Just a short walk, if you want to join, another one to bring home the immense variety of what L.A. has to offer, one neighborhood at a time. Highland Park has two dubious distinctions: for one it was the very first suburb of L.A. proper until 1895, when it was annexed after the community pleaded for incorporation, by all reports to assure increased police presence in a flourishing red light district. It took but two days after annexation, that the police chief and his posse came in and literally burned down all the brothels and gambling saloons. Maybe not a coincidence that L.A.’s Police Museum is located in this neighborhood. I did not inquire. Or set foot in it. Surprise.
Secondly, Highland Park has had the highest speed of gentrification of all small L.A. neighborhoods in recent years, which can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on your perspective and the size of your wallet.
Lots of stuff that is too hard to move or had to be sold, ends up in second hand stores that line the streets.
As does the stuff itself.
The neighborhood is situated between central L.A. and Pasadena alongside the Arroyo Secco. Much of its history is commemorated with sidewalk mosaics and information columns that display archival photographs and explanatory texts, quite informative.
Highland Park started to flourish with the arrival of the San Gabriel Valley Railroad which opened a station in 1885, followed by the Los Angeles and Pasadena Electric Railway that laid down the first interurban electric railway in Southern California in 1895, helping people to commute. Today you find suicide prevention signs at every crossing.
Image courtesy of the Los Angeles Public Library
Occidental College, established by the Presbyterian Church, opened its campus in the early 1900s and has been serving generations ever since.
Image courtesy of the USC Digital Library
Many of the public buildings from the time have been preserved, but are no less exposed to change. A historic landmark, the nearly century-old Highland Theatre building on Figueroa Street, one of the two main drags through the area, was up for sale as of last August, since its 99 year lease, signed in 1924, will expire. It was the last of 4 theaters along this street to survive, including the historic Sunbeam Theatre. The facade will have to be preserved, but the function and lay-out inside is the new investors’ domain.
Some public buildings are well maintained, other establishments show the ravages of the economy. Here is the public library
and the municipal water building.
The minute you venture off the main thoroughfares you find small, well maintained bungalows and funky gardens or wall paintings. But also signs of distress.
Lots of color to be found on the major streets as well, tempered by the presence of police in front of swank new shops and restaurants, though absent at the traditional stores.
Someone chose aphorisms for public utility meters,
And murals commemorate the history of the place.
And sometimes color just pops up unintentionally….
Lots of eateries behind screens on the sidewalk, filled with young people enjoying lunch – the place is clearly vibrant, with traditional mini-malls sharing space with new upscale boutiques.
I must say, I will miss the diversity of it all when returning to PDX. Then again, it will be good to be home after such a long stretch. Just think of all the bird pictures you’ll be getting…..
Walk with me, if you can stand driving with me first, on L.A. highways that challenge even the most ardent motorist (and I count myself among those.) Someone called the experience soul crushing. I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s pretty insane if you add the difficulties with finding parking, or, as a friend more aptly phrased it: crazy insane.
However, I made it to the northern edge of L.A. in one piece this Sunday, ready to check out a Japanese enclave, Little Tokyo, that existed since the beginning of the 20th century. The roughly 5-block district was home to some 10.000 Japanese immigrants by the early 1900s, a market place and cultural hub that nowadays offers a mix of traditional stores and restaurants next to tourist traps and skateboard businesses.
On a sunny, windblown Sunday, the place was jumping, throngs of people standing in line in front of various shops, sushi-joints and Karaoke studios, mostly ignoring the multiple reminders of the district’s history, spread throughout.
Sculptures tells stories, as do wall plaques and photographic mosaics.
Junichiro Hannya Ninomiya Kinjiro (1983) – It is actually a controversial sculpture, see details here.
Ramon G. Velasco Chiune Sugihara Memorial, Hero of the Holocaust 2002.
As the Japanese Vice-Consul for Lithuania, Sugihara helped over 2000 Jews to escape Nazi Germany by handing out transit visas that allowed them to flee through Poland and Russia. He did so against the explicit instructions of the Japanese Foreign Ministry.
JANM’s renovated Historic Building was formerly the Nishi Hongwanji Buddhist Temple, the first Buddhist temple building constructed in Los Angeles in 1925.
“From the plaque for the camera sculpture: First-generation Japanese American photographer Toyo Miyatake (1895) opened his photography studio in Little Tokyo in 1923 and spent the rest of his life documenting his community’s life on film. When Miyatake, his family and 120,000 Japanese Americans were unjustly incarcerated by the U.S. government during World War II, Miyatake bravely smuggled a camera lens and a film plate, considered contraband, into the Manzanar concentration camp in California. Using a secretly-constructed camera, he captured everyday life in Manzanar. Artist Nobuho Nagasawa created a three-times-as-large bronze replica of the Miyatake camera in homage to Toyo Miyatake. The sculpture projects slides of Miyatake’s work onto a window of the Japanese American National museum each evening. This sculpture was commissioned by the Community Redevelopment Agency and was first installed in 1993.“
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The Japanese American National Museum was surprisingly airy and empty, and everyone was wearing masks, which made me comfortable enough to meander through both, the permanent exhibit that describes in detail the traumatic experiences of immigrants even before they were rounded up and incarcerated in concentration camps in 1941, and the current exhibition, Don’t Fence Me In, that traces the coming of age of so many young people in the camps during these horror years with superb archival photographs and other objects. (Details here.) Thoughtful curation throughout. The museum is the largest of its kind in the U.S. and holds over 60.000 artifacts. Hello Kitty included…
The OOMO Cube by photographic messaging artist Nicole Maloney was installed near the main entrance of the JANM Pavilion in 2014. OOMO stands for “Out Of Many One” and Maloney conceived of her installation as a giant Rubik’s cube with five sides filled with photographs and the sixth side as a mirror.
Maloney explained that people are often identified through five different characteristics: race, religion, gender, socio-economic status, and sexual orientation. The cube allows visitors to JANM to have interactions with it by rotating the sections into different configurations. Maloney hoped that those interacting with her cube will be reminded that everyone belongs to one world and one humanity and that it will encourage people to “stand in awe instead of judgment of one another.” (Ref.)
Also located on that plaza is the Geffen Contemporary at MOCA, an outpost of downtown L.A.’s Museum of Contemporary Art. The doors were locked, despite regular business hours. Just as well, I would not have been able to process two museums in a day.
Barbara Kruger’s imposing 30 by 191 feet red, white, and blue mural mural, Untitled (Questions), provided enough to look at and think about.
An installation of airplane parts was home to quite a few birds, coming and going and disappearing inside – urban nesting of the finest.
Nancy Rubin Chas’ Stainless Steel, Mark Thompson’s Airplane Parts, About 1,000 Pounds of Stainless Steel Wire (2002)
Wandering around, I was struck by the absence of graffiti – there were a few commissioned, professional murals and the usual plastering of electric cable boxes, meters or some such.
