Endnotes

1 See Baum and Whitaker (2007). 


2 One way of defining satyagraha would be “spiritual warfare.” See Du Toit (1996). For a critique of Gandhi’s relationship to caste see Roy (2017). 


3 See interview with Aggarwal (2014). 


4 Sharma’s catalogue essay offers the following context: “In 2009 the year she published this series of prints [i.e. her “Braveheart” triptych], little had she known of the events of December 2012 in Delhi. A young woman was raped and then mutilated by a gang of inebriated men on a bus. She was later abandoned and despite all efforts succumbed to her energies [wounds]. Under Indian laws the identity of a rape victim cannot be revealed, she was christened by the media as Delhi’s brave-heart or ‘Nirbhaya.’

“Rapes that had often gone unreported now ushered by certain awareness and softening of an uncaring police and judicial system began to be uncovered across India.  The ‘Delhi Rape’ did not deter others but led to a series of similar incidents across India [and] even Bombay.  Tough ‘anti-rape’ laws are being enacted but again not safeguarding other forms of rape that both women and men suffer within their own homes” (8-9).  


5 Nagree (2014).


6 See “Poland’s Independence March Turns Violent” (BBC).


7 See Kruse (2019).


8 See dos Santos et al. (2020).


9 See Seo and Addis (2000).


10 Satō 104.


11 Fukuyama 3.


12 “Shōzō Satō: Still Building Bridges.” The News-Gazette, 10/16/14, https://www.news-gazette.com/news/shozo-sato-still-building-bridges/article_77626ae4-6548-558e-bf21-25b22958b18e.html


13 “Way of the Sensei.” UI Alumni Magazine https://www.news-gazette.com/news/shozo-sato-still-building-bridges/article_77626ae4-6548-558e-bf21-25b22958b18e.html 


14 Sato ix.


15 Roy and Roberts 13.


16 Matter 87.


17 The historiographical work of Lisa Lowe offers one frameworks for rethinking the presumed opposition between these terms that is relevant to the circulation and display of objects in museum settings. The work of specifying “‘the intimacies of four continents’ is one of examining the dynamic relationship among the always present but differently manifest and available histories and social forces. It includes, on the one hand, identifying the residual processes of settler colonialism that appropriated lands from indigenous people, and the colonial logics through which men and women from Africa and Asia were forcibly transported to the Americas, who with native, mixed, and creole peoples constituted colonial societies that produced the assets for the bourgeois republics in Europe and North America out of which intimacy, as liberal possessive individualism, became the hallmark. […] Philosophy elaborates this [mythic, intimate] subject with interiority, who apprehends and judges the field of people, land and things as the definition of human being.  Ultimately, I would wish to frame this sense of intimacy as a particular fiction that depends on the ‘intimacies of four continent,’ in other words, the circuits, connections, associations, and mixings of differently laboring peoples, eclipsed by the operations that universalize the Anglo-American liberal individual” (20-21).


18 Lawal 133.


19 Anand Pandian usefully differentiates critique from criticism: “Critique is an art or practice of prising open the fixity of what is present and keeping it open. […] Criticism is typically thought of as a matter of denouncing what is wrong or unjust, with the idea in mind of a specific alternative, with a notion already of what is right. […] To take up critique as a means of tending an open horizon, though, is to proceed in an affirmative rather than negative manner: to work within the space of what would seem to be given as a problem in the world, and to seek out, even here, ‘a field of possible openings, indecisions, reversals, and possible dislocations’” (118-119).


20 See the MoMA Learning online entry for Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/pablo-picasso-les-demoiselles-davignon-paris-june-july-1907/


21 Boris Groys describes a trajectory in which “the historical avant-garde has opened up the potentially infinite horizontal field of all possible real and virtual forms endowed with equal aesthetic rights. One after another, so-called primitive imagery, abstract images and simple objects from everyday life have all acquired the kind of recognition that once used to be granted only to certain privileged images and objects” (141).


