I realize it is July 1st and Pride month is now officially over according to your Google Calendar. I shall persist with this reflection. I have been known to correct my straight ally friends when June 1st rolls around and they say “Happy Pride.” It is pretty rare that I hear “Happy Pride” on what is historically considered to be Pride. It is not a federally recognized date, nor is considered the date by any corporation blasting their rainbow logo across your computer screen. Yes, June is “dedicated” to LGBTQIA (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer/questioning (one's sexual or gender identity), intersex, and asexual/aromantic/agender) history and recognition. I wrote it out because I am fairly certain not everyone knows what the acronym even stands for. Yes, it is complex, and yes the nuance matters. How people see themselves matters. So, to all you allies out there, this can still be a teachable moment. For myself - I don’t want corporate pride. For some, that visibility is important, even vital. Teen suicide related to gender expression and sexual identity is on the rise in the US. Depression, mental illness, and feelings of isolation from mainstream society is still up to each of us. I never had such visibility growing up and it makes me uncomfortable to be swarmed by rainbow flags. It is still hard. Pride isn’t just a party, it is a coming together in spite of the “acceptable.”  

The last Sunday in June represents an honoring of protest, resistance, and breaking the silence. As the famous Keith Haring painting/spray paint says “Silence = Death” or “Ignorance = Fear.” The sentiment still stands. An inability, an avoidance, a lack of trying to ask simple questions about a queer person’s life signals fear at the bare minimum. Both of the shows I saw during this Pride weekend were wonderful examples of speaking truth, celebration one another, and coming together. There was spoken words, dance, and movements of queer expressions.  In the shadow of the recent Supreme Court ruling against the human right to abortion, the queer community gathered in resistance, once again. We had to find a way to laugh. No only in the moment, but also to rally, to mobilize, to encourage one another in spite of the overwhelming narrative of the white, straight, and Christian narrative. I was able to attend two productions Pride 2022 in New York: Soho Playhouse’s production of Happy Birthday Doug and the 30th anniversary of Broadway Bares. 

At Happy Birthday Doug, I was thrown into the world of Drew Doege playing a range of seven different gay male characters at Doug, a recently published author. This was Doug’s birthday party, but we had to meet his guests first. It is pretty incredible to watch one actor morph into a variety of different characters in the same 60 minutes. I had met each of the characters in real life throughout my years at parties, events, and even aspects of my own personality were present. Rarely experienced by straight people, a gay birthday party is a unique space for dark humor, hot messes, and time for rekindling old flames. I was happy to discover the small off off Broadway theater downtown in Soho. 

At my first Broadway Bares, there were some fun celebrity appearances including Tony Awards host and Oscar winner Ariana DeBose, Funny Girl‘s Ramin Karimloo [a big favorite of mine] and A Strange Loop’s writer Michael R Jackson. I was a bit star struck by Jackson’s appearance as I will be writing on the Pulitzer Prize/Tony winning A Strange Loop in the next few weeks. I loved A Strange Loop and have already seen it twice. The mostly dance presentation was vibrant, energetic, and fun crowd celebrating Pride with a fundraiser. This performance celebrated 30 years of providing healthcare to those battling HIV/AIDS, supporting actors on stage and off, and trying to bandage up the broken US healthcare system. So, on this July 1st, Happy Pride to you - and every day for the rest of the year. Upcoming Reviews:The Minutes by Tracy LettsA Strange Loop by Michael R JacksonFat Ham by James Ijames

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Being in New York only 7 weeks, I have been able to immerse myself in theater culture quickly. New Yorkers who go to the theater talk to each other and they all have opinions. In one of my recent chats with a fellow row mate, I have discovered the “two show day.” It is the practice of attending a matinee and turning around and going to a a different evening show. I recently became a member of the Theater Development Fund, so I am able to keep track of Off Broadway and Off Off Broadway more closely with discounted tickets. It can be hit or miss, but there is just so much to see, hear, and learn from - it is constant and a bit overwhelming. I have a thirst for theater that has gone unsatisfied for years compounded with COVID. As one of my fellow audience members in her 80s recently said, “What would we do without theater?” (She aims for three shows a week). 

