelGandio. Luz Blumenfeld interviews Hollis Blue Hawkins Wood, a 5 year-old currently growing up in the house Luz also spent significant time in throughout their childhood and life. And Gilian Rappaport meets with Midnite Seed Abioto and LaQuida Landford to learn about their work curating an exhibition of artists exploring the complex relationships that change over time between BIPOC communities and plants.

Looking back through time proves to be a generative exploration. Midori Yamanaka discusses with Amanda Larriva The Timeline, an important art installation which shares historical moments of interest in the history of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary School in Northeast Portland. Nina Vichayapai’s conversations with Monyee Chau explores the many ways ancestral and familial history influences their work. Meanwhile, Manfred Parrales sits down with Israa Al-Hasani to speak of the mental health impact of an immigrant’s experience of living simultaneously in the past and present. 

And of course, with summer break nearing, time for friends is critical in restoring ourselves. Clara Harlow and Katie Shook discuss the importance of carving out time and space for play, rest, and connection within the capitalist grind. For friends and fellow classmates Simeen Anjum and Lou Blumberg, their interviews with one another provided a chance to deepen their friendship while also reflecting on what helps them get through difficult times as activists. 

We hope you enjoy reading our reflections and find some time to clock out this season. 

HAGS!

Your SoFA Journal Editors:

Nina Vichayapai, Lou Blumberg, and Clara Harlow

Microscopic Puddles and New Pen Pals

“I already made like, I don’t know, a million pieces of art.”

Hollis Blue Hawkins Wood

I recently became pen pals with my friend’s five year old. My friend, Shelley, her partner, Josh,  and their kid, Hollis, all live in the same house I lived in at two different times in my life. I lived there from infancy to age three, and again as an adult from ages 24-30. The house sits kitty-corner from a school and a church, whose bells ring every hour on the hour. It is walking distance to the city park my mom used to take me on stroller walks to when I was little. Now, Hollis also visits that park with their family. 

I visited Shelley and Hollis over my winter break and when I went by their house to say goodbye, Hollis was so excited about the letter they had written to me, they actually showed it to me right then and there and read it aloud instead of mailing it to me. 

*A note about gender and pronouns: Shelley has raised her child in a way that Hollis feels free to determine their own gender and change their pronouns whenever they feel like it. In this introduction, I refer to Hollis with they/them pronouns (although, in the interview, Hollis tells me they are currently using she/her pronouns).

Hollis’s first letter to me. It reads: “Luz, I love and miss you so so so so so so much and thank you so so much for the idea of sending each other cards! I hope we can experience a sleepover and I, myself actually use actual scissors! Real scissors! –Hollis” 2024. Photo courtesy Luz Blumenfeld.

When I returned to Portland, I wrote Hollis a letter back about the crows here. At the time of this interview, I was still awaiting her next letter. 

I wanted to interview Hollis because I love hearing how she navigates life as a five year old and what is important to her.

This interview took place over Zoom in January of 2024.

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Luz Blumenfeld: What have you got there?

Hollis Blue Hawkins Wood: An orange, and a pear.

Luz: Does your shirt say “hummingbird” on it?

Hollis: Yeah.

Luz: I saw a hummingbird today.

Hollis: Really? I think my shirt is spelled backwards a little.

Luz: I can see it the right way on my side. I can read it.

Hollis: Yeah. This is from my old school.

Luz: Is that the school where your mom works?

Hollis: Yeah, I used to go there. And [my friend] Amiri goes to the school I used to go to.

So Luz, wanna come over or sleep over today or maybe tomorrow?

Luz: I wish I could come for a sleepover today or tomorrow, but I’m all the way in Oregon.

Hollis: Oh yeah, I forgot that you’re there. Right now, I’m wearing some new boots that just came today.

Luz: Can you show me? Oh, wow. Look at those rain boots. Have you splashed in a puddle with them yet?

Hollis: No, well, these are new. 

Shelley: They’re like, super new. 

Hollis shows me their new boots on Zoom. 2024. Photo courtesy Luz Blumenfeld.

Hollis: Can you see how shiny they were, how clean they were? Maybe that could answer your question.

Luz: What question?

Hollis: The one– Have I splashed in puddles with them yet?

Luz: Oh, so not yet.

Hollis: Yeah, that’s right.

Luz: Yeah, you’ll have to look for a big one.

Hollis: Yeah. I have lots of big puddles at my school so I don’t need to worry about that. I splash in every single puddle. In microscopic puddles, gigantic puddles–

Luz: There are microscopic puddles?

Hollis: Yeah, microscopic ones.

Luz: How can you see them?

Hollis: I just splash in them– I splash in microscopic puddles every rainy day. (laughs)

Luz: I don’t think I would be able to see a microscopic puddle… Unless I had a microscope. 

Hollis: Aah! Pear emergency! 

Luz: Pear emergency? (laughs)

Shelley: Want me to put them up so you can have them tomorrow?

Hollis: Yeah. Bye-bye. (laughs) I just said goodbye to them. About the questions, are we ever gonna do that? 

Luz: (laughs) We can do questions, yeah. I was gonna ask you first, what are your words lately? What are your pronouns lately?

Hollis: She and her.