22 See Clark pp. 225-297. 


23 Any broad inquiry into the category of “art” will also mean attending to a heterogeneity of terms and concepts within the African continent itself: “‘Something made by hand’ (alonuzo) is how the Son of Benin designate art. The nearby Ewe of Togo use a similar term, adanu (meaning ‘accomplishment, skill, and value’) to refer at once to art, handwriting techniques, and ornamentation.  For the Banana of Mali, the word for sculpture is translated as ‘things to look at’” (Visona 22). 


24 Clifford pp. 196-7.


25 Adepegba’s writing, which is undated, has been preserved in the Stanley Museum’s Embark record for the work.


26 A Yoruban praise-poem included in de Brito’s anthology describes him in the following terms:

[H]e conceals himself on someone else’s foot. 

If he does not eat he will not allow anyone else to swallow.

We do not have wealth without putting aside a share for Èsù. 

We do not have happiness without putting aside a share for Èsù. 

He acts for the right, he acts for the left, feeling no shame. 

Èsù, one who prepares pepper for someone else’s child. 

He uses stones for salt. 

Demon of heaven, powerful one around the town. 

Fearsome one, who scatters but does not gather.

Èsù, do not harm me: harm the child of another (99).


27 This work was included in the inaugural exhibition of highlights from the Sackner collection, which can be viewed here: https://www.thinglink.com/mediacard/1385308272273129474


28 Isaacs 15.


29 “Agree not merely to the right to difference but, carrying this further, agree also to the right to opacity that is not enclosure within an impenetrable autarchy but subsistence within an irreducible singularity. Opacities can coexist and converge, weaving fabrics” (Glissant 190). 


30 de Zegher 131. 


31 “At some point, I began tying the audience with threads, or tying myself to the audience. // Who is performing: the poet, or the audience? // United by a thread, we form a living quipu: each person is a knot, and the performance is/ what happens between the knots” (Vicuña, 99).


32 Vicuña 153-154.


33 See Kornbluh (2003) and Kinzer (2006). 


34 See Saunders (2013).


35 See Bennett (2015).


36 https://www.wielgus.com/casting-mold-services/


37 “Collector’s Primitive” (1960).


38 Winnicott 137-8.


39 Images of Wielgus’ decorated firearms are available to view online through the Art Institute of Chicago: https://www.artic.edu/collection?artist_ids=Raymond%20J.%20Wielgus


40 See Hlebinsky (2014). 


41https://stanleymuseum.uiowa.edu/lilpicard/collections/objects/construction-deconstruction-construction/performance-at-judson-church/#165. 


42 See Nixon (1970). 


43 See Viagas (2016). Also, Mignon Nixon’s “Crazy”: “The baby king (a usually masculine despot) licenses a departure from reality and, in particular, a denial of our own badness. To put this another way, the mania of a mad president relieves us of the responsibility to mourn. For [Hanna] Segal, the failure to mourn the effects of our own destructiveness is a defining feature of modern American politics. In her writings on ‘nuclear mentality culture,’ Segal observes that all groups resist assuming collective responsibility for war, but the history of the United States from Hiroshima to the Cold War to Vietnam to the First Gulf War to the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq is one of manic disavowal. The psychic legacy of the denial of guilt is, in psychoanalytic parlance, a pathological mourning. It is not only that we do not face up to the death and destruction we have caused, but also that our energies are consumed in denying their significance by manically declaring our own omnipotence. Every time we begin to mourn the destruction we have authored, it is morning, or infancy, in America again” (9-10).


44 Picard, Lil, “Flag Story: A Recto of A Page 2,” https://digital.lib.uiowa.edu/islandora/object/ui%3Astanley_2012.930a1 


45 Sanders (2016). 


46 Marx 338. 


47 Mary Ann Pettway (Gee’s Bend Quilter), Craft in America. 


48 For an extended consideration on the history of “extremely false and frustrating” analogies that have been made between abstract painting and quilt making, see Peck (2018).


49 See Michner.


50 Beardsley 23-24.


51 “May Day in Gee’s Band” (Alabama Public Television).


52 “Without the 15-minute ferry service, residents of this remote southwest Alabama land have had to drive for nearly an hour to shop for milk and flour, go to school or pick up a prescription.

Nettie Young, a silver-haired 89-year-old in a black-and-white sundress, gasped as she took small, slow steps up the ferry’s steel ramp.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered.