The matinee this past Sunday was Michael McKeever’s Mr Parker (Review in New York Times) at Theater Row. At its core, it was a show about grieving (or the avoidance of grief). Terry, 56, has lost his famous artist husband in a car accident in New York City (Terry was driving). Terry gets thrown between two other relationships, dating a 28-year old bartender Justin, and his powerful sister-in-law, Cassandra. It was a mere snapshot of one loss, one specific queer process, and it hit home. The sound of humans crying through masks in a theater is unique. Towards the end of the play, I started to hear the sniffles, the deep breathes, the restlessness of human bodies in a confined space. Isn’t this the pathos that all playwrights write for? I am uniquely attuned to humans around me while in a theater. Next to me, I felt the man next to me flustered and seemingly quite uncomfortable. The theater seats 88 peoples and it was mostly full. The play ended. He was crying. The play was good and it was sad, but he was crying more deeply. I asked if he was going to be okay. And he turned to me and said, “I lost my husband seven months ago.” Gut punch. Art becomes life again. Reality is never too far away. I listened to him talk about his last days with his husband. They had been together 20 years. We walked out of the theater said our soft goodbyes through our masks and back into the streets of New York.

I would not be able to claim I am a big Kylie Minogue fan. But, by proxy, I have enjoyed her music at the club from time to time and dancing in the street from Palm Springs to Sydney. My interest was peaked when a friend invited me to Kim David Smith sings Kylie Minogue at Club Cumming in the Lower East Side. As he said himself, “the performance was his own indulgence.” What a pleasure to watch an artist immerse himself in his love. He sang the classic Kylie Minogue we knew, but in a way, he was presenting how the songs were familiar to him. It was like we were watching his teenage diary unfold in front of us, as if he wrote every day, “Dear Kylie, today I need your help on…” Kylie must be the patron saint of Australian gay men. I knew this in theory and from stories of other gay men I knew. But to witness, on stage - it was a love letter to his own queerness. What a beautiful way to celebrate Pride season. Love in spite of all the direct attacks, hatred, and disapproving gazes. Dressed to the nines with a leather tuxedo with full length armed gloves, tails, and a top hat to match. Smith commanded attention with a soft and steady voice with comedic interludes. I was happy to give my adoration. 

*Weekly drink & drawing event in Lower East at Club Cumming. 

*Coming to New York? Discount tickets available through the Theater Development Fund. Not in New York? Consider a donation. 

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Almost two years into a global pandemic, it is almost impossible not to see loss everywhere around us. I think we tend to avoid recognizing loss, big and small. Sometimes, the loss is too great, too big that we can’t ignore it. It is easy to get enveloped by the pain and grief. I find some artists use their artwork to work through this pain. How might we use creativity to heal? It is not a new idea, some examples are here and here.

This painting by Andrew Wyeth called “Winter 1946” strikes me as particular picture on loss. Many of his landscapes feature solidarity figures. According to Wyeth, he worked on the painting for the whole winter of 1946. It was the first tempera painting he made after the death of his father, N. C. Wyeth, who was hit by a train. It is thought, this main character is the boy who found the vehicle and bodies after the train passed. It makes me think of Stand by Me, the quest to visualize loss. What might represent loss in your life? Yet, we do not get that information by just looking at the image. We get the boy, his shadow, and a cold landscape. I find the picture disconcerting. I am not quite sure why I am drawn to it, but Wyeth’s work has a way of creating an attractive mystery.

According to Wyeth himself, he said of this painting: "It was me, at a loss—that hand drifting in the air was my free soul, groping." Wyeth said he regretted that he never had painted his father's portrait, but that "the hill finally became a portrait of him.”