Luz: Okay, thank you. I just want to make sure I have that right because there will be a little section of the interview that introduces you, and I want to put that in there. 

Hollis: Wow. What’s the second question?

Luz: Well, when we finish the interview, I’m gonna put it in a book and then we’re gonna publish that book.

Hollis: A book?! (gasps)

Shelley: Do you want to show Luz your book?

Hollis: Oh, yeah, I’d love to show you.  

Luz: I’d love to see it.

Hollis: I made a picture book.

Luz: Wow!

Shelley: There was a publishing party at school. 

Hollis: Let me show you inside. 

Luz: Yes, please.

Shelley: Maybe pick a couple of pages. 

Hollis: I’m gonna pick all the pages!

Luz: Can you hold it up to the camera? 

Hollis: Yeah, see the words?

Luz: I do see the words! I see “daddy,” and “mama.” And it looks like a sand castle. Is that a sand castle?

Hollis: Yeah.

Luz: Is that a picture of the beach?

Hollis: Yeah.

Hollis shows me their beach drawing over Zoom. January 2024. Image courtesy of Luz Blumenfeld.

Luz: What’s the green part?

Hollis: The green part is the tent.

Luz: Oh, the tent! Cool.

Hollis: Are you wondering what this is?

Luz: Um, that person? 

Hollis: Yeah, that’s me. 

Luz: You’re really tall in that picture.

Hollis: I bet you can’t even see the eyes. The eyes look a little strange. It’s like you can only see one eye. Did you notice this part at the top where I wrote my name?

Luz: Yeah, it looks really purple. It’s almost like camouflage. It’s hard to see but I think I can see it. What’s going on in this next picture?

Hollis: (laughs) Well, I’m relaxing outside. This is my house and this is a tree. This is a tree trunk, and this is me relaxing outside like, 🎵la la la la la la 🎵(laughs) 

Luz: (laughs)

Hollis: And this is my house and I’m walking over by my house to say, “hi mom, how you doin’?”

Luz: Is that the house where you are now? It looks like that house. 

Hollis: Yeah, it is.

Hollis and Shelley hold up Hollis’s drawing over Zoom. 2024. Photo courtesy Luz Blumenfeld.

Luz: Did you know that I used to live in that house when I was a baby?

Hollis: Whoa.

Luz: I know you knew I used to live there before I moved to Portland, when I was already grown up. But did you know I used to live there when I was little? They brought me home from the hospital to that house, and then we lived there until I was three.

Hollis: This is the first house you ever got?

Luz: Yeah, actually, I have a picture of my dad holding a very tiny newborn baby-me in the kitchen. And it looks different from the way the kitchen looks now because we renovated it at some point. We kind of redid the kitchen before you guys moved in. But this picture is taken about where the fridge is right now. If you look where the fridge is in your house, can you see that at all?

Hollis: I can’t see the fridge.

Luz: No, you won’t be able to see the fridge in the picture. I mean, the spot where he’s standing is basically where the fridge is in your kitchen right now. 

Hollis: Oh, I see. 

A picture of a photograph from my dad’s memorial. In the photograph, my dad is holding a newborn baby-me in the old kitchen of his house. Oakland, CA, 1992. Photo courtesy Luz Blumenfeld.

Luz: Right there. Maybe I can send the picture to your mama’s phone and then she can show it to you. 

Hollis: I’d love to!

Luz: I think that picture is when I just came home from the hospital, so I was really tiny. 

Hollis: Yeah, like maybe this tiny (holding up her fingers).

Luz: (laughs) I mean, maybe I was microscopic at some point, but by the time I was born, I was not microscopic anymore.

Hollis: (laughs)

Luz: I remember when you were in your mommy’s belly and your mommy had something on her phone that told us what size you were at certain months. And at one point it said that you were the size of an avocado.

Shelley: Do you want to show them another drawing from your book?

Hollis holds up their drawing of a holiday house with a beam of sunlight to show me over Zoom. 2024. Photo courtesy Luz Blumenfeld.

Luz: Ooh, this one looks like a Halloween house to me, maybe a haunted house. What’s up there?

Hollis: This is actually a bathroom.

Luz: A haunted bathroom?

Hollis: And then there’s the smoke coming out of the chimney, and there’s Santa in his sleigh.

Luz: Oh, so it’s more of a holiday house and a holiday bathroom.

Hollis: Yeah. And then you see this yellow? That’s the sunlight. 

Luz: That’s beautiful. That’s so cool. I love the way you drew this out. 

Shelley: That’s the last page. Maybe we can make some copies of it and send a copy to Luz.

Hollis: I made that in, like, 2023 but it’s 2024, so it’s old. 

Luz: You could make another one.

Hollis: Yeah, I want to make copies of it. And I’m gonna send it to you. I’m gonna send one to everyone on this continent, even people I don’t even know. 

Luz: Wow, they’re going to be so excited to get that as a surprise. I would be really excited. Even if I didn’t know you and I got that in the mail, I would be excited. I was just gonna ask, if you wrote a book, what would it be about?

Hollis: My favorite Pokémons.

Luz: You want to make a book about Pokémon?

Hollis: Yeah, I’m doing that. I already made the book cover. I want to show you something.

Shelley holds Hollis’s Pikachu book cover drawing up to the camera on Zoom. 2024. Photo courtesy Luz Blumenfeld.