Katie Yamasaki Moon Beholders (2014)
The mural is intended to represent, celebrate, challenge, and preserve different concepts within the Japanese American culture, both contemporary and historic, while connecting with the diverse community around JANM. The mural depicts a young girl, clothed in several furoshiki, a traditional Japanese cloth often used to carry, cover, and protect objects, most often gifts.
The mural also depicts lanterns or akari, representing light or illumination and displays a haiku poem by Basho, a famous Japanese poet from the Edo period. (Ref.)
I will have to figure out where to find it, but that is for another outing. Should I survive the maze of freeways yet again.
The Home is Little Tokyo (2005) mural depicts present-day life in Little Tokyo with vibrant images reflecting Little Tokyo’s revitalization and the community’s strong personal ties to the district. The brightly-colored mural spans 40-feet along the wall fronting Central and is 16-feet tall. Artists Tony Osumi, Sergio Diaz and Jorge Diaz involved community members in the mural design process through open meetings to discuss and collect ideas. The process of creating the mural took three years. (Ref.)
Music today needs a bit of attention. It is a beautiful act of story telling with music.
The Nikkei Music Reclamation Project, in their own words, aims to (re)imagine Nikkei (Japanese American) musical identities and to examine pre- and post-WWII Japanese American political history and music. The goal of the Nikkei Music Reclamation Project is to bring together multiple generations of musicians in extending this legacy and envisioning new directions for Nikkei musical culture in Little Tokyo.
⅔ into Black History month I figured it’s time to contemplate cultural offerings that embody what’s encapsulated by the terms above. Coincidentally, my friend Catón Lyle posted photographs I had taken of him and his students 8 years ago this week on Facebook, images of people I deeply care about and worked with, now likely strong and resilient young adults either in Highschool or off to college. Institutions where Black history is no longer guaranteed to be taught across the country.
Catón Lyes, drummer extraordinaire
Let’s look at possibilities to learn about Black History outside of the educational settings, then. When it comes to ferocious women, none portrays them better than Viola Davis in her magnum opus, now on Netflix, The Woman King. The actress is a marvel (in everything she touches). Here she was training in her late 50s for a physically demanding role as an African warrior leading an army of women in the State of Dahomey (now Benin) in battle and for the political future of a kingdom contemplating to step away from participating in the slave trade.
The film is an epic mix of action movie, intergenerational, intra- and inter-tribal conflict, serious depiction of slavery, with a hint of romance thrown in, involving a non-African man at the behest of the studio bosses who wanted a White man role for sales points and settled for someone with a White father and a Black mother. Various, really numerous, subplots tug on every emotional register imaginable.
Davis and director Gina Prince-Bythewood together with screenwriter Dana Stevens had to fight for 6 years to get this film made, and only got green light after the success of the Black Panther pointed to the possibility of having this kind of film be a box-office success. It was “the product of a thousand battles.” The obstacles the production team faced when pitching a historical epic centered on strong Black women and a State that celebrated gender equity until the French colonialists crushed it, are at length described in this review in the Smithsonian. The public reaction to the finished product has also been fierce: the extremist Right condemned it for Black women killing White men. Some Black organizations found fault with the depiction of African nations actively participating in the slave trade, which is of course historically correct, and brave to be acknowledged in a Hollywood film that wants to convey history, if you ask me. But the worry remains in the eyes of many, that it partly absolves the Euro-American slavers from their responsibility.
Then there is the complaint that the film’s narrative alters what actually happened, making the Kingdom of Dahomey into a place that abandoned the slave trade, when it actually didn’t. A general complaint regards the fact that a major Blockbuster Movie could have chosen a positive event in Black history, rather than one marred by complexity of historical trade alliances.
The film’s take on history is indeed stretched and to be taken with a grain of salt, or with the understanding that movies need to entertain, and have some lines that help us identify with good or evil. The choice of featuring a female standing army, the historically real Agoodjies with all their strength and complicated lives, though, should be a boost to a current generation of women who are searching for role models in an era that is dead set to roll back both women’s and civil rights (not necessarily in the setting of the military, but fighting everyday challenges.) If you want to learn more details about the actual history of the Agoodijes, there is a smart guideline, The Woman King Syllabus, provided by a group of US-based historians, Ana Lucia Araujo, Vanessa Holden, Jessica Marie Johnson and Alex Gil.
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When it comes to brave women, do I have a book for you. Organize, Fight, Win: Black Communist Women’s Political Writing is a stellar compendium of sources that help us understand the Black radical tradition, from the early 1920s to the late 1980s. If we can, for a moment, put aside our immediate reaction to the term “communist” in the title, still associated with extreme negative reactions, we might particularly benefit from the section that exposes how White supremacists have always successfully used the tool of the communist specter as a weapon in their political crusade. The book, edited by Charisse Burden-Stelly and Jodi Dean, also teaches a lot about the fight against fascism on the one hand, and organizing of labor on the other, both topics of obvious contemporary relevance.
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And last but not least, when we look for resilience and decisive action, there is a new, digitally available, resource that I strongly urge you to sign up for: Hammer and Hope, a magazine of Black Politics and Culture, founded by Jen Parker and Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor.
Or at least read the poem, Come In, by Ashley M. Jones, the current poet laureate of Alabama, in call and response with an image by photographer and performance artists Carrie Mae Weems, who was born in Portland, OR 69 years ago and is one of our most impactful and famous contemporary artists. It sets the tone and invites all of us to cross a threshold into a community of diverse backgrounds but shared goals.
The name for the new magazine, suggested by Derecka Purnell, a brilliant young lawyer and abolitionist, is a riff on a book, Hammer and Hoe, by Robin D. G. Kelley, a professor of American history at U.C.L.A.
The goals could not be clearer and more decisive:
“….a hammer to smash myths and illusions.”
“And our hope? It is not the false optimism of liberals or the fatalism of armchair revolutionaries or the pessimism of pundits waiting for the end of the world. James Baldwin understood hope as determination in the face of catastrophe: “I can’t be a pessimist because I’m alive. To be a pessimist means that you have agreed that human life is an academic matter, so I’m forced to be an optimist. I’m forced to believe that we can survive whatever we must survive.” … victory is never certain but if we don’t fight, we can only lose. Hammer & Hope is here to fight.”
“Our mission is to collect, preserve and share the stories, oral histories and artifacts of Portland’s Chinatown as a catalyst for exploring and interpreting the history of past, present and future immigrant experiences.” – Portland Chinatown Museum (PCM) Mission Statement
The Lunar New Year – The Year of the Water Rabbit – started yesterday and the Chinese government expects about 2.1 billion journeys to be made in Asia during a 40-day travel period around the celebration as people rush back for the traditional reunion dinner on the eve of the new year. I took a short trip to Portland’s Old Town Chinatown instead on Friday, an annual pilgrimage to admire the beauty of Lan Su Chinese Garden with its festive decorations for the occasion.