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In a scene of Lin Manuel Miranda’s recent film version of Tick Tick Boom, Jonathan Larson (Andrew Garfield) rushes to the public pool for a night workout highlighted in his song, Swim. Tick Tick Boom was a solo show written five years by Larson prior to his game-changing musical, Rent. It is an emotional and riveting look at the writing process, particularly because Jonathan Larson died at 35 of an aortic aneurysm in 1996, the day before Rent’s preview performance. Larson’s work has continued to be an inspiration for me for his ability to take everyday life and create a landscape of one’s life in music. I was struck by the Swim song considering my swimming career, which I have tried writing about, but struggled with making the pattern of the black line relevant to an audience. Not many people find the black line of a pool compelling, but what I do find compelling is the space for thought created while swimming. I also found protection and solace at practice under the water. Never did I think a rock song for a musical could capture the racing thoughts one has alone while swimming, but also expressing his non-stop creative energy. He even references the frustration of other lap swimmers (we have all been there): ”Wet hair—relax—this guy's too slowFifteen, can I make it to forty?Too slow—touch his heel—move!Answer my calls—red thin stripe”

At the beginning of the song, Jonathan walks by an outdoor pool with a mural by Keith Haring completed in 1987. I knew exactly where the character was in New York City and the film gave such a good sense of place. One might miss the mural in the film due to the darkness, but I never miss Keith Haring’s line. Haring’s work has been a north star for most of my creative work due to his vibrancy, philosophy on art, and collaborative approach to the creative process. Today, December 1st, is World’s AIDS Day. In 1989, the art community in New York organized curators, educators, artists, and started Day Without Art to be a “mourning and action in response to the AIDS crisis.” Since 1998, they have commissioned work by those living with AIDS and celebrate the continued fight against AIDS. The AIDS pandemic has not ended, much like COVID-19. Humans seem to learn to live with pandemics: humans adapt, pass over, fight, ignore, raise money, advocate, and forget all at the same time. Some have no choice to give up. As a queer person, I must remember what we have lost, remember who we have lost too soon. I often write about the men and the artist’s work that was never made. In a way, I consider myself lucky enough to be a torch bearer. How might I continue their legacy or do right by them with the time I do have? Keith Haring died February 16, 1990 at 31. In ways, it feels part of my burgeoning vocation to create in their honor. So many lives were cut short.

I happened to cross by the mural while coming from a work meeting in the fall of 2019. The bodies and dolphins caught my eye immediately. I find pools without water quite interesting as objects. The void that water is not there is stark. Tick Tick Boom is about the creative process and how relentlessly difficult, frustrating, and near impossible it is to create something new in this world, especially in the business of Broadway. It was inspiring to see some of Lin Manuel’s directorial decisions to highlight the New York City of the early 90s. It is a city struggling with some of the same things it is still fighting with another pandemic. And where to do make hope visible? Or how might we make hope when we face darkness? This mural for me, is a beacon of hope, an object that is lasting, as much of Haring’s work behaves. Strength in ourselves, our connection to nature and play, and the vibrancy of activity encouraging us to keep moving.

*I wrote this post prior to the passing of Stephen Sodheim, who died at the age of 91 on November 26. Sodheim played a significant influence on Larson, Miranda, and myself. Anyone who sings, acts, writes, or loves Broadway, wrestle with the lyrics of Sodheim. I am so fortunate to have lived with Sodheim did. A queer man who died after a long and beautiful life. What an achievement. A bit of an easter egg in Tick Tick Boom. Stephen Sodheim is played by the wonderful Bradley Whitford, but Sodheim plays himself in voice when he leaves a message for Jonathan after the workshop. Sodheim was the ultimate mentor, mentoring the next generation of writers. For this, I am grateful. He mentored so many of us from afar with his work. May his star shine even brighter now.

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The writer Elizabeth Gilbert recently said in an interview that the lockdown made her notice the everyday acts of caring for herself as moments of gratitude. I think often of what makes up our lives and how to instill these smaller aspects of gratitude. In a week when Christmas consumerism has already taken over a day of gratitude, I feel like the small daily revolution might be held in the details of our lives. These items painted below may not be exactly what will be adorning your Thanksgiving tables this week, but I do find this painting quite specific and delicious. The details of the small items drive this painting. My first real experience of Dutch painting was during a 2011 exhibition at the Legion of Honor celebrating a collector’s extensive collection. I had yet to experience the great halls of European collections. The paintings seemed to jump off the walls. I had never seen so many Dutch paintings in one place, the grand tradition and established artistic movement in the art history canon was evident. Exotic animals, royal portraits, and flowers adorned the galleries. But, I was quite drawn to still lives that were incredibly dramatic. I revisit still lives often, particularly in digital archives because I am able to sit with the images for as long as I would like. I always wondered what compelled artists to spend so much time with everyday items. I do see still life paintings as meditations on gratitude. Spending time with what brings us life, the small items that bring us comfort, and what items we surround ourselves with each day. From these paintings, you get a true sense of what the artist was trying to achieve. And no painters have done still lives better than the Dutch. Here, a leading Dutch artist of the 17th century, Clara Peeters pioneered the art of still lives.