Luz: Okay. Is this for the cover? Whoa, you already made it.

Hollis: I tried to make a Pikachu.

Luz: It looks just like Pikachu! I love it.

Shelley: It’s so good, Bubs. This is my first time seeing this actually. Wow, I could tell right away that it was Pikachu. 

Luz: That’s great. What will be on the inside of your Pikachu book?

Hollis: Well, a lot of things about Pikachu.

Luz: Is that what you want me to put in my book? You want people to know all about Pikachu? 

Hollis: Yeah. 

Luz: What do you want them to know?

Hollis: That Pikachu is a mouse Pokémon, but it can generate electricity and– Luz, do you see those red parts in the cheeks? That’s where the Pikachu stores electricity. 

Luz: Really? I didn’t know that.

Hollis: They can do a move called Thunderbolt. It’s an electric move that Pikachu does when angry and when it’s in a Pokémon battle. That’s only one of the moves.

Luz: What do you think you want to do when you get older?

Hollis: I want to be an artist!

Luz: Yeah? That’s awesome.

Hollis: I already made like, I don’t know, a million pieces of art.

Luz: You’ve made so many pieces of art and you keep making more.

Hollis: Yeah, I feel like my whole house, or my whole room, is covered with art and toys. (laughs)

Luz: What’s your favorite toy right now?

Hollis: Toys with wheels. I have many toys with wheels. Oh, I forgot to show you something. Be right back!

Luz: Ooh, what is it?

Hollis: It’s a clay pot I made.

Luz: You made a clay pot?

Hollis: And there’s money inside. Let me show you.

Shelley: What does it say? Tell them what it says.

Hollis: It says, “We Accept Tips.”

Luz: (laughs) It’s a tip jar?

Hollis: Yeah, look at the money inside of it. Let me show you some dollars. They’re real dollars. 

This is just an ordinary, boring box. But inside–

Luz: Whoa, look at that.

Hollis: –I have one dollar. 

Hollis shows me the clay pot they made over Zoom. 2024. Photo courtesy Luz Blumenfeld.

Luz Blumenfeld:  One question I had was, what’s something that you learned recently that you’re excited about?

Hollis: About Martin Luther King Jr and his birthday. 

Luz: That’s cool. What did you learn about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr?

Hollis: Well, that he did good things in the world, and fighted against– What was that word, Mama? 

Shelley: What word?

Hollis: That Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was fighting against. Segregation.

Shelley: Okay, yeah, that one.

Hollis: Yeah. He fighted against segregation. And segregation means people get treated badly because of their skin color and how they talk. But Martin Luther King Jr. stopped that.

Shelley: He changed a lot of people’s minds. That’s definitely true.

Hollis: Yeah, but he got arrested a lot, which I don’t think should be good. Some white people didn’t believe him because he was Black.

Shelley: Okay. (laughs) So, yes, there were people who were unkind in those times. And Martin Luther King Jr. wanted kindness for everyone. He wanted people to have what they need. A lot of people really believed in the things that he was saying. And some people who didn’t believe in it before even changed their minds–

Hollis: Woah.

Shelley: –Because he was such a good speaker. And so we celebrate him because a lot of people really liked his ideas. People changed their minds about things because of hearing him speak.

Luz: And his ideas are still important today. 

Shelley: Yeah, they are.

Hollis: Yeah. That’s why we still celebrate his birthday, even though he died. 

Luz: Yeah, definitely. Thank you for sharing that. Do you have any questions for me?

Hollis: Oh, yeah. Some questions like, what’s your favorite color?

Luz: Blue. What’s your favorite color?

Hollis: Purple. And yellow. Yellow cause Pikachu– almost its whole body is yellow. 

Luz: Do you have any other questions for me?

Hollis: Did you hear my fart sound? 

Luz: No, no I didn’t.

Hollis: These are some more questions. Um, do you have a toilet?

Shelley: Okay, no more potty humor.

Luz: Okay, I can answer that question. Yes, my house does have a toilet. Most houses do.

Hollis: (giggling) Is your toilet in the bathroom or in your room?

Luz: It’s in the bathroom. 

Hollis: Do you have a TV in your room?

Luz: Nope. No TV in my room. Do you have a TV in your room? 

Hollis: No cause I’m only five. No one lets me have a TV. But I do have it in my living room.

Luz: I think there’s a TV in our living room too.

Hollis: Um, sorry Luz, but we have to go soon. We have to stop this conversation soon. Because the computer has a low battery. 

Luz: Well, I’ll let you go soon because I think it’s almost your bedtime also.

Shelley: Can you say thanks? Thanks for talking, thanks for calling–

Hollis: Thanks for talking, thanks for calling me. And I have one more question for you. Do you have chickens? (laughs)

Luz: Do I have chickens? Like pet chickens?

Hollis: Yeah, And if you do have them, do they lay eggs?

Luz: I don’t have them, but I think if I did, they would.

Hollis: Do roosters lay eggs?

Luz: I don’t think so.

Hollis: I knew that. 

Luz: Do you have chickens?

Hollis: We were thinking about it.

Luz: You’re thinking about getting chickens?

Hollis: Yeah. My mom said maybe we can get them tomorrow.

