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• 1 2020-03-26T14:45:27+00:00 Meredith Warden 18 plain 2020-04-30T14:39:23+00:00

  May 1, 2020: “Go Back”: Space, History, and the Archive in the Pandemic

  To further my earlier post about maps and space during the pandemic, I want to bring in the article below, which begins with the recognition that, for many of us right now, “Space is short. But there’s a different way to go wide when you can’t go far, and that’s to go back” (Aberg-Riger). By ‘go back,’ Aberg-Riger means exploring the history of your home, neighborhood, and city through digitally available archives. What follows is a fascinating deep dive into her local history, melding together colorful drawings and embellishments with archival images and newspaper clippings related to her home and town (Buffalo, New York). Her work is like a digital commonplace book in this way, marking both the histories of the space she occupies and her relationship to these histories. 

  What struck me most about this article is how Aberg-Riger is using the limited space available because of the pandemic to create new ‘space’ within the histories of her house and local area. By doing this research out of curiosity, she learns why the paved brick street outside of her house is two different colors, that people used the park near her house in similar ways to how she uses it now, and, on a larger note, about Buffalo’s historical roots in “colonization and whiteness” (Aberg-Riger). In learning all of this, I think she gains the ability to see ‘layers of space’ on top of the current one—almost as if she is creating Hartman’s “what could have been” through looking in the archives (Hartman, “Venus in Two Acts,” 7). Throughout this pandemic, I’ve been thinking about historical parallels, and how we could consider COVID-19 in light of history—especially because a lot of us now are looking out at the world and thinking about “yesterday and tomorrow,” what was before the pandemic and what might be after it (Aberg-Riger). 

  In Oberlin, I used to walk in Tappen Square and think about the people who had walked this same path before me—long-graduated students, protestors, professors, townspeople, abolitionists—and the history that is ingrained within that physical space. Oberlin is a town steeped in history, but so is every other place (for even ones unoccupied by humans have ‘natural histories’ told in fossils and tree rings, among other things). Knowing more about Oberlin’s history gave me a greater appreciation for it in the present by allowing me to partly, as Aberg-Riger writes, “sit there and see” the layers of history embedded in the brick paths, buildings, and more. Perhaps, if we are able to, digging into the smaller histories of the places in which we now must stay will allow for a similar metaphorical ‘expansion’ of space.

  April 24, 2020: Poster Art, War, and the Pandemic

      To continue thinking about how people are making meaning during this pandemic, today I want to consider this New York Times article, which covers artistic responses. Many of the works are referential to wartime posters, especially those of WWII. As one artist quoted in the article says, “We were watching Boris Johnson [the British Prime Minister] give a speech about Covid...[and we] thought, ‘This a wartime speech. So let’s go.” Why are so many artists creating works that are reminiscent of war artwork right now, and how could this give us a glimpse into how people are thinking about the pandemic?

      I, for one, believe that artists are referencing war artwork because to many people it feels like we are in a kind of war right now, albeit one in which there is an invisible enemy. When looking at the recent past (the last century), the closest comparison to this frightening and uncertain time can arguably be found in wartimes. In my view, World Wars must have had a somewhat similar effect on the public—an eerie and collective sense of foreboding that is always present, a feeling of ‘not knowing’, and a muddled sensation of time in which all the days seem to meld together as one ‘shelters in place.’ Thus, by visually referencing iconic war images, artists are trying to collectively grasp the weight of COVID-19 by constructing it as akin to earlier periods of global calamity that the world survived. In this way, these contemporary posters are, in part, striking because they are more referential than original—they are powerful because they harken back to shared understandings of what certain images mean. 

      But what are the unintended ramifications of referencing earlier war artwork in pieces today? From what I can tell, most of the art discussed in the article was created by a combination of artist collectives, non-profits, and small corporations, but I don’t think that this necessarily negates the central issue that arises from calling back to wartime posters. This central issue is the possibility of ‘propaganda’ or of empty platitudes—I am thinking here of art created during WWI to raise public support for the war effort (for example, the “I Want YOU for U.S. Army” poster in the U.S. and the “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster in the U.K.). I understand and empathize with the desire to thank essential workers, such as healthcare professionals, who are working at a heightened personal risk right now, but are they being thanked in a way that rings hollow? 

      Take the contemporary poster on the right, for example. It visually references the Statue of Liberty and also deifies the emblematic woman depicted by including an angel wing, and the shading and colors used (red, white, and blue) call back to American WWII patriotism as demonstrated through posters. Likewise, the text stating “Strength in Service/Strength to Overcome” is striking because it calls for a collective determination to ‘overcome’ and recognizes the ‘strength’ it takes for one to be a public servant such as a healthcare worker. But what does this poster actually achieve—for example, is it trying to spur the public to donate to healthcare causes right now, or is it just echoing platitudes of thanks without pushing for any action to show this appreciation? On the other hand, is it ‘enough’ for this poster to just be a call for solidarity and recognition, similar to the daily ‘Make Some Noise’ effort in New York City? How does this poster and others like it play upon or potentially contest the ‘propaganda-ish’ connotations associated with WWII posters? I am personally skeptical of these referential posters because of these dilemmas, but I am very curious to know what others think.