My eyes are immediately attracted to the red and pink tones of an artichoke heart complimenting the brightness of the cherries. This is a breakfast scene. It does like someone is present, enjoying a cherry and beginning to dig into the artichoke. I love the tower and layers created with the different cheeses adorned with the plate holding shavings of butter. The salt container is pristine and engraved. The morning light is hitting the food making them aglow and ready for the day. Still lives can be quite satisfying, a feast for the eyes if you will.

I have tried to ensure that there was gender parity in the artists that I have written about this past year in Color Field, which has pushed me to dig deeper into collections. It isn’t surprising that female artists, their biographies, hi-res images, and contextual information is more difficult to find (and often does not exist). Though I am writing about Peeters and her influence on other painters, there is not much known about her life. Fewer records, little knowledge of who she studied with, and who influenced her paintings. We don’t have travel records and only historians can surmise and make assumptions about her whereabouts. I have learned not much comes of making assumptions. It is a hard lesson to unlearn. In contrast, we often have travel records, clear access to archives of male pupils, and full records of the male pathway to artistic excellence and larger public success. How might we fill in the blanks when we have been told there are no gaps to fill? How might we express a feeling of loss when we didn’t know what we were missing? I didn’t know I needed that cherry pit and dangling artichoke leaf in my life. The known word canon comes from Middle English/ Latin with a few different meanings: a) an authoritative list of books accepted as Holy Scripture b) the authentic works of a writer c) a sanctioned or accepted group or body of related works. It isn’t necessarily about re-figuring the canon, but thinking about the canon in an entirely different way. What does an inclusive canon sound and look like? How might we re-imagine what is considered art history? And who is this history for?

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I love archives. I love the the sense of possibility and sense of time. I think most are intimidated by the stacks and stacks of material. I find it comforting. It is not quite the wonder of a wind and water formed canyon, but it has a similar sense of possibility. What might you find just around the next bend in the river? When you are in the archive, it is best you have a well laid plan. Ultimately, when you are in an archive, you find something you weren’t quite expecting. I had been planning a research trip to The State Historical Society of Missouri library and archives for over a year now.

I recently spent a half day on the campus of the University of Missouri-Columbia where the archives are held in a beautiful 2019 Kansas City-based Gould Evans’s designed building. The white oak used in the atrium’s grand staircase comes from southeast Missouri and Poplar Bluff. The limestone of the structure comes from historic St. Genevieve County. I was alone with my family’s history, and with a specific goal in mind. I was recently asked by a friend, “Did I find what I was looking for?” In short, I think I found a lot more than I had planned.

In researching my family, in the same stacks, I found an artist colony active between 1930-1940 in Saint Genevieve (the oldest European settlement West of the Mississippi, founded in 1735 by my sixth great grandfather Francois Valle).

The colony was founded by Aimee Schweig, Bernard Peters and Jesse Beard Rickly. Schweig had already participated in an art colony in Provincetown, Massachusetts. When that colony ended she returned to St. Louis and founded the Ste. Genevieve colony. Over the decade, the artists centered their work on politics, social issues, and artistic innovation. Some themes included the impact of the Great Depression and the possibility of abstraction. There was a structured curriculum that provided training and critique of current work. Unlike other colonies, however, where the artists frequently worked in very similar styles, at Ste. Genevieve the artists were highly individualized and worked in varied styles, even while sharing their ideas and techniques with one another. Artists included American leaders such as Thomas Hart Benton, Sister Cassiana Marie, Fred E. Conway, and Joseph James Jones (Joe Jones). Their chosen subjects are not of the traditional bucolic landscape; instead they portray the human condition in terms both of political upheaval and of Depression era events. It is difficult to find high quality digital images of the work from the artists, which is one of the reasons I did not focus on one piece this week. There are commanding paintings from Jonas and Schweig on the race riots and those seeking work during the Depression. Most of the most paintings are in private collections and unavailable for viewing.