This year I added a second stop, a first visit to PortlandChinatownMuseum (PCM,) which is just a block away on NW Third Ave, and not too far from the Chinatown Gateway. The museum opened in 2018 and did not appear on my radar during the pandemic years. I cannot recommend a visit strongly enough: opening hours are limited from Friday to Sunday, and the current temporary exhibition will close on January 29th. So if you can, make it down there next Friday or Saturday between 11 am-3 pm, there is some revelatory art on display.
The history of the museum’s founding can be found here. Like other Old Town institutions devoted to collecting and preserving immigrants’ histories, the Japanese American Museum of Oregon and the Oregon Jewish Museum and Center for Holocaust Education among them, PCM offers a permanent exhibition depicting the lives and plight of the Chinese immigrants. Beyond the Gate: A Tale of Portland’s Historic Chinatowns provides a comprehensive look at historical artifacts, some arranged in diverse dioramas, and guides you through the various aspects of the immigrant experience with informative exhibition texts and archival photographs.
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Two separate galleries provide space for the work of contemporary Asian American artists, currently showing Illuminating Time, installations by three different artists-in-residence working with different media. The exhibition is exquisitely curated by Horatio Law, one of the PNW’s premier public art and installation artist who serves as the Artist Residency Director. It echoes the permanent exhibitions’s themes of loss, hope and belonging, so familiar to all immigrants.
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一方有难,八方支援 “When trouble occurs at one spot, help comes from all quarters.” – Chinese Proverb
The theme of community, integral to collectivist cultures and so prominent in the museum’s permanent exhibition of historic Chinatown’s structural support systems, is picked up by Alex Chiu. Known to many of us for his vibrant murals that can be found across PDX, he undertook a series of ink drawings of community members that are displayed in the entrance hall of the museum. Placed against the backdrop of a stylized rendering of the Chinatown gateway, they depict a range of characters of all ages and degrees of visibility, pointing to the diversity of Portland’s Chinese population. Expressive and detailed, these portraits are a lively counterpart to the archival photographs of the Chinese ancestors who set foot here in the 1800s.
The juxtaposition between the traditional valuing of community and the artist’s modern ways of portraying individuals reminded me of the current trends in social psychology exploring the status of young Chinese who grow up in a world where the traditional collectivism of their culture and the modern demands and offers of Western individualism intersect. It is interesting work, based on spontaneous recollection of Chinese proverbs by these college students, reflecting which values come to mind first and how they are weighted. A changing world, yet heavily anchored still in tradition.
Clockwise from upper left: Portland Chinese Community Portrait Series: Billy Lee, Beatrix Li, Roberta Wong, Terry Lee.
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“Take care of each other. Take care of the soil.” Shu-Ju Wang, in conversation.
Off to the side of the front venue is a room dedicated to Shu-Ju Wang‘s exploration of the history of Tanner Creek and its connection to the Chinese laborers and farmers who tended to its surrounding fertile soil to grow vegetables for both, sale and consumption. Her installation consists of multiple parts, prominently displaying a wooden slide constructed to represent the topography of the waterway with its angles and gradient. It is actually a marble run, and visitors are invited to play around, connecting through interaction. Above it hangs a mobile, made from silkscreen and gouache with a top part that was embroidered on paper tinted with gouache as well. It represents rain drops, a sense of fluidity enhanced by the aqua color range and the lightness of the material that slightly trembles in the draft. The sturdiness of the wood and the fragility of the paper assembly complement each other, rather than being opposed, representing aspects of nature that remind us of its power as much as its vulnerability.
Wang’s interest in and facility with science is evident in the exhibition posters that provide facts about the history of the creek within the build-up of Portland, the encroachment endangering the creek’s initial free run and displacing those human communities that had respected natural cycles of flooding necessary for fertile ground. Creatively, these narrative are told in letters from the creek to us, making a personal statement in a voice that I can see as particularly effective for young minds, children feeling addressed and drawn in. That said, it sure got my attention. The remaining walls are hung with the artist’s recent paintings and printings of nature-related topics, the theme of the need for environmental stewardship pervasive, meticulously and insistingly expressed.
Left to right: A fold-up book Castor and Sapient; A Study of Home (2021) Silk screen, pressure print and collage; a basket by Sara Siestreem (Hanis Coos) woven from native plant materials to catch the marbles.
I walked out with a plant cutting in hand, small annuals which are offered for free – by March, when this part of the exhibition is likely still on, it will be vegetable plantings to connect to the Chinese farmers’ history at Tanner Creek.
If we link the immigrant experience to the past, present and future, as the museum intends to do, then Wang’s depiction of the past and Chiu’s capture of the present is joined by Roxas-Chua’s work incorporating the future. That might seem counterintuitive given the prevalence of allusions to memory, including the title for some of the major works.
Yet I was flooded with an impression that the work was about opening towards something, with the release that comes with the acknowledgement and acceptance of grief.
Detail: Gold Lighting and Lullaby Scripts
Part of that might have been triggered by the realization of the ephemeral character of both materials used and conceptual expression. The artist will destroy all that was presented by the end of the exhibition’s run and bury it at its source, the places in nature from which materials for the ink and paper were borrowed, and from which the inspiration was drawn. What is gone makes room for the new.
Left and RightL Gold Lighting and Lullaby Scripts. Center: Stone Satellites over an Excavation Site in John Day, Oregon.
Part of it can be found in the way Roxas-Chua’s calligraphy is open to interpretation. The technique of asemic writing that he uses is a form of communication that is unconstrained by syntax or semantics, an aesthetic rather than a verbal expression. It is the perfect medium for someone who is overburdened by the demands of too many languages (In Roxas-Chua’s case four) or too little rootedness in each.
Excerpt: Three Oranges and Blue Mountains Moon
For the viewer this opens space to connect to the calligraphy in ways unrestricted by formal demands. Unsurprisingly for me, who has spent her scientific research years studying memory, the art appeared as patterns of synaptic connections, but also of plaques causing retrieval failure, of parallel processing and encoding bias. The malleability of memory was perfectly caught in the flow of these marks, the way how present context is re-shaping, even altering what is remembered, ultimately influencing an assessment of the future.
How we approach the future is not just guided by how much our memory has changed over time, shifting away from facts and towards a narrative that helps emotional adaptation. How much any of us can remember the specifics of our past also plays a big role.
In many realms, all of our thinking about the future is rooted in memory. Policy planners, for example, routinely contemplate past patterns as a way of anticipating things to come. At a much more personal level, researchers suggest that a sense of hopefulness, or its lack, depends on how specifically we remember the past. Think about someone saying, “I cannot see how that could possibly happen,” or the opposite, “I can easily imagine how that can come to be.” That step of imagination is arguably central to how hopeful someone will be about the future, or not. And that ability to project is clearly linked to the specificity of your memory of how things unfolded in the past. Remembering opening the path to hope.