  April 17, 2020: Maps and Observations on a 'Granular' Level

      Below is an interesting article that includes maps of living spaces and neighborhoods from all over the world. What I noticed most when reading this article was that everyone had a heightened awareness of their home and their neighborhood, presumably because those are the only places they can access right now. One person’s submission stated that life has become more “granular,” which stood out to me. Being required to stay in one’s house and neighborhood, I feel, has made a lot of us more observant of little aspects within these places—as one submitter writes, “I began to get more familiar with the little world to which I was confined but did not know in detail.” Is this a form of surveillance or self-surveillance that makes one happier, because they become increasingly cognizant of the beauty of their everyday surroundings and how grateful they are for them? And how does the privilege to even be able to notice these surroundings play into the creation of these ‘home’ maps? For example, someone who is the primary caretaker for children, or someone who does not have access to this type of safe, stable housing, likely would not be able to enjoy this ‘luxury’ of appreciating their living space or neighborhood. 

      Another part of this article that intrigued me was to see the different types of maps people drew. Some are more traditional, taking birds-eye views of street grids in a neighborhood or architectural renderings of someone’s house. But others are more symbolic, adopting a slanted perspective or emphasizing things of importance, such as exaggerating the natural world or drawing memories of their neighborhood. One person even drew a map of “The Realm of Quarantine,” depicting their social distancing as a type of quest, especially considering that “even the post office a few blocks away feels like a dangerous journey now.” I wonder—how do these different drawings reflect how people think about their relationship to their homes, their neighborhoods, and the whole world at this time? If you could draw a map of your life right now, how would it look different than your life a year ago, when coronavirus wasn’t a global pandemic? What would this map say about what you value or how you think about the spaces in which you exist?
  

  April 10, 2020: On Coronavirus, Future Novels, and Self-Surveillance 

      I’ve been wondering about how people in the future will grapple with coronavirus, so today I want to explore the article below, which asks “What will the novel look like on the other side?” (Temple). I would like to consider the author’s questioning of how writers, especially fiction writers, will incorporate the pandemic into their work. On one hand, “escapism and fantasy” are useful ways to imagine a world free of the pandemic, but, on the other, “post-pandemic fiction” could explore notions of “distrust of capitalism and authority, and an acceptance of corruption, instability, and danger as a shimmering, distorted baseline” (Temple). 

      In other words, to go back to our discussion in Professor Skeehan’s class this Wednesday, I think that how fiction writers will write about coronavirus in the future will be reflective of and produce bigger societal framings of COVID-19. If the majority of the public wants to cope with the repercussions of coronavirus by escaping to an imaginary better world, then ‘post-pandemic fiction’ will likely cater to this desire. And there’s nothing wrong with that—using fiction to ‘escape’ a worrying global crisis can be an effective calming mechanism. But if people want to view the pandemic as indicative of bigger issues such as a distrust of experts (in this case, medical experts and scientists) and the unpreparedness of America’s health care system, then future fiction will likely tackle these topics. Novels, in essence, operate within and help to create the contexts in which they were written and, as such, I think that books written about or set in 2020 could be a window into how our future selves will surveil our present-day responses to coronavirus. Fiction about the past will be a way to critique and make sense of our collective responses to this pandemic, and, in turn, will inform how much societal weight we put on COVID-19. Ultimately, though, what this ‘post-pandemic fiction’ will look like remains uncertain, as “the fate of the novel...depends on what happens to us, and we have no idea what is going to happen to us” (Temple).
  
  
  

  April 3rd, 2020: 'Emptiness Photography' During Coronavirus

      Some photos of the coronavirus pandemic have not shown how actual people are being affected; rather, a subset of pandemic photos show empty public places, no longer occupied because of social distancing, ‘stay-at-home’ orders, or even country-wide quarantines. In this post, I want to consider the rise of this type of photography and think about why it exists. In the article below, Cherine Fahd and Sara Oscar analyze these ‘emptiness photographs’ and argue that they fall into what Anthony Vidler calls the “architectural uncanny”: that is, “familiar spaces” made unfamiliar. These photographs of abandoned public places are ‘uncanny’ because they show “how our surroundings can suddenly become something other” (Fahd and Oscar). This sudden unfamiliarity, I think, is both eerie yet comforting, creating a surreal melancholy that is at once saddening and captivating. 
  
      But in focusing on this absence of people rather than the presence them, what are we not looking at? I’m thinking here about images of people suffering, such as those on ventilators or the dead. Does not showing these people in pain fulfill Saidiya Hartman’s desire to avoid “replicating the grammar of violence” (4)? Is looking at empty public spaces a productive way to cope with the weight of the pandemic and its ability to engender a “slowing of progress” without reiterating the violence that it is creating (Fahd and Oscar)? Or does avoiding these painful images amount to a “looking away from factors that contribute to crisis,” allowing some to ignore these factors (Fahd and Oscar)?