Surrounded by television news crews, she sat on a metal chair, beaming as she looked about the 100-foot ferry, which has four 113-hp diesel engines and can carry about 150 passengers and 20 cars.

Young did wonder, though, whether she would use the ferry much. Probably, she said, she would rather have a bridge” (Jarvie 2006).


53 See Pitt and Izaguirre (2020).

Contact

Riley Hanick can be reached at riley-hanick@uiowa.edu.

He is a doctoral candidate in English at the University of Iowa and the author of Three Kinds of Motion (Sarabande Books, 2015) and the lead author of Mapping the Imaginary (ALA Editions, 2019). His work has appeared in Sonora Review, Seneca Review, eyeshot, and Labor World. In 2022 his article “Enfolding the Hand, Entrancing the Eye: Erica Baum’s Dog Ear” will be published in a special issue of Open Library of Humanities.

Bibliography

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Aggarwal, Ayesha. “One Day it Will Come Out: An Interview with Soghra Khurasani.” https://ayeshaaggarwal.art/2014/06/10/one-day-it-will-come-out-an-interview-with-soghra-khurasani/. Accessed on August 12, 2021.

Baum, Richard and Whitaker, Ewen. “Mare Orientale: the Eastern Sea in the West — Discovery and Nomenclature.” Journal of the British Astronomical Association, vol. 117, no. 3, pp. 129-135, https://articles.adsabs.harvard.edu/pdf/2007JBAA..117..129B.

Beardsley, John, et. al. Gee’s Bend: The Women and their Quilts. Tinwood Books, 2002.

Bennett, Eric. Workshops of Empire: Stegner, Engle and American Creative Writing during the Cold War. University of Iowa Press, 2015. 

Brooks, Brad. “Native Americans Decry Unmarked Graves, Untold History of Boarding Schools,” Reuters, 22 June 2021, https://www.reuters.com/world/us/native-americans-decry-unmarked-graves-untold-history-boarding-schools-2021-06-22/. Accessed July 27, 2021.

Clark, T.J. Farewell to an Idea: Episodes from a History of Modernism. Yale University Press, 1999.

Clifford, James. The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art. Harvard University Press, 1988.

“Collector’s Primitive.” Time, 5 December 1960, p. 72.

de Brito, Mark, editor. The Trickster’s Tongue: An Anthology of Poetry in Translation from Africa and the African Diaspora, Peepal Tree, 2006.

de Zegher, Catherine. The Precarious: The Art and Poetry of Cecilia Vicuña. Wesleyan University Press, 1997. 

dos Santos et al. “Bolsonaro’s Hostility has Driven Brazil’s Indigenous Peoples to the Brink,” Nature, 19 August 2020, https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-020-02431-0. Accessed August 13, 2021.

du Toit, Brian M. “The Mahatma Gandhi and South Africa.” The Journal of Modern African Studies, vol. 34, no. 4, Cambridge University Press, 1996, pp. 643–60, http://www.jstor.org/stable/161593.

Fukuyama, Francis. “The End of History?” The National Interest, no. 16, 1989, pp. 3–18.

Glissant, Édouard. “For Opacity.” Poetics of Relation. Translated by Betsy Wing, University of Michigan Press, 1997, pp. 189-194.

Groys, Boris. “The Politics of Equal Aesthetic Rights.” Spheres of Action: Art and Politics, edited by Éric Alliez and Peter Osborne, The MIT Press, 2013, pp. 141-150.

Hlebinsky, Ashley. “Art Guns: Aesthetics Over Function?” Buffalo Bill Center of the West. 20 March, 2014. https://centerofthewest.org/2014/03/20/art-guns/. Accessed on August 16, 2021.

Kinzer, Stephen. Overthrow: America’s Century of Regime Change from Hawaii to Iraq. Times Books, 2006.

Kluge, Alexander and Negt, Oskar. History and Obstinacy. Translated by Richard Langston et al. Zone Books, 2014.

Kornbluh, Peter. The Pinochet File: A Declassified Dossier on Atrocity and Accountability The New Press, 2003. 