Luz: Tomorrow?

Shelley: I don’t think so. (laughs)

Luz: Thank you for talking to me, Hollis. 

Shelley: We’re gonna say good night now, okay,?

Hollis: You’re welcome to have a sleepover anytime you want.

Luz: Thank you so much. I am so happy to have that invitation–

Hollis: Or a movie night together.

Luz: Will you keep writing me letters? Will we keep being pen pals?

Hollis: Yeah. 

Luz: Cool, can I put one of your letters in my book?

Hollis: Yeah.

Luz: Thank you. All right, Hollis. I’m gonna let you go to sleep.

Hollis: Okay, I’m gonna miss you though. 

Luz: I’ll miss you too. But I will talk to you again soon. If you want, we can hang out on the computer, or we can hang out on the phone another time.

Hollis: And write messages.

Luz: Yeah, and we can write letters to each other.

Hollis: (making chicken clucking sounds)

Luz: Good night little chicken.

Shelley: Bye, love you.

Luz: Bye, I love you too!

Hollis: That left me cracking up.

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Hollis Blue Hawkins Wood (they/them) is a 5 year old kindergartener living in Oakland, California. They are a budding artist in many mediums; from handmade (and teacher stapled) picture books to clay pottery and original songs on the ukulele. Hollis loves the earth and often volunteers to pick up trash at their local park. They love playing with trains, and reading and snuggling with their pets (Okra the dog and Huey the cat). Hollis was the recipient of the Student of the Month award in January of 2024 for cultural and ethical leadership in their school community.

Shelley Hawkins (she/her) is a mom, teacher and 4th generation Oakland resident. Shelley has a background in permaculture design, urban food systems and food justice. As a teacher to Black and Brown kindergarten and first grade students, she brings these skills into the classroom to promote empowerment and push back against the status quo. Shelley lives with her partner, her beautiful child and raucous pets in Oakland’s Dimond district. 

Luz Blumenfeld (they/them) is an interdisciplinary artist, writer, and educator with a background in Early Childhood Education. Third generation from Oakland, California, they currently live and work in Portland, Oregon. They hold a BA from California Institute of Integral Studies in San Francisco, California and are graduating in June this year with an MFA in Art and Social Practice from Portland State University. Luz published a book of poems entitled More and More Often in 2023. They taught an undergraduate class called Practice Practice, which focused on exploring methodologies of an art practice. In April, Luz curated a show about ephemera at AB Gallery in Portland, Oregon. Their work explores themes of play, site, care, and memory through research as lived experience and materials such as sound, sculpture, and publications.

THE WISDOM LEADERS OF AFROVILLAGE 

“We are not a physical place, we are a movement.” 

Vaughn Kimmons, photo by Intisar Abioto, Feast of the Tide: a performance art short film screening, AfroVillage At Lloyd Center Mall, November 2023

Midnite Abioto offered me something to eat when I first entered the AfroVillage, but I knew very little about her then. From an invitation in an Instagram story, all I knew was a rough assembling of information: Vaughn Kimmons (of Portland-based music project Brown Calculus), short film, performance, and Lloyd Center Mall. After my grandmother and mother died of lung cancer, I’ve been interested in the tobacco plant and all the healing that it can offer beyond the disease with which it has become so identified. Thinking of a sacred ritual that a beloved Kiowa elder shared with me in the wake of grief, I often wonder What miraculous healings can take place spontaneously through our collective prayers? I had to know the stories of the women who made this powerful exhibition happen, who brought all these people together and fed everyone warm food and art as the days got darker. I felt very lucky when I ran into the painter Kyra Watkins: she introduced me to Midnite, curator of AfroVillage’s exhibition Healing Our Roots, who then connected me with AfroVillage’s Lead Visionary and Executive Director LaQuida Landford. 

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Gilian Rappaport: What is your vision for Healing Our Roots? 

Midnite Seed Abioto: Healing Our Roots: Our Relationship to Tobacco, Hemp, Sugarcane, and Cotton is a multimedia exhibition in which we explore tobacco, hemp, sugarcane and cotton within our community. These crops formed the basis of the trade of brutal enslavement, trafficking, colonialization, and genocide. In this exhibit, we center the history of our communities within ecology from a full cultural spectrum. The artists were not chosen simply because they have specific plant representations in their art, instead, they were chosen because they present a broader perspective of the culture as a whole centered on ecology. The media historically leaves out BIPOC communities in the deeper conversations around ecology and environmental justice. We push back against that narrative for ourselves and the world as we explore our birth, our life, and our death in the relationship among all living organisms and the physical environment. This exhibit explores deeply our relationship with tobacco, hemp, cotton, and sugarcane beyond the ideologies of pain, suffering, and disease. 

YAWA, photo by Intisar Abioto, Feast of the Tide: a performance art short film screening, AfroVillage At Lloyd Center Mall, November 2023

Gilian Rappaport: What programming is upcoming? 