Excerpt: Three Oranges and Blue Mountains Moon
For the artist it was perhaps a way of connecting to the various landscapes and human sources that linked to the past of Chinese immigrants, from John Day to Astoria, where he interviewed people and recorded soundscapes of the environment (QR codes direct you to a listening experiences that captures these sounds, or music, or the artist’s poetry, providing additional levels of experience of the Gesamtkunstwerk, the totality of each artwork.)
Loss and re-emergence are central to the work. It was, I believe, most urgently captured in The Weeping Script.Please Be Guided Accordingly, the poem that accompanies the calligraphy, seizes the stages at which death rips a loved one away from you, bit by bit. There’s a release provided by inklings of hope and uplift in the future, though tempered by the knowledge that it will be a cold, lonely run. Maybe not the entire three year mourning period proscribed by Confucius, but the concession that grief exists and yet can be turned around. It calmly points to opening of new horizons.
For anyone mourning it will be brutally moving, and yet it is incredibly beautiful, hopeful work.
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And now we turn to the elephant in the room. If the consummation of loss is part of the art inside the museum, wait until you see it instantiated in the suffering of the houseless in real life outside. The many houseless in the neighborhood, their tents, their misery, their detritus, are something the Old Town businesses are trying to deal with.
City plans almost a decade in the making have not yielded visible results, even though the mayor’s office claims progress. In October 2021, spurred by the rise in crime, violence and public camping in the Old Town neighborhood, the leaders of four cultural institutions — Lan Su Chinese Garden, the Japanese American Museum of Oregon, Oregon Jewish Museum and Center for Holocaust Education and Portland Chinatown Museum — wrote a joint open letter asking each city and county commissioner for immediate help. In March of last year, Old Town Community leaders unveiled a plan to repair and reopen the neighborhood, which included goals like reducing 911 call answering times, improving lighting in the area, and reducing tent camping by one-third.
The right words were said: “As Portland’s oldest neighborhood, home to immigrants who overcame decades of discrimination and indignity, and today, home to so many who are fighting just to stay alive, we must to whatever we can to respond to the crisis of humanity unfolding around us. And we must do it today,” said Elizabeth Nye, the executive director of Lan Su Chinese Garden, “the local government’s inability to safeguard Old Town disrespects its history.It is particularly devastating to our houseless neighbors who deserve more from their government.”
Mural on NW Davis St
The subsequent reality, however, amounted to an exponential increase in sweeps of the neighborhood. The 90-day “re-set” led to a particular form of camp removal, structure abatement sweeps, that can be ordered by the police chief or engineers in two different bureaus overseen by city commissioners. The standard Homelessness and Urban Camping Impact Reduction Program, or HUCIRP, sweep provides at least 72 hours’ notice to unhoused Portlanders so they can gather their belongings and voluntarily move before city contractors remove them from a given area. The structure abatement approach extends 1 hour warning, if that. If you happen to be away from your tent or belonging, all is lost. (For a detailed description of the way things unfolded last summer, here is a report by advocates from Streetroots, an organization where I taught writing workshops for the houseless until the pandemic started.) Shelter referrals given during or after sweeps are not enough – you can stay for one night, after having been completely uprooted. Many feel unsafe in shelters even for that one night, or can’t apply because they have pets.
Mural on NW Davis St depicting the view South on NW 4th Ave
Do these sweeps help solve the situation? Of course not. They clean up the streets for a short time or for a particular event, while making people less stable, re-traumatizing them, and shifting the entire problem just to a different location. Mayor Ted Wheeler and Commissioner Dan Ryan’s five October 2022 resolutions on homelessness included a ban on unsanctioned camping and the construction of compulsory mass homeless encampments, which would host up to 250 people. This can only be seen as a way to circumvent the Supreme Court decision letting the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals re Martin v. Boise decision stand, stating that a houseless persons cannot be punished for sleeping outside on public property in absence of alternatives.
Mural on NW Davis St
Of the six promised safe-rest villages only 2 have opened so far. Evictions from rental properties have skyrocketed since the renter protection during the pandemic was lifted – in the first 10 months of 2022 alone there were 18.831 evictions, as reported by a PSU research group. According to the 2022 Multnomah County Point-in-Time Count report, 24% of those experiencing unsheltered homelessness reported COVID-related reasons as the cause, adding to increased inflation and rising rent costs. Despite the stereotype, these are not all people with criminal records, or mental illness, or living with substance abuse problems. And even if they were, they would have the same human right to shelter as we all do. On top of it all, Senator Wyden’s DASH Act, (Decent, Affordable, Safe Housing for All) languishes in committee, even though it has support from all sides, business owners, land lord organizations and advocates for the houseless included.
I completely understand the need for businesses and institutions to be able to function in a safe environment and one that does not interfere with business under the specter of violence and crime. But let us acknowledge that the reaction so far has been to try and disperse the unhoused, without providing sufficient, actual housing, the only permanent solution to homelessness.
Archival photograph of NW Fourth Avenue
Until something changes structurally and expediently, I fear museums like the Portland Chinatown Museum will not get the exposure they deserve because many people hesitate to visit Old Town. It is truly sad, given what is on offer. But it is heartbreaking to see the suffering and loss in the surrounding streets, with poverty levels probably comparable to those experienced by the very first Chinese immigrants that came to seek a better life in a new home, leaving famine and disease behind. Past, present and future connected at the most basic level of human experience, daily survival.
Portland Chinatown Museum
127 NW Third Avenue Portland, OR 97209
Friday – Sunday 11:00 AM – 3:00 PM
Docent-led group tours are Friday through Sunday by reservation only.
Current exhibition Illuminating Time closes on January 29th.
Join the museum on Saturday, January 28 at 10:00 a.m. for the seventh annual Lunar New Year Dragon Dance Parade and Celebration, presented in partnership with the Oregon Historical Society.
The 150-foot dragon will be celebrating the holiday with lion dancers, performers, and a lively community parade through Old Town, Downtown, and up to the Oregon Historical Society Park
“And now let us believe in a long year that is given to us, new, untouched, full of things that did not exist before, full of work that has never been done, full of tasks, expectations and impositions; and let us see to it that we learn to tackle all that without dropping too much of what it has to bestow…”
„Und nun wollen wir glauben an ein langes Jahr, das uns gegeben ist, neu, unberührt, voll nie gewesener Dinge, voll nie getaner Arbeit, voll Aufgabe, Anspruch und Zumutung; und wollen sehen, daß wirs nehmen lernen, ohne allzuviel fallen zu lassen von dem, was es zu vergeben hat […]” – Rainer Maria Rilke Letter to Clara Rilke 1907.