Kruse, Michael. “The Escalator Ride that Changed America.” Politico, 14 June, 2019, https://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2019/06/14/donald-trump-campaign-announcement-tower-escalator-oral-history-227148/. Accessed on July 12, 2021. 

Lawal, Babatunde. Yoruba. Harry N. Abrams, 2012.

Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, MoMA Learning, https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/pablo-picasso-les-demoiselles-davignon-paris-june-july-1907/. Accessed September 7, 2021.

Lowe, Lisa. The Intimacies of Four Continents. Duke University Press, 2015.

Mary Ann Pettway (Gee’s Bend Quilter), Craft in America,  https://www.craftinamerica.org/artist/mary-ann-pettway. Accessed August 23, 2021. 

Matter, Michael Leonard. “Recent Exhibitions: Forms and Functions of African Art.” African Arts, 1991, Vol.24 (3), p.86-88.

“May Day in Gee’s Bend.” Vimeo, Uploaded by Alabama Public Television, 2016, https://vimeo.com/126286633. Accessed on August 26, 2021.

Michner, Judith. “Willis, Uncle Wallace and Aunt Minerva.” The Encyclopedia of Oklahoma History and Culture, https://www.okhistory.org/publications/enc/entry.php?entry=WI018, Accessed on August 23, 2021.

Nagree, Zeenat. “Soghra Khurasani.” Artforum, 2014. https://www.artforum.com/picks/soghra-khurasani-46831. Accessed on August 2, 2021.

Nixon, Mignon. “Crazy.” October, Vol. 159, Winter, 2017.

Nixon, Richard. “Remarks in Kansas City, MO., Oct. 19, 1970,” The American Presidency Project. https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/node/239965. Accessed on August 22, 2021.

Isaacs, Jennifer.  Australian Aboriginal Paintings. Weldon, 1989.

Pandian, Anand. A Possible Anthropology: Methods for Uneasy Times. Duke University Press, 2019.

Peck, Amelia. “Quilt/Art Deconstructing the Gee’s Bend Quilt Phenomenon.” My Soul Has Grown Deep: Black Art from the American South, Cheryl Finley et. al. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2018, pp. 53-91. 

“Performance at Judson Church.” Lil Picard and Counterculture New York, https://stanleymuseum.uiowa.edu/lilpicard/collections/objects/construction-deconstruction-construction/performance-at-judson-church/#165. Accessed on July 7, 2021.

Pitt, David and Izaguirre, Anthony. “Iowa Republicans Pass New Absentee Ballot Restrictions,” Associated Press, 20 May 2020, https://apnews.com/article/politics-donald-trump-iowa-election-2020-voting-rights-10866daa27d6bec923c6d2d0a636b9d5. Accessed on August 11, 2021.

“Poland’s Independence March Turns Violent,” BBC News, 11 November 2014, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-30012830. Accessed on July 27, 2021.

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Roy, Christopher and Roberts, Allen. Forms and Functions of African Art. The University of Iowa Museum of Art, 1990.

Roy, Arundhati. The Doctor and the Saint. Haymarket Books, 2017.

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Sanders, Sam. “Trump Champions The ‘Silent Majority,’ But What Does That Mean In 2016?” National Public Radio, 22 January 2016, https://www.npr.org/2016/01/22/463884201/trump-champions-the-silent-majority-but-what-does-that-mean-in-2016. Accessed on August 18, 2021.

Saunders, Frances Stonor. The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters. The New Press, 2013.

Seo, Audrey Yoshiko and Addis, Stephen. The Art of Twentieth-Century Zen: Painting and Calligraphy by Japanese Masters by Audrey Yoshiko Seo, with Stephen Addis. Shambhala, 2000.

Sharma, Sumesh. “Cratered Fiction: Bombay, 2015.” https://www.tarq.in/exhibitions/46-cratered-fiction-soghra-khurasani/overview/. Accessed August 18. 2021.

Viagas, Robert. “Looking Back on Donald Trump’s Broadway Venture—And His Playbill Bio.” Playbill, 9 November, 2016, https://www.playbill.com/article/looking-back-on-donald-trumps-broadway-ventureand-his-playbill-bio. Accessed on August 20, 2021.