Midnite Seed Abioto: AfroVillage has convened an extraordinary group of artists, healers, herbalists, thinkers, musicians, and Afro-futurists to exhibit their arts and articulate their evolving thoughts throughout November and December. In December, our workshops will expand the relationship and reframe the narrative around tobacco, hemp, cotton, and sugarcane beyond that of death, mass incarceration, disease, and despair to explore the power and efficacy of true liberation through the lens of diasporic culture with reference to community, history, the spiritual world and the natural law which emanates from this evolution. Our programming will include deeply nourishing conversations, sound baths, plant meditation, movement, and music which centers us in the ecology of Afro-futurism. The diverse group of artists whose works will be on display includes Adriene Cruz, Bobby Fouther, Kathy Pennington, Latoya Lovely, Chris McMurry, Carolyn Anderson, Cole Reed, Chris Morillo, Nia Musiba, Kyra Watkins, Cole Reed, Alice Price, Medina Abioto, Intisar Abioto, Yawa Abioto, Sahara Defrees, Bridgette Hickey, Kalimah Abioto and our youngest artist, Ceriya Stewart, and myself.  

The event that you attended on Saturday, “Feast of the Tide,” was a performance art short film screening production by Vaughn Kemmons. They connected the work of their grandmother paving the pathway for women in the ministry—at a time when women were not allowed to stand in the pulpit—and the defining works of bell hooks. They also included several artists from the community as performers. It was a grand and glorious opportunity for AfroVillage PDX to give a sneak preview of the Healing Our Roots exhibit and engage the community. My family is a group of artists. I have five daughters and all of them are artists. One of my daughters, YAWA, performed on Saturday. My daughter Intisar Abioto curated Black Artists of Oregon, currently on view at the Portland Art Museum (through March 17, 2024). 

AfroVillage at Lloyd Center is a short-term pop-up, open through December 31st on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. Current information is at @AfroVillagePDX and AfroVillagePDX.org.

Jacque Hammond, photo by Intisar Abioto, Feast of the Tide: a performance art short film screening, AfroVillage At Lloyd Center Mall, November 2023

Gilian Rappaport: Where is the funding coming from for this project? 

Laquida Landford: AfroVillage is funded by the Oregon Health Authority, from a commercial tobacco tax from the state which the fund is re-distributing back into the community. It’s operating as a smaller organizing group to provide mutual aid to the community. The project is also funded by RACC.

Healing Our Roots exhibition (detail), photo by Intisar Abioto, AfroVillage At Lloyd Center Mall, November 2023

Gilian Rappaport: What is the mission of AfroVillage? 

LaQuida Landford: We are not a physical place, we are a movement. We empower futures for black and brown and unrecognized communities. I’ve always been curious about how black and brown folks can have safe spaces, especially within pervasive gentrification.

Community and art installation, photo by Intisar Abioto, Feast of the Tide: a performance art short film screening, AfroVillage At Lloyd Center Mall, November 2023

Gilian Rappaport: What is your relationship with the Lloyd Center Mall? How did the AfroVillage end up there, and why does it feel like a good place for this work? 

LaQuida Landford: I worked in the mall in 2000. A lot closed, businesses didn’t succeed. Amy, the current acting manager, leased us the space amid a lot of changes happening in the next 12-18 months. It’s important that we have visibility in the next era of Lloyd Center to help mend the pervasive history of displacement and gentrification in Oregon, and especially in Northeast Portland. In the past, people who didn’t have larger businesses could not lease space to do something at Lloyd Center. I appreciate the opportunity to be part of reimagining the space. I would like that this exhibit and us holding space will allow us to be part of those conversations. 

Map of AfroVillage at Lloyd Center Mall (lot 982)

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Midnite Seed Abioto is an emerging multimedia artist who spent 40 years practicing law in the Mississippi Delta. She sees her work as magically transformative with an arch towards justice and liberation. She has exhibited at Building 5 (Portland, OR) and the Reser Center for the Arts (Beaverton, OR), and performed at the ASHÉ Cultural Center (New Orleans, LA). Her curatorial process is centered on addressing environmental injustice through a cultural and spiritual lens. studioabioto.com. 

LaQuida – “Q” – Landford is Lead Visionary for the AfroVillage Movement. She is a community health worker, community activist and organizer, and a community navigator with roots in Los Angeles and Belize. She serves on the Climate Friendly and Equitable Communities Rules Advisory Committee for the state of Oregon. She is the founder of the “Green In The Hood PDX“, an initiative based on flipping the historical stereotypes about BlPOC communities. LaQuida’s work focuses on housing, food and environmental injustice, policy advocacy and restorative healing.

Gilian Rappaport is an artist, naturalist, and designer working in social and visual forms. Their interdisciplinary practice is place-based and often in ecological contexts. | art projects: www.gilian.space | design projects: www.gilianrappaport.space | @gilnotjill    

The Mother-Daughter Connection

“It all comes back to the human condition, you know, searching for home, searching for belonging.”

Lauren DelGandio

When I was thinking about what I wanted my final SoFA interview to be, I decided to take time to reflect on how my work and ideas have taken shape over the years. I thought back to where my work started and immediately thought about my family. Often, my work is literally about my family and when it’s not, it revolves around the values growing up in my family left me with; connection, vulnerability, and support. So for this last interview, I decided to talk to my mother about my relationship with her, the relationships we have with our family, and how it all finds its way into my creative practice. 

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Olivia DelGandio: If you could do life all over again, what would you change? 