Walk with me. On one of the last days of the old year, as it happened, a stroll through downtown that was a deserted place on a grey Friday morning, the quiet ruptured only by loud screams of a houseless person, the wailing echoing in the canyons between the high-rises. The few pedestrians cautiously crossed the street away from the misery, avoiding eye contact with the tent that looked wet, cold, forlorn.
Photographs today are all from a downtown PDX walk between the Portland Art Museum and Pioneer Square, going north on 10th Ave and coming back South in the park blocks.
And now 2023 already here. No New Year’s resolutions for me, since I know from long experience I won’t keep them in the first place. Although IF I would claim some, they would be echoing this British advice:
Get slightly older each day – Eat more cheese – Discard old socks – Drink the same amount of tea (ok, coffee for me) – Never run out of biscuits – Say “getting there” a lot – Muddle through.
Yet I do have a wish: to have the courage to witness (and report on) what is happening in the world, no matter how deep the darkness goes.
I want to continue to fight against the gentrification of the soul, the self, that comes with aging and privilege. It is so easy to narrow your focus when you become overwhelmed by the suffering in the world, to declare that turning away from the darkness is an act of self protection, when it is an act of choosing comfort instead.
Comfort that is not available, much less granted, to the people exposed to war, oppression, subjugation, or exploitation, by mad men in power, governments, institutions or their neighbors. If the people of Ukraine have incomparable courage to live through bombardments and invasion, the people of Iran facing gallows for desiring liberation, as do their Afghan brothers and sisters, if the Kurds have no allies in the world, nor the Palestinians any protectors, if they all summon this courage daily to live, I might at least have the courage to look. To witness, fully knowing my solidarity amounts to nothing other than emotional discomfort over the experienced helplessness.
Empty squares, with the houseless crouched in corners, and a lone city worker blowing fallen pine needles that moved in small waves and eddies.
We don’t just have to look abroad. There are plenty of discomforting sights close to home. So easy to narrow your eyes and blink the “blight” away, turning to more uplifting views. Don’t get me wrong – I embrace the powerful offerings of nature and art, literature and science as happily as anyone to make me feel better or console me, perhaps even to bestow some hope for a more just world, as my regular readers know full well. But not at the expense of the minimal tribute I can pay by witnessing what else is going on in a nation filled with racism, inequality, culture wars and drifts towards authoritarianism, even or particularly when I have reached an age where active participation in a fight for change has become harder. Maybe my reporting can encourage others who still have energy to get engaged.
Age imposes a narrowing of our lives through the declining powers of our bodies or the restrictions of disease, all multiplied to the nth degree by living in a pandemic era. It is understandable that that narrows the heart as well, the capacity for compassion when preoccupied with your own making it through the day.
It need not narrow the mind though, as long as we are mindful of how and where we apply attention and if we make sure we stretch towards learning. American-Serb poet Charles Simic once said: “The attentive eye makes the world mysterious.” I never understood that, still don’t. For me the attentive eye is all about learning about the world, de-mystifying what we are told to believe. The Jewish tradition with its intense focus on learning has always struck me as something that provided more than just tools for professional advancement, or, more importantly, understanding. It is such a thrill when you realize there is an infinite potential for growth, both of knowledge and as a person, every day, even when the potential for your body is decidedly limited.
For 2023 that means my steady diet of junk novels and movies will continue to be supplemented with stuff that is hard to read and topics that require intense familiarization.
It is somehow fittingly ironic that the question about liberty and justice for all is raised at the Louis Vuitton store. The brand’s trade tag is “Truth. Live and love truth.” No clue why a manufacturer of luxury goods comes up with that, but I don’t exactly think they’d like to hear the truth about the effects of capitalism where the consumption of luxury items plays a large role, if only as marker of the class that can afford the luggage.
***
What I learned on the first day of 2023 came about because I wondered why the sound of human misery is so deeply afflicting when you walk by, half scared, half upset. My search found, instead, a splendid analysis on a related topic: Why do Rich People love Quiet. The Brooklyn-based author of Puerto Rican descent, Xochitl Gonzales, was just made a staff writer at The Atlantic. She describes how she and her cohort of students of color experienced their lives at an Ivy League Institution and then again when White young professionals’ arrivals started to gentrify the traditionally non-White boroughs of NYC.
“The passive-aggressive signals to wind our gatherings down were replaced by point-blank requests to make less noise, have less fun, do our living somewhere else, even though these rooms belonged to us, too. … In those moments, I felt hot with shame and anger, yet unable to articulate why. It took me years to understand that, in demanding my friends and I quiet down, these students were implying that their comfort superseded our joy. And in acquiescing, I accepted that.
For generations, immigrants and racial minorities were relegated to the outer boroughs and city fringes. Far, but free. No one else much cared about what happened there. When I went to college, it was clear to me that I was a visitor in a foreign land, and I did my best to respect its customs. But now the foreigners had come to my shores, with no intention of leaving. And they were demanding that the rest of us change to make them more comfortable.”
The essay then explores the regulation of noise from above, the various administrations, mayoral office and NYPD, through laws and by moving noisy venues like nightclubs out of gentrifying neighborhoods like Chelsea and the Lower East Side and into Brooklyn. That borough, now thoroughly gentrified itself, racked up the most noise complaints of 2019 to the city hotline, the majority of them grievances about lifestyle choices: music and parties and people talking loudly. One culture’s preferences demanding acquiescence from another.
The Apple Store is barricaded behind steel net fences, with only one entrance ramp controlled by police. Moats next? Tiffany, on the other hand, let’s you peek into the window under the watchful eyes of no fewer than three security guards for the one storefront.
Gonzales’ recent novel Olga Dies Dreaming was named a Best of 2022 by The New York Times, TIME, Kirkus, Washington Post, and NPR. On my ever expanding list to read. The title is taken from a stirring poem by Pedro Pietri (1944-2004), Puerto Rican Obituary, linked here because it is too long to post. Don’t want to go overboard with the first blog of the year. Read it, though, if you have the time, it expanded my narrowing view of the world, offering glimpses into a culture so close and yet so far from my experience.
The park blocks offer a strange assortment of sculpture. The museum declared itself “indigenized” – whatever that means – during an exhibition by a Native American artist, Jeffrey Gibson, who produced timelines recording important events for indigenous and non indigenous Americans alike. How will 2023 be added? Since I still do not go inside museums and galleries I cannot report on the show.
Music today offers some classic Puerto Rican Salsa by Héctor Lavoe and, if you want to stretch yourself, the song Titi me preguntó, by Black Bunny, Billboard’s Artist of the Year. “Titi” is Time Magazine’s best song of 2022 pick, the voice of someone who acknowledges and tries to break with his toxic masculinity. The rapper’s music is ubiquitous in NYC right now.
No Black Bunny, but a bronze sculpture of an English bulldog, ridiculously dressed like the doormen of the Heathman Hotel where she resides outside, flagging the pet friendly policies of the establishment.
Capturing once more the beauty that surrounds us and respond with loosely (if at all) related musings? Let’s try.