Vicuña, Cecilia. Spit Temple: The Selected Performances of Cecilia Vicuña, Edited by Rose Alcalá, Ugly Duckling Presse, 2012. 

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About

Nine Pivots is an essay focused on works held within the University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art and Special Collections. It has been composed as a constellation rather than a narrative, deploying practices of cross-mapping as opposed to a singular and focused mode of academic specialization. I’ve borrowed this approach from Alexander Kluge, who describes cross-mapping as “the application of mutually contradictory maps, methods, or theories” and I’m using it here to indicate the breadth of these collections. It is also an attempt to acknowledge my curiosities and limitations as a researcher. Overall, I have tried to bring a range of traditions into proximity so that questions of responsiveness, communicability, wonder, violence, and care can resonate against and complicate one another. This particular cluster of associations and instigations seeks to enjoin a parallel process in readers and viewers. These are places from which to begin.

This project was completed in collaboration with the University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art and the Digital Scholarship and Publishing Studio at the University of Iowa during the summer and fall of 2021. It was funded through a Graduate Digital Internship in the Humanities (IDIH), a joint English-History department program supported by the AAU PhD Education Initiative.

My thanks to Kimberly Datchuk, Cory Gundlach, Lauren Lessing, Sarah Luko, Derek Nnuro, Joyce Tsai, and Katherine Wilson for their encouragement and guidance in researching materials at the Stanley. Further gratitude is due to the UI Special Collections staff, specifically Pete Balestrieri, Margaret Gamm, Lindsay Moen, and Timothy Shipe. Mark Anderson’s patient attention on behalf of the IDSPS was also indispensable. My deepest thanks, as always, go to Lydia Diemer, who answered every question and listened to every sentence, usually twice.

This work is something of an addendum to my first book, Three Kinds of Motion, a piece of writing that was made possible by sustained, free access to the University of Iowa Museum of Art until the flood of 2008 forced its closure. I hope that some part of this essay will hint at this profound community resource in advance of the University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art’s anticipated inaugural exhibition in 2022.

Finally, since this past July, I have been part of a disparate community of people mourning the sudden and devastating loss of April Freely. “The furthest edge of longing” is a phrase that she placed into an essay about the Voyager Golden Record in 2014. It appears here as a modest tribute to her poetic gifts. More than anything, I wanted to make this the kind of communication April could believe in. Every word here is for her.

9

Mary Ann Pettway sings sometimes when she is sewing. “It’s like medicine” she says of the handwork she overlays with song, “I suffer from arthritis but you wouldn’t know it if I don’t tell you. Because I can just be quilting and I don’t have a pain in the world.  I will sit there and sometimes I will sing a little to myself or sing out a little loud.”

The strips and wedges of fabric fitted into the surface of May Day alternate between cream, sun, and coal. Because so many of the wands are crisply rectangular where their edges meet, the sloping compression of layered, horizontal strips near the midsection of the quilt feels more and more like the swaying heart holding the whole together. On the underside, which we cannot see, a pattern of hand-stitched curves moves across the white fabric in the pattern of a shell.

Fig 24. Pettway, Mary Ann, May Day, 2012, cotton fabric, thread, Stanley Education Partners

Both a member and manager of the Gee’s Bend Quilting Collective, Pettway is one part of a living tradition whose originators were largely anonymous members of a remote community in Boykin, Alabama, a rural township surrounded on three sides by water. Twenty years ago the “discovery” and subsequent explosion of interest in these quilts resulted in a series of exhibitions from Houston to New York that was quickly followed by questions of whether the women who created this work had been fairly compensated for it. Alongside lawsuits focused on licensing agreements, there were significant conversations differentiating the necessity-driven purpose of quilts completed nearly a century ago from quilts made for the market of the present day, when the aesthetic of Gee’s Bend has become iconic enough to be on postage stamps. All of these intersections between extraction, property, hand skills, survival, invention, ownership, and the legacy of enslavement are present in any encounter with this tradition. 

Maybe music remains the best analogy — the way a song can place you back in a moment when you betrayed yourself, or another, or both, while still resembling a prayer. You’re hearing whatever tune is in your head. You’re living in or just to the side of a country trying to put the pieces of a country inside of itself — maybe an inexistent country or a claim of what it was, or could be, which is always falling apart. The tempo is a stitching, a method of going on, holding together, making do.