Lauren DelGandio: I would have stayed in school and gotten a Masters and Ph.D. in sociology. I would love to research and teach. Every sociology class that I took lit me up, I couldn’t wait to read more. But I don’t think I saw staying in school really as an option, financially. And it seemed like a pipe dream.

Olivia: What was Meme’s (my grandmother’s) part in that? 

Lauren: It’s interesting because she says she always told me I could be anything but I recently said to her, “I know you said it but I didn’t believe you.”

Olivia: Why do you think you didn’t believe her?

Lauren: My self-esteem was incredibly low. I felt unimportant. Invisible. Meme and I were talking about this recently and I said I always let you find your way and Meme said that she told me the same things. I said to her, “but the difference is that Olivia believes me when I tell her she can do anything.”

Olivia: It’s interesting how those things are passed down and how they change and shift the way because I did believe you. I do believe you. 

Lauren: Words are one thing, right? But action and example are a completely separate thing and that wasn’t there. My father did not show me that he loved me. And I knew that Meme loved me but I felt like my voice was not important because of the situations and the life we were put into. So the words were, “you’re incredible, you’re talented, you’re smart” but the environment did not show me that. 

Olivia: Totally. I mean, it’s so interesting to think about how, like, we were both told the same things, but because our growing up experiences were so different, the result was so different. How did this all translate into you and Dad’s relationship?

Lauren: I mean, getting together at 16, I wasn’t even a person yet. I’ve told you I thought he was so hot and so desirable. If you ask me, like, you know, on a scale of 1 to 10 where we each were, I’d say he was a 27 and I was maybe a 5. I remember thinking, why would he want me? And I see it so clearly now, I was just reliving this dance of, if I’m good enough, my father will love me, if I’m good enough, this man will love me enough to marry me. I was always trying to prove something. So I accepted being treated very poorly because I didn’t see any value in myself. 

Olivia: You would never know that he used to treat you poorly by looking at how he is now. What changed?

Lauren: Well, we didn’t see each other or talk for almost two years when I was around 19. That was the beginning for me, I couldn’t believe I had accepted what I accepted. And for dad, he says he always knew he wanted more for himself than the hand he was dealt. Obviously a lot of how he treated me came from how he was raised. He says he knew that I would get him to grow and that we could grow together. And in that time we were apart, he realized he wanted to make that growth happen with me. 

Olivia: How do you think all of these relationships fit into how you mother me? 

Lauren: That’s really interesting. First of all, I think that I made a really conscious decision probably before I even knew it, to not be like my mother. And, you know, there are so many ways that I’m very much like my mother, but I made the decision to not parent like my mother, 

Olivia: In what way? 

Lauren: In terms of my relationship with my mother, the mother daughter connection and struggle for individuation, I still sometimes question if I’ve  individuated completely. There was just so much codependency. 

Olivia: I question that too. 

Lauren: I look at our family tree, our family connections, I think about my own friendships or lack of friendships and I realize that family filled so much of my life. I often wonder and question, you know, did I not maintain strong friendships because my family took up too much space? Every weekend was going to Miami to spend time with not just my mother but this whole extended family. It was such a special thing but I also wonder if it was a deterrent. And I think the whole dynamic also makes it so hard to explain to other people. It’s impossible to explain what losing these people and these connections meant for us because our family relationships were so different from most families. 

Olivia: Totally agree. I remember being 18 when Poppop (my great grandfather) died and I was absolutely devastated. People didn’t understand how I could feel so strongly about someone most people don’t even get the chance to meet, let alone have and see so often for my entire childhood. 

Lauren: Right. I can’t say that I regret the emphasis we had on family because the ties, the relationships, the memories, I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But there have been times I’ve wondered, how come I don’t have any close friends? What is it about me? And it’s sort of like I don’t need friends, I talk to my mother every single day but is that how it should be?

Olivia: It’s such an interesting question. Now that we live so far away from each other, I’ve thought a lot about our relationship and how we are so connected. I talk to you way more than any of my friends talk to their mothers, I probably talk to my grandmother more than my friends talk to their mothers. And if a whole day goes by without at least a text from you I’m like hm, I should check in with my mom. I’ve definitely had moments where I have to remind myself that it’s normal to not talk to your mother for a day. 

Lauren: Exactly. And I always want you to have your life separate from me, it’s an interesting thing to have to learn. 

Olivia: And I am so much like you in so many ways and I wonder how much of me is just you? Who am I without my mother?

Lauren: Well I think there’s a distinction between who am I without my mother and who am I without my mother’s approval/opinion? And I think it is an ongoing process probably for the rest of our lives. For me, just the fact that you live 2500 miles away means I’ve succeeded in letting you know that you can go out and live your life without me. It’s cliche but I’ve always wanted to give you roots to come home to and wings so you can fly away. And I don’t know that Meme ever meant the same for me. 

Olivia: I could see that. 

Lauren: It’s interesting because you have to look at who raised you, who raised me, and who raised Meme in order to understand it all. Meme always says that GG (her mother) was not affectionate and I think she wanted to be different from that. And me – I grew up watching Meme stay with a husband that treated her and us so wrong. She had to have such low self esteem to accept that for so long, which brings it back to my self esteem growing up. I didn’t know I could want more for myself. 

Me with my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, 2013, courtesy of Lauren DelGandio. 