If you are lucky enough to be present when a flock of snow geese gets spooked and you look at them through the very circumscribed lens of your camera, you sometimes experience something strange. Some of the geese are still ascending while others are descending already. If you loose track of who is who – easy to do from far away in the chaos – you perceive a strange undulation – as if the same thing is obliquely going up and down simultaneously, the laws of physics abandoned. For a split second you question the reality that surrounds you, fooled by a perceptual illusion.
A related question has been debated since times immemorial: what is reality and how can we be certain we perceive it correctly? It is on my mind because of the current glut of suggestions in both the cultural scene and computer science, that maybe we are mistaken about the reality we experience. Maybe, just maybe, we all live in a simulation, a computer game if you will, in which we are just puppets playing within the structures set by code, installed by some advanced beings somewhere in the universe. Frown all you want (as I do) but there are some serious, smart philosophers out there thinking through this possibility.
Honestly, watch Netflix, and there is the simulation hypothesis, if you click on 1899, a German series that is even darker and less comprehensible than its predecessor, Dark. (Actually, don’t, not worth it.) Or turn to the bestseller lists. The NYT raved about “Sea of Tranquility” by Emily St. John Mandel, the simulation hypothesis was the basis of the plot. (Again, don’t, I thought it infuriatingly superficial, never getting to the interesting question, much less providing answers about the concept of living in a simulation. An alternative would be a book on the same topic, The Anomaly, that I found more clever by far earlier this year.)
More seriously you find even respectable thinkers and philosophers captivated by the idea, frequently debated in academia and tech/computer science circles. (Link below gives a graspable overview.)
So why this sudden preoccupation with it, decades after The Matrix offered the proposal that we are all dreaming our existence while stuffed into electronic boxes, our bodies mined for whatever the advanced evil civilization that is holding all of humanity captive, needs for their purposes? Why this emergence of Longtermism, whose prominent adherents often subscribe to the simulation hypothesis?
Why seriously engage with a hypothesis when it cannot be tested and so far there has been zero evidence to support it? If we live in a perfect simulation there is no way to get outside of the game (that is one of the problems that all these movies and books simply ignore.) Only from the outside could you judge if something is real or not. This is already the trap Descartes, wondering about our perception of reality, was caught in. His way out was to postulate that innate feelings and thoughts are pre-determined by God, and as a result, an individual’s perception of reality is in fact defined by God. Therefore, it cannot be the wrong one.
Instead of (a) God/ess who preordained everything, now we have some advanced civilization taking that place? Calvinism 2.0? Why would such a civilization waste computational superpowers on creating a simulation? What would the simulation be for? Why does it simulate consciousness, why stay within certain parameters, like the laws of evolution? Why create a place of misery and harm? And how do you deal with the problem of infinite regression, where every simulated world has potentially one above it, equally simulated into perpetuity – where is the endpoint? Back to a God/ess?
What does it buy us to engage with such a concept? Escapist fantasy? The hope that future life-forms are interested in us, some form of ancestor worship? Release from moral imperatives – if I have no free will, just like a character in Grand Theft Auto the umpteenth or Minecraft, why not engage in immoral, unethical or violent behavior without pangs of conscience? Giving in to ennui and lack of initiative because nothing can be changed, unless the puppeteers permit? Being so bored with your life that you do everything to find a glitch in the matrix as evidence that your life is not “real”? Having lost or given up on one religion, turning to the next one in disguise?
Let me know if you have the answers. Clearly the question of reality perception has been around for a long time.
Wishing you all a healthy 2023 with a grip on reality and dreams that are not turning into nightmares.
“A view that will never be mine,” I groused, when reading a review in Art in America of Michael Heizer‘s City. Then again, I will be in good company – only 6 people a day are allowed on this large land art project, in the making since 1970 and finally opened this summer. 6 people, no less, who are able to shell out $150 for a three hour visit, after having been approved when requesting a visit via email to the Triple Aught foundation. People who are able to fly into Nevada and willing to travel rough for many hours from Las Vegas into the desert to a secret location, and who are able walkers – no places to rest for ailing/aging bodies on this installation, by all reports.
Judging from the aerial photographs, it is a pretty stunning site. A mile and a half long, with 14 miles of concrete curbing, the site contains arrangements called “complexes,” meant to resemble urban units from a long-lost civilization. Inspired by a visit to Egypt’s pyramids, the artist said “In sculpture I attempt to maintain the venerable tradition of megalithic societies.” (Ref.) The mammoth project was funded with many millions of dollars by multiple organizations and private donors, and received a helping hand in 2015 by the late Senator Harry Reid and then President Obama who proclaimed the 700,000 acres as part of the Basin and Range National Monument, protecting City from railroad traffic and development near by (the artist had threatened to blow up the entire project if nuclear waste would be transported through the neighboring areas.)
Looks epic. Looks empty. Looks contrived, like a raked graveyard for a lost culture of giants. Made more desirable, I am certain, by the imposed mystery and scarcity aspects. But also admirable given a man’s dedication for half a century to creating something that connects across history and somehow, at least judging from the publicly available photographs, into the future with its echoes of alien geoglyphs.
My city views yesterday were on a more human – yet accessible! – scale. Walking along the river shortly before sunset, nature and industrial structures alike were bathed in faint orange glow.
Street cars and boats reveled in the season’s spirit:
and shadows were long under the Interstate bridge.
Which is where I found the Poetry Beach, a small walkway with engraved boulders celebrating the river. Water, a source of life and sustaining force. Who needs stimulation from a desert city, when urban children’s voices create meaning here and now?
Have to remind myself of the attitude that carried me for so long: there is interesting stuff to be found everywhere. A camera is wonderful. It keeps the mind from drying out.
The season is upon us. Gifts needed. Gifts hoped for. Gifts dreaded.
What to get? Where to get it? How to escape consumerism, when you, like I do, love giving and receiving gifts? How to hide disappointment and lie successfully when well-intended gifts don’t hit the spot, as to not hurt the feelings of the giver? How to hide the embarrassment when funds are so stretched that gift giving can no longer occur? How to avoid credit card debts when caution is thrown to the wind? How to give freely while wanting to discard unspoken reciprocity rules and assumptions, and not be overbearing? How to feel not obliged when flooded with unexpected presents? How to say no to receiving when longing to break the cycle without breaking the underlying relationship?
I thought I’d do a quick survey of the psychological literature to figure out what we know about gift giving. Wouldn’t you know it, the first things popping up in the search were ubiquitous articles in consumer research publications, about gifts and philanthropy among others – how to rope in donors by giving them something (hear me, OPB membership drive???) and ways to surreptitiously force people into expanding gift giving in ever widening social circles.