But it was medicine that Pettway told the interviewer she was getting from this work. Because art may just be a throwaway term for transmutation. That is one thing you are thinking about as the clip continues and you watch the sound of her voice carrying the line, calm and loud this time (“he’s calling/ he’s calling by the thunder”) as the camera cuts away to a place on the water, panning left and down from moss-draped branches to see the still surface of the river filling up with sky. Wallace Willis — Black, Choctaw, enslaved — wrote “Steal Away” before emancipation and it moved from the fields to the forests, as one kind of signaling for the Underground Railroad. The water the camera is tracing was named for a slaveholder, Joseph Gee, who staked his claim to the area in 1816. It would be a lie to say that, because of a nation’s stamps, this name and territory have been definitively reclaimed by the people whose ways of reassembling the world have made it famous, even if the ancestors who initiated this practice were not people but property in Gee’s estimation.   

Because its name is still its name. And because when you seek out the short documentary on May Day in Gee’s Bend that was broadcast on public television, you can watch how this holiday occasions joy, marking homecoming with a parade, baseball games, the wrapping of the maypole in a weave of gold and purple. But as the host discusses their geographic isolation with residents and even acknowledges the challenging decades in which ferry service to the area ceased entirely, it will remain possible for you, the viewer, to have no idea why that happened. 

The ferry stopped running in 1962, after Boykin’s predominantly African-American residents, encouraged by a visit from Martin Luther King Jr., boarded it to take the 15-minute ride to the county seat of Camden in order to vote. Forty-four years transpired without any service at all. In 2021 and 2022 new voter suppression bills disproportionately affecting turnout among younger, less affluent, and non-white citizens have been passed within the former confederacy and beyond, including the state of Iowa.

If what we want, when looking at these quilts, is to revere their intricate capacities for repair, or to believe that they might be holding out hope for any “us” being held together within this hypothesis of a democracy, we should admit to the possibility that we are asking art to do what we cannot. Not if we think that art is a matter of what has already been done, rather than what remains to be done.

8

When a sufficient crowd had gathered at the Judson Gallery on the night of October 19, 1967, Lil Picard began setting things on fire. At the core of the first movement of her multi-person performance work Creation-Destruction-Creation was the transformation of Associated Press news clippings on the Vietnam War into ashes. She ironed and grilled them, gathered them into bags, sealed these with green paint, then secured her packages beneath transparent domes in a repository “for the future.” The event built to a “climax of […] destruction, when [Ralph] Ortiz smashed the [inverted] dummies and enclosed the audience in the chicken wire, [while] I blew a whistle.” As the music in the speakers was replaced by abstract electronics a “peace transformation” was initiated as Picard covered audience members in pink cotton sheets and sprayed pigment on her collaborators before slashing open a bag that hung from the ceiling, letting the “colored pieces of the shiny material [fall] all over the floor.” Finally, the “Happeners perform a peace ritual with bells and flowers while I wash the flag quilt with clear water.”

Fig. 21. (above) Lil Picard at the Judson Church, 1967, and Fig. 22. Manuscript of A Flag Story (below), both images courtesy of the University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art

On the following afternoon 30,000 people marched on the Pentagon, which Allen Ginsberg, Jerry Rubin, and Abbie Hoffman then sought to exorcise and levitate. It was that kind of week. “I worked like a sorceress” Picard later said of her performance. 174 protestors were arrested in D.C. and the war went on for another eight years.

During the intervening period of destruction Picard started to type a story about flags. She began a few days after the midterm elections of 1970. Richard Nixon, the first president to place a call to the nation’s “silent majority,” had been recirculating the call again while campaigning for fellow Republicans. At the outset of a speech in Kansas City he accidentally invoked Ronald Reagan, who would beckon to that supposed majority during his own presidential campaign a generation later. “That” Nixon quipped in response to his gaffe, “is one way to get on television.” The other future president who would draw out the vague sanctimony of the phrase had spent the springtime of 1970 making an investment in the theater. The play flopped, but so what. You move on to the next thing, wending your way into the broader achievements of your life. You demonstrate that the deeper secret of a televised campaign is to make everything you do indistinguishable from a gaffe. You pursue the definitive obliteration of any distinction between tragedy and farce. 