Olivia: So she didn’t want to be like her mother and you didn’t want to be like your mother but, the thing is, I want to be like my mother. 

Lauren: That’s an honor. That’s a true honor. 

Olivia: I mean, we talk about how you and dad decided to break the mold and I think it’s proof that it worked because I want to be like my parents. It’s interesting to think about all of this in relation to the work that I make and want to make and how so much of it comes down to connection and conversation and family. 

Lauren: That’s interesting, it all comes back to the human condition, you know, searching for home, searching for belonging. And I think a lot of what you explore is the idea of belonging. Belonging physically as compared to belonging as a feeling, right? You know, what does belonging mean in a modern and post-modern, apocalyptic world?

Olivia: And when I think about it, home and belonging, I think of sleepovers at Meme’s house and all our weekends there together and walks on the beach with you and Meme and you and Dad, you know, the home that you made for me and my brothers. It all comes back to this connection and what that feels like. Like waking up at a sleepover at Meme’s and she’s in the bed next to me. No matter how old I got, she left Bompa (my grandfather) to come and sleep with me. Not because I needed her to anymore, but because it was this special thing, right? 

The beach where my mother and great-grandparents lived during my childhood. We’d often walk this path together, Bal Harbor, FL, 2019, photo taken by Olivia DelGandio

Lauren: Exactly. This sense of connection, it’s everything to us and it’s also what’s made death so much harder in this family. 

Olivia: It’s all coming full circle. It’s also making me think about how we started this conversation with you saying you’d be a professor if you could do it differently. I’m thinking about how I’m going to be teaching my own class soon. What does that feel like for you?

Lauren: I feel thrilled. I’ve told you a zillion times, I’m so proud of you. I love you but I also just like you so much and you’ve really created this life that you truly dreamed of. You chose it. This is all I wanted for you. 

Olivia: I really feel like this was only possible because you told me it was. And because of the true belonging you and Dad raised me within.

Lauren: Yes and I’m so proud of me and Dad. We’re a miracle from where we both came from to have created this. It makes me think of GG and Poppop (my great-grandparents) sitting at the head of the table on Thanksgiving and Poppop saying, “Ida, look at what we started,” while our whole family is running around them. That’s how I feel when I look at you and your brothers. 

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Liv DelGandio (she/they) is a socially engaged artist focused on asking intimate questions and normalizing answers in the form of ongoing conversations. She explores grief, memory, and queerness and looks for ways of memorializing moments and relationships. Through her work, she hopes to make the world a more tender place and does so by creating books, installations, and textiles that capture personal narratives. Research is a large part of this work and her current research interests include untold queer histories, family lineage, and the intersection between fashion and identity. Her medium is often changing and responding to a specific place and context that she’s in.

Lauren DelGandio (she/her) is a feeler and a thinker. She’s spent a lifetime working in the nonprofit world and is currently creating community in Orlando, FL. She loves mango ginger tea, a good book, and the family she’s created with her husband. (she/her) is a feeler and a thinker. She’s spent a lifetime working in the nonprofit world and is currently creating community in Orlando, FL. She loves mango ginger tea, a good book, and the family she’s created with her husband. 

Bridging Time and Perspectives: The Transformative Role of The Timeline at KSMoCA

“To me, history is a lens through which we can view and interpret past events to enhance our understanding of the present and to forge a path towards a more equitable future. It’s about recognizing the multitude of perspectives that make up the tapestry of America’s past, not just the predominant white narrative that has been long emphasized.”

Amanda Larriva

The Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. School Museum of Contemporary Art (KSMoCA) is a contemporary art museum and social practice art project located within the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. School, a Pre K – 5th grade public school in  Northeast Portland, OR. It was founded in 2014 by Portland State University professors Lisa Jarrett and Harrell Fletcher.

Laura Glazer, program manager at KSMoCA, explaining PSU students about Timeline at the entrance of KSMoCA in Fall 2023, photo taken by Midori Yamanaka, courtesy of KSMoCA.

One of the standout features at the entrance of KSMoCA is The Timeline, a dynamic exhibit that greets visitors and community members with the rich history of the school community. This piece, part of the permanent collection at KSMoCA, was collaboratively created by Ms. Amanda Larriva, a dedicated kindergarten teacher, along with students and other community members. Ms. Larriva, with her profound understanding of educational dynamics and historical narratives, emphasizes the significance of this installation. She believes that grasping the continuum of past events is crucial not only for understanding human interactions, but also for recognizing our collective potential to shape a better world.

Dr MLK Jr School was the first school in the nation to change its name in honor of Dr. King. This timeline tells the history of the student-led name change initiative and major events in the history of the school.

Midori Yamanaka: Could you tell us about your role in creating The Timeline at KSMoCA and who you collaborated with on this project?

Ms. Amanda Larriva: The Timeline was a collective effort. Alongside Melody, who was a teacher here at the time, and Nancy, our school secretary, we spearheaded the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Celebration. This project began serendipitously when we discovered an old photograph from the time our school was renamed, which inspired us. Armed with a large box filled with numerous historical materials, we saw an opportunity to narrate our school’s legacy through The Timeline. It was a meticulous process of selecting events that reflected the diverse history and the evolving identity of our community.