I had never heard of the art colony until I came upon the stacks of books in the archives. It seems that the Ste. Genevieve art colony played significant element in the cultural development of Missouri, the Midwest and the nation. The artists went on to make a mark through galleries in New York, WPA projects, and Europe throughout their careers.An American Art Colony: The Art and Artists of Ste. Genevieve, Missouri, 1930-1940 (Volume 1) 

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It was the first frost yesterday in Kansas. The first frost of this fall season. I noticed the ice on my windshield had formed. It is a bit later than usual. But, I thought to myself, when are the seasons ever “as usual” anymore in the age of Climate change. It is predicted that there may only be 60 harvests left in America due to the increase unpredictability of seed access, the health of the soil, and impending extreme weather. I walked in my neighborhood today and was struck by a tree that had changed dramatically in the last few days. I feel like I know my trees in the neighborhood. Each day I notice a slight change, a leaf down, a new bud holding on, not sure what season it is. How many more autumns can we count on, to see the leaves change?  

My fall musing brought my imagination and memory to a more unusual painting from one of my beloved artists, Georgia O’Keeffe. It was apt timing, I was just reading about a retrospective of Georgia O’Keeffe at the Centre Pompidou in Paris, (the first retrospective of hers in France) and an exhibit featuring rarely seen photographs in Houston, Georgia O’Keeffe, Photographer. Her work and gumption has guided much of my love of the American Southwest, the desert, and learning to look deeply into nature. Well-known for her paintings of flowers and skulls of the American Southwest landscape, I thought of a unique painting I disliked very much when I first saw it in person in 2013. I saw the painting, Autumn’s Leaves - Lake George, while working on an exhibition at the de Young, Modern Nature: Georgia O’Keeffe and Lake George, which focused on her time in upstate New York along with Alfred Stieglitz, her husband, lover, collaborator, gallerist, advocate, friend, and famous for his photography in his own right. *(Sidenote: If you are ever in the mood to remind yourself that love exists between humans, pick up My Faraway One - Selected Letters of Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz. All 815 pages of it is one of my cherished possessions with goodbye notes from my museum colleagues when I departed the de Young and Legion of Honor in 2015. You will not regret reading these beautiful letters of two incredible artists of the 20th century. The care and admiration they show for one another are words that I have hung onto for some years. “I love you, Dearest One, if I am capable of love. I often wonder, am I? But if I am, it’s you there with me in the great white stillness - where there is a great peace & no ugliness. — No voices with edges that tear.” Alfred Stieglitz, September 25, 1923 ) Ah, back to the painting.

First, the painting doesn’t photograph that well in comparison to some of her other more dynamic paintings of flowers, or the drama of skulls of dead cattle. Autumn Leaves is a darker palette, smaller canvas, with a hint of chill in the air. It is a pile of dead leaves, not her vibrant flowers of a desert spring. Fall ushers us towards the cold and lonely winter. From 1918 until 1934, Georgia O'Keeffe lived in Lake George part of the year at Stieglitz's family estate located in New York's Adirondack Park. Georgia was spending a lot of time alone where she learned to garden and had space outside of the city to connect to the land. I like that she paints the leaves on the ground before they deteriorate and become part of the soil. This theme of capturing a part of the regenerative cycle becomes a central subject in her work, the skull in the barren desert, holding its form in spite of the sun. O’Keeffe paints resilience. Things that hold on. And maybe she painted the opposite of what critics, curators, and others constantly put upon her and their obsession with the female genitalia. Maybe the work has to do with looking at a leaf and seeing it for what they are. Are we too afraid to look at the world as it is, deteriorating - just like the leaves. Or is another world possible, one of renewal? First, we must see it for what it is. “When you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for the moment. I want to give that world to someone else. Most people in the city rush around so, they have no time to look at a flower. I want them to see it whether they want to or not.” -Georgia O’Keeffe.