The next large area was anthropology: how did cultural contexts determine gift exchanges, a custom as old as history and universal across different cultures? As a form of reciprocity it was assumed to integrate societies, and to communicate in symbolic ways about social dimensions of power, status and/or desire for connection. It greased the gears of economic exchange, consolidated political power (note that women were given as “gifts” into alliance marriages, slaves were given as “gifts” to appease conquerers,) solidified peace treaties, and created obligations ($2 billion for Jared Kushner’s equity firm from the Saudis ain’t just good will, one might speculate.)
Last but not least, from an anthropological perspective, gifts were universally used to socialize. Want that toy – better behave! Even charitable giving, seemingly without hidden motive, can be transactional as well – just think of greenwashing or the tycoons who give to museums and concert halls, trying to distance themselves from their role as merchants of death – just ask the Guggenheim or the Tate about the Sacklers. Or New York’s Museum of Modern Art, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, the Mayo Clinic and the Guggenheim who accepted millions of dollars from tycoons aligned with Russian President Vladimir Putin, including several who are the targets of Western sanctions.
In cultural contexts, then, gifts are a form of contract and a way of shaping behavior and expectations. Reciprocity is generally assumed and needed to keep the cycle going. Giving too much, too little or too late can strain relationships to the point of cracking.
So what’s up with the gift giving in our own lives, at this fraught time of year? Current Directions in Psychological Science tells me that we have to look at what givers and recipients, respectively, focus on and how alignment in those two perspective matters. For one, people often prefer to receive gifts of potential experiences, rather than objects and consumergoods. Secondly, people really prefer gifts that they explicitly wanted (go to that couple’s registry at Target, don’t surprise them with an unrequested gift, no matter how extravagant!) while gift givers think the surprise would be a smashing success. Gift recipients don’t care as much about the price of a gift, while givers think it matters.
Givers also assume that a gift that reflects its recipient (I give her a gift card for Powells, she loves books!) is a great hit. Recipients disagree, on the whole, preferring versatility (give me a Visa gift card I can use anywhere, for what I need most.) And, surprisingly, since it is opposite to my own experience (which once again goes to show n=1 is not a successful scientific predictor,) gift recipients are not particularly fond of socially responsible gifts like donations to charities. Givers might think that it is appreciated, but recipients experience little ownership value in this and would prefer traditional gifts. (Think about that for the next Bar Mitzvah in your life. Then again, our bookshelves still hold umpteen copies of the book ” The Jews of Oregon.”…) Last but not least, gifts that confer value over an extended period of time, rather than make for a brilliant splash at the moment of delivery are by far the most appreciated. That boring wooden salad bowl for the newlyweds WILL score, when still around on your 40th wedding anniversary!
I make my own gifts these days where retirement allows the time and leisure to produce needle work – knitting has turned out to be an effective therapy for frayed nerves. And the photomontages from across the year usually find their way into a calendar. I do appreciate receiving self made gifts, given that I am surrounded by so many talented friends who excel in creativity. But that requires privilege, and people should not add to their stressful lives by investing time that is already a scarce commodity. A friend and I who experienced 30 years of lovely exchanges, decided that from now on its going to be books for the other’s grandchildren in lieu of our own pleasures, to build libraries for the next generation. There’s a way to break the cycle without bad feelings and only fleeting regret since I loved her presents.
It’s still true, though, that gifts – the ones given and the ones gotten – CAN provide a lot of joy, a sense of connectedness and enrichment beyond the material value. Not everything has to be transactional, or part of structural pressures that want to stratify social relations. Just make sure there are no strings attached.
Music contains words about the Magi, the three Kings who brought gifts to Bethlehem, in the classic version – Bach’s Christmas Oratorio Cantata 5 and 6.
I went down a dusty side road to take a last walk on the dike before hunting season begins and the area is closed off. Not that the season is promising. I learned from chatting with the hunters that all are concerned with the absolute drought, wondering if migrating waterfowl would find sufficient water to rest on.
Much going on at the end of the road, with cattle being rounded up and loaded onto large trucks. Ranchers on horses and small quad bikes moved various herds who had summered in the surrounding fields and flatlands.
Rancher in Training
One herd was still unaware of its imminent transfer, whether to barn or slaughterhouse I do not know. I was relieved that we have stuck to our intention to remove beef from our household’s menu – this year, now October, I’ve had it maybe twice despite loving a steak as much as anyone.
I had a moment of unabashed joy when one of the ranchers approached me and asked: “Are you the cattle inspector?” Let me try and explain my reaction, something more difficult to describe than the wave of relief spreading across his face when I assured him I was not.
Being identifiable by looks, before ever opening my mouth, has always played a role in my life. At times it was connected to being rejected – oh, did I long for petticoats, nylon windbreakers, anklet socks and patent leather Mary-Janes as an elementary school child of the 1950s. It was wool coats, knee socks, lace-up brogues, smocked dresses and hats (!) for yours truly instead, sticking out like a sore thumb against the village population who snickered at me in the school yard.
Who might be the only one with braids, forever slouching knee socks and gabardine skirt, in 1959, I wonder?
My beloved sister knew what’s ridiculous already at a young age…..
Later, sufficiently politicized in the late 1960s and early ’70s, I was finally able to make my own clothing choices. It became a demonstrative act of protest against codes and norms of a class I resented. I was drawn to the flower child aesthetic of the times (though not that life style – I functioned as a lawyer, after all.) An act of rejection, rather than being rejected then.
These days, after decades and decades of figuring out who I am or want to be, I enjoy being dressed as neutrally as I can when it comes to identifying markers, but still have some style of my own, with this or that flourish and flair, when you look beyond the jeans and sweatshirts. That is, of course, easier here in the U.S. than in my native Germany. There, non-conforming to the norms of formal dress or coded class symbols still raises eyebrows in certain circles which would have stung when still my teenage self. Interpreted as a faux-pas, it seems inconceivable to family or friends that deviating from those norms might not be a mistaken wrong step, but a step in the right direction of expressing that one does not want to share the codex, no longer rebellion as much as an escape from bourgeois conformity and what and who those insider cues represent. Why would I want to look like the people I don’t want to be like?
The focus has shifted to what I feel comfortable in or with. The discomfort of rejection – wether being on the receiving end or the one dishing it out – safely a thing of the past. Then again…you have to deal with commentary, always: I remember a guy at the bus stop who called out, “Hey Lady, cool boots. I have a cat that color in Vermont.”
Never a dull moment.
Of course you can never shake off your origins completely, and pretending to be someone you are not has never appealed. But you can make choices about being pegged, or identifiable, to provide room for connecting with others before class divisions stop you from the start. I might not be the cattle inspector, but not being pinpointed as a cerebral, aging academic has its perks. I ended up having the best time among the crews, invited to photograph up close, and lots of waving on all sides when the trucks departed.
I escaped tagging, once again. The cattle’s dreams of great escape, in contrast, thwarted.
As Barbara Kingsolver phrased it in Animal Dreams:
“The very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.”