Ms. Amanda Larriva kindly accepted my interview offer and talked about her passion with a smile, photo taken by Midori Yamanaka.

Midori: What does history mean to you, and why is it particularly attractive?

Ms. Larriva: To me, history is a lens through which we can view and interpret past events to enhance our understanding of the present and to forge a path towards a more equitable future. It’s about acknowledging the multitude of perspectives that make up the tapestry of America’s past, not just the predominant white narrative that has been long emphasized. In my classroom, we delve into various historical narratives, which helps my students appreciate the complexities of history and its role in shaping societal norms and values. We discuss the importance of diverse viewpoints, such as those from Black, Asian, and Indigenous communities, to enrich our understanding and appreciation of history.

Midori: It’s impressive that even kindergarteners are able to engage with these complex concepts. How do they react to such discussions?

Ms. Larriva: It’s truly inspiring. We often talk about similarities and differences, especially regarding people’s backgrounds and cultures. This opens a space for the children to comfortably discuss and embrace diversity. They learn to appreciate and vocalize their thoughts on race and culture in a supportive environment, which is crucial for building empathy and understanding from a young age.

Students working on their art piece collaborated with a guest artist, Mr Richard Brown, in Fall 2023, photo taken by Midori Yamanaka, courtesy of KSMoCA.

Midori: What are some key strategies for discussing history with young children?

Ms. Larriva: The approach varies significantly with age. For younger children, history might appear more abstract, yet they are incredibly receptive to stories and are keen observers of their surroundings. We encourage them to ask questions and express wonder about what they see. This method helps them make connections and begin to understand the broader narratives. As students progress to higher grades, they engage more concretely with timelines and the chronological order of historical events, which helps them gain a clearer understanding of how past events influence the present.

Midori: How do you decide what events or stories to include on The Timeline?

Ms. Larriva: There have been many significant events in our community over the past few years. For instance, in 2022, the school was on the verge of being shut down, which prompted community protests. Last fall, we experienced our first-ever district-wide teachers’ strike, followed by a school closure, among other events. Selecting which events to include requires a thoughtful process that considers which narratives will most effectively convey the lessons we aim to teach. We prioritize stories that are not only engaging but also prompt deeper inquiries into historical events. Interactive elements are crucial in this process, as they allow students to engage more thoroughly with the material through multimedia presentations or hands-on activities.

Midori: Is there another way to encourage students to engage with history?

Ms. Larriva: Absolutely! One effective strategy is ensuring that educators are equipped with the necessary tools and ideas to integrate the timeline into their teaching effectively. Regular updates and active participation from community members who have witnessed historical events provide authenticity and enrich the learning experience.

Midori: What are the challenges and rewards of updating The Timeline?

Ms. Larriva: The challenge lies in ensuring that The Timeline remains relevant and reflective of our community’s history and diversity. The reward is seeing how this tool helps foster a deeper understanding and appreciation of history among students and community members alike. We envision a collaborative process, perhaps involving regular meetings to review and catalog significant events with contributions from those who have firsthand knowledge.

A PSU student as a mentor, and a Dr MLK student as a mentee during mentorship program in Fall 2023, photo taken by Midori Yamanaka, courtesy of KSMoCA.

Many of the permanent collections at KSMoCA are collaborative works between nationally recognized artists and students of Dr. MLK School. Recently, three artists have been invited to KSMoCA every year. They collaborate with the children to create art and hold exhibitions. Through this process, the children get real exposure to art and artists, and over time the collection continues to grow. The students attending this school are truly living within the history of art that emerges from their community. Additionally, a mentorship program links PSU college students with elementary school students in one-to-one partnerships, fostering relationships and mutual learning through collaboration.

KSMoCA serves as a crossroads where the elementary school, the university (PSU), and the community intersect through the medium of art. This Timeline adds a new dimension of ‘time’ to this intersection, enriching and enhancing its appeal. Moreover, the activities of KSMoCA itself continue to become part of this new Timeline.

Ms Larriva, the interviewee on the left and Midori, the interviewer on the right in Ms. Larriva’s classroom in March 2024, photo taken by Midori Yamanaka.

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Amanda Larriva :  (she/her) is a kindergarten teacher at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary School in NE Portland. She has spent eight years at Dr. MLK School and has consistently worked in Title one schools, which are designated for improving the academic achievement of the disadvantaged. Inspired by a historical photo of students celebrating the school’s renaming, Larriva, along with Nancy Rios-Araujo, the school secretary, and Melody, a teacher at the time, orchestrated the 50th-anniversary celebration of the school’s name change. This event led to the creation of the Timeline, now a permanent exhibit at the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. School Museum of Contemporary Art (KSMoCA) in 2018.

Midori Yamanaka (she/her) is an artist and educator based in Portland, Oregon, with roots in a unique Japanese town by the Okhotsk Sea. Her early life, devoid of local art museums but rich in cultural uniqueness, sparked a deep interest in community and creativity. A graduate of the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, California, Midori has pursued a career marked by socially engaged projects and cultural exchange, leading her into the field of Art and Social Practice. Now advancing her studies at Portland State University, her work bridges cultural gaps and fosters community engagement, reflecting her ongoing exploration of art’s role in societal connection.

https://www.midoriyamanaka.com