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I turned the corner in the gallery and a burst of color met my eyes, my breathe stolen for a moment. The artist had already taken me on an operatic journey in my visit to SFMOMA’s Joan Mitchell by the time I had arrived at the back gallery towards the end of the sweeping survey of the artist. I had flown back to San Francisco to see these paintings together, which is most likely the only time in my lifetime that the objects will be together. But, there was one piece that has stuck with me, Salut Tom, meaning “to health” in French, a sense of gratitude, a genuine reflection, and title of care. She painted it in her studio in France. Was it worth it, all that travel, for five canvases side by side? Yellows and greens were strewn about as if I was rolling down a hill in a park. The canvas dances. 

My creative journey begins in the interior. For Joan Mitchell, she was fortunate enough to craft her interior to match the french countryside. She went inside, embodied her emotions and put them on canvas. This painting was dedicated to longtime friend Tom Hess, art critic and curator. As referenced in his NY Times obituary, he “died yesterday in Lenox Hill Hospital after suffering a heart attack and collapsing at his desk in the museum.” He died in the museum, the place he loved. What a way to honor a friendship, quite a grand gesture. Here is to you Tom!, Joan yells in the gallery. Mitchell captures a friendship and used scale to illustrate her own sense of loss and love of a friend. Bridget Quinn nailed the experience of the exhibit in her most recent review. “So, it’s not just about scale, but also color, gesture, balance, and, well, everything.” Everything, Joan. It is my own experience of her work, it is everything. I mean, the paintings are that feeling that it is an answer to your deep questions on life. At least these paintings seem like an answer to something.

It might be apt timing that my reflection of this painting happened at the same time as the art world suddenly lost one of its long-time critics, Kenneth Baker. He was the lead art critic for the SF Chronicle for 30 years and during my tenure in the City. I never once agreed with his evaluation of an exhibit across institutions, as maybe critics intentionally do. I took them personally, especially if I had worked on the exhibit. I thought at times, he was out of touch, ignored curatorial intention, and missed major thematic elements. I admit, it was the typical younger person thinking that the critic was just a grumpy old man. As I gained experience, saw more art, and started writing about art myself, I came to have a deeper respect for Mr. Baker. Particularly, after my own experience of Walter de Maria’s Lightning Field, when I picked up Mr. Baker’s own essays on the sculpture. It is my favorite writing of his and has helped shape my own writing. His essays on the sculpture spanning decades are intimate, wide reaching, and surgical. His writing affirmed my own personal experience of the sculpture and the artist. After my 2018 experience of De Maria’s masterpiece, Kenneth’s writing has profoundly shaped my life. His work accomplished what great writers do sometimes, he built a bridge to a different perspective and deepened my own experience. And all I can come up with is, Salut Kenneth. 

John McMurtrie’s reflection on Kenneth Baker. 

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How do you catch a cloud and pin it down? (Mother Abbess, The Sound of Music) There was one reason I had planned in mind for my October 2020 trip to Paris and it was the planned installation of Christo and Jean-Claude’s L’Arc de Triomphe, Wrapped. I wanted to see a cloud pinned down in the middle of Paris. Though nearly forty years in planning, it was once again delayed to 2021 because of the global pandemic we are still facing (my trip cancelled like millions of others). Much like their other large scale temporary projects, the project took decades of planning. Decades of waiting, sketching, permits, conversations, navigating public opinion, ignoring public opinion, politicians, locked bureaucracies and rapidly changing societies. These “mediums” are all part of the work. Yes, government permits as art work. 