Not sure how many people would agree with this sentiment found on Oregon City’s Willamette Terrace walkway. But I do believe we can all agree that the city, some 30 minutes south of Portland, is extremely polite. There is a welcome sign, wherever you turn.
You get encouraging advice (if I only knew what “there” is…)
perhaps leading to Eternal Impact, equally mysterious,
or fortification at the end of the road (the fountains themselves long dried out.)
Jokes aside, there is history wherever you look, preserved and displayed in public and museums. A lot of it can be found just looking at the buildings, the murals, the signage they offer, or the names they chose for their establishments.
Jail cells at the end of the alley center top – Masonic Temple center bottom. Municipal elevator from one level of the city to another.
Arch Bridge and original marker
I had come to Oregon City to look at the work of several artists displayed for the day at the Stevens Crawford Heritage House, another place where you can learn about the past. It was empty (still my condition to go inside in public places) on an early Saturday afternoon before a gathering organized by Art in Oregon to celebrate local artists and their work.
This is a collage made of paper clippings by one of the early inhabitants of the house – art always having been present, it seems.
The Craftsman American Foursquare House was built in 1908, and made into a museum after the last owner passed in 1968 and donated the property to the Clackamas Historical Society. It is furnished and equipped with everything original to the period, transporting you into the past. A large room on the ground floor has now been made in to the Mary Elizabeth Gallery, with local art hung there and in upstairs spaces as well.
On view were paintings by Kelsey Birsa, her Livingroom series containing a number of works dealing with the psychological effects of the pandemic and her ways of coping with it. One of the colorful attention magnets was a wall paper she created to reflect the garden surrounding the gallery, one of the few spaces to interact socially given the threat of infection. Her oil paintings, sometimes with added media, gold leaf, newspaper clippings or fabric draped over, were hung on top of the colorful background.
Kelsey Birsa Coping Mechanisms (2020)
Kelsey Birsa Here (2019)
Upstairs you could see some of Natalie Wood’s photographs,
Natalie Wood Were such her Silver Will (2019)
On display for the day were also the work of Clairissa Stephens, in the process of setting up her delicate botanical drawings with silverpoint on a gesso-like underpainting, from ink and pencil sketches.
All three of the artists had participated at some time or another in Art in Oregon‘s unique opportunity to spend a one-month residency at the Heritage House to work on their art in solitude. They are granted 24 hour access to a studio room and facilities (although they cannot live in the house,) in exchange for 20 hrs. of volunteer services at the museum. The Mary Elizabeth Gallery offers a chance to show work at the end, but is not exclusively slated for residents. The next exhibition, for example, is comprised of a huge variety of local talent, opening on September 23, 2022. The Ghost Showfeatures Alycia Helbling, Autumn Cornell, Don Hudgins, Elliott Wall, Erik Sandgren, James Dowlen, Jennifer Viviano, Kelly Shannon Chester, Kristin Neuschwander, Laura Weiler, Leslee Lukosh, Leslie Peterson Sapp, Nanette Wallace, Owen Premore, Tim Dallas – quite a range of divergent styles and media.
Mary Elizabeth Gallery
603 6th St. Oregon City, OR 97045
September 23 - November 1, 2022
RECEPTION: Friday, October 14, 6-9pm
Open on Halloween: 4-7pm
Gallery hours : Friday-Saturday 10-4pm
***
I am regularly drawn back to Oregon City because of the river, the falls, and the not-so-distant past that still affects a complicated presence. The industrialization of the place provided homes and work for many colonial settlers, while displacing the tribes who lived on the land and for whom Tumwater Falls was a place of great existential and cultural significance. A bit of a walkway can be found at the north end of the river, surrounded by informative signs and public art. A view point further south does the same and allows visitors to look at the falls from afar.
Adam Kuby and Brian Borrello are the public artist team that created the Waterfall sculpture at Willamette Terrace Walkway.
Mill after mill, using the power generated by the water for processing lumber, wool, flour and eventually paper, clogged the banks of the river and interfered with access to the falls.
Several years back I had actually participated in a walk through one of the old mills, Blue Heron Paper Company, now condemned, for an extended photoshoot that resulted in this compilation. (If you click on the book in the link and then on full view, you can scroll through the pages. Some of the resulting montages (below) were hung in a show at the Oregon City Hall.)
The site of the bankrupt paper mill, some 23 acres, was purchased in 2019 by the Confederate Tribes of Grand Ronde, who announced the new name for the planned restoration project just 2 weeks ago: Tumwata Village. It refers to the Native name for the falls and reflects the historic tribal connection to the area. Much demolition still going on, lots of rebuilding in the future. Details can be found in a newly launched website: www.tumwatavillage.org.
The planning process itself has been complex, though. Since 2011, much debate involved historic rights, and differing visions for a development that would protect tribal history and also would allow the general public to access the falls. Under the umbrella of the Willamette Falls Legacy Project multiple constituent partners focused on a commitment to public access, environmental and cultural restoration, as well as economic development. Oregon City, Clackamas County, regional government Metro and the state of Oregon partnered with the Grand Ronde Tribe, and eventually the Confederated Tribes and Bands of the Yakama Nation, Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians, Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation and Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs were invited by the Willamette Falls Trust, which began as the Legacy Project’s fundraising arm before expanding operations. As is so often the case in projects with numerous participants, conflicting needs, demands and eventually tensions were difficult to resolve.
This spring the Grand Ronde tribe left the project to pursue the restoration on their own propriety bordering the river directly and independently. Information about claims of conflicting interests can be found here and here, and in an OPB interview. Of importance to those of us who are not entitled to take a position, given our lack of historic knowledge and access to innumerable facts, is to remember:
“… these fractures stem from painful histories. None of these confederations, or the boundaries between them, existed before colonization. In fact, in 1855 there was only one western Oregon reservation: Siletz, which is where the tribes that became part of Grand Ronde were originally scheduled to be sent. But President James Buchanan abruptly decided to establish the Grand Ronde Reservation as a second western Oregon reservation instead of an extension of Siletz. On a foreigner’s whim, the tribes became separate peoples.
“Over the years, there’s been a lot of trauma and historical legal wrongs done to the tribes just falling out of that history.” (Ref.)
That is what I am thinking about when looking at this natural marvel, the largest waterfall in the Northwestern United States by volume, and the seventeenth widest in the world. It is 1,500 feet (460 m) wide and 40 feet (12 m) high with a flow of 30,849 cu ft/s (874 m³/s), located 26 miles (42 km) upriver from the Willamette’s mouth. Images below are from last week and from winter months, showing the effects of season on the river.
The horse-shoe shapes falls in September above, January below
The falls are one of the few remaining places to fish for lamprey eels.
September above, January below
Maybe the town itself is not one of the prettiest ever, but the nature at its doorstep is. They both hold a lot of history.
Here is what I currently listen to, water (or sea) foam, in musical form.