I have been fascinated with Christo and Jean-Claude’s work mainly through their drawings, videos, and writings on the work. Now, both artists have passed away, and their work is what remains. One of my favorite works happened in 1976 in Marin County, 21 miles of white cloth, made up Running Fence. Knowing running fenced had been there was one of the reasons I fell in love with all my years while cycling the Marin hillsides. As I climbed redwood lined hills with small glimpses of the Pacific Ocean, I imagined the fence there, never having witnessed the project. My history with Christo was always a distant fan, but he even called The Bay Lights (a major point of personal pride, of which I worked on for three years and helped secure its permanency) “a masterwork of public art.” It wasn’t until an exhibition in Sydney, Australia in early 2020 did I see an actual artwork by Christo and Jean-Claude. Much like their purpose of their work, I love the ideas of their work, as much as the physical reality of their sculptures. Their work has pushed my own creative thinking on what is possible, what is needed, and how we might create more positive futures for our own planet. As one of my other favorite artist, Walter de Maria claimed that “the invisible is real.” We need these ideas of making the invisible, visible more than ever before. We are witnesses to major loss to land, deforestation, infrastructure buckling, and species collapsing. Their work is as much as an exercise in loss, as it is about the process of creating a contemporary work of art. 

Though I was unable to see the Arc project in person, I have watched via the magic of the internet, videos of people experience in awe, confusion, frustration, and delight in viewing the revered Parisian monument to fallen soldiers, wrapped. The Arc is cenral to Parisian life, much like the nearby Eiffel Tower. As the flame to unknown soldiers continued to burn, so the monument stood, in a different light for 16 days. And what are monuments for, if not to capture our imagination? A recent evaluation of American monuments found that the majority were dedicated to violence. Christo and Jean-Claude’s work promotes a dialogue around our environment, cost (in terms of currency they paid for all their projects privately with selling their drawings, paintings, and models), and collective memory. Much like listening to veterans tell us war stories to those who did not experience the sacrifice of death, suffering, or violence, we sit and listen to their stories of loss. Wrapped does not cover up their stories of sacrifice, but elevates them into a new collective memory for a new generation. It is often said Never Forget, but what happens when we are reminded what to actually remember? I am wrestling with my own loss at another missed opportunity to bear witness, to create a new memory of what is there and identify what might also be missing. But, as Christo said right before he died in May 2020, this was a gift to the French, to Parisians. What a beautifully wrapped gift? A wrapped memory for the rest of our lives.

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How might a picture of apple pickers be a symbol of environmental and food justice and pay equity?

Camille Pissarro’s Apple Harvest at the Dallas Art Museum is one of my favorite pictures of all-time. Actually, in a lot of ways this painting was radical and was seen pushing the idea of what was art because it highlighted women working, not nude reclining on a piece of furniture. I love it mostly because of who the artist was, Pissarro, the grandfather of Impressionism. He was Jewish, an anarchist, father to seven biological children, and mentor of many more. We don’t get A Sunday on La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat without Camille Pissarro (a story for another time). Pissarro was more than ten years older than most of the other Impressionist artists, such Pissarro was seen as a father figure. His fierce arguments about egalitarianism and the inequities of the system of juries and prizes were known to everyone. To answer my own question though, Pissarro was one of the few, if not first artist to pay female models to stand for the painting. There is some gender equity in the painting with the central male figure and supporting female figures. Their faces are blurred as if to offer anonymity. The two females in the bottom left are bending down, picking up apples for the market, for distribution. This is not your Saturday fall afternoon picking apples with your family for fun, this is work.

But, ultimately, I love this painting because it is a lovely picture. Sometimes paintings are just beautiful. It is okay to like something for its pure aesthetic reasons. I remember standing in front of the painting during Pissarro’s People at the Legion of Honor kind of in awe. I was fortunate to spend time with the picture over the course of the exhibition. I kept coming back to it. I loved it’s scale. The trees reminded me of California hillsides and the shadows are almost playful. The warm overtones. The movement of the workers. The horse and worker in the back corner. Never has hot, sweaty, back-breaking work looked so beautiful.  

Camille Pissarro, in full Jacob-Abraham-Camille Pissarro, (born July 10, 1830, St. Thomas, Danish West Indies—died Nov. 13, 1903, Paris, France) painter and printmaker who was a key figure in the history of Impressionism. Pissarro was the only artist to show his work in all eight Impressionist group exhibitions.

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