Picard begins A Flag Story at the close of the nineteenth century, with her birth in Alsace. “The flag had been at this time the German one: black, white and red.  On the Emperor’s birthday my mother bought [a] black, white, and red ribbon and braided it in my pigtails.” After the Great War, sailors arrived from Hamburg, destroyed flags, and “planted the red flag of the Revolution on the steeple of the Gothic Cathedral. For a few days I looked at a the red flag, then the French soldiers came over the frontier,” replacing the red flag with the Tricolor, and insisting on the singing of the “Marseillaise” rather than the “Internationale.” 

Meanwhile, “I had fallen in love, in the last year of the war, with a German soldier, whose political beliefs were anti-war and socialistic.” Even as she follows him to Berlin, Picard allows that this “constant changing of flags […] is a very upsetting thing for a young person.  I started to become very unbelieving.” She fled to the United States after Swastikas replaced the black, gold and red of Weimar Republic. 

How do muteness and belief reinforce one another in a flag? While a phrase like the “silent majority” extends the prospect of stoic dignity to the recipient (“you are not one of these grandstanding, self-righteous children out on the streets disgracing yourself with rage and grief, making impossible demands”) it also works as a piece of theatrical instruction. Affirm your position by remaining taciturn, keeping our candidate in office, and letting the grown-ups continue with their work. Doing so, you affirm how you belong to its colors. A flag will always keep you company in your silence. That the phrase somehow retained these meanings and incorporated their opposite during its most recent revival has not gone unnoticed. “‘It’s a feeling of dispossession,’” offers the historian Richard Perlstein. “‘And that feeling of dispossession can come about most dramatically in times when things seem to be changing, when all that’s solid melts into air.’”

This flailing to name the time you are living through means Marx might arrive, uncited, for the span of a sentence on public radio.  Let’s step back into the current that delivers us to this other often-repeated phrase: “All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify.”

The flag that Picard washed was “not really a flag” and it was not simply hers. “In 1966, I spent a summer in an artist colony, and one day I visited an

A flag might find itself becoming something new as it becomes more worn out, joining into what resembles and differentiates it, not seeking to be subsumed into a concept but simply to be slept on, shedded on, grubbed up, shivered into, and held close enough for love. For this reason, we can nearly believe in the reversible fate of made things.

Fig. 23. Picard, Lil, American Flag (descriptive title), relic from the performance Construction-Destruction-Construction, 1967-1968, cotton, 129.54 x 68.58, Lil Picard Collection

It wouldn’t have been lost on Picard that the color green, which she explicitly links with peace in the chants and performance notes of Construction-Destruction-Construction, is nowhere to be found in the palettes of the flags she lived under. Regarding the woven and unraveling threads of Flag-quilt, it might be useful to see green as the color of the hyphen or connective (Verbindingung); to see how the wear, decay, and clinging of the world has tried to save it. I mean the world as it is, as it shows through in grass stains, smears of mucus, mold, or some remnant of living that allows the flag to remember itself as material, to become just deflated enough from its task of embracing a national imaginary to hold a body, any body, in need.

7

Fig. 17. Artist Unknown, Textile, c. 1300, Cotton, 101.92 x 165.1, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Wielgus

Seven centuries after a woven, block-printed, and hand-painted Chimu textile was completed by one or several unknown artisans, it was redescribed by American currency. The typewritten valuation was folded into a note of gratitude acknowledging its receipt, alongside three other items gifted to the University of Iowa by Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Wielgus in 1960. The son of a Chicago manufacturer, Wielgus studied art in college and took over the family business afterwards, developing models for industrially produced furniture. The success of his business, which is still in operation today (“the oldest Model Shop in America”), would depend in part on a capacity to cast novel combinations of materials into customized molds. Elastomers into epoxy, urethane into silicone. 

Fig. 18. Wielgus Correspondence, Image courtesy of University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art

The letter does not indicate when Wielgus first acquired the textile, whose interlocking figures of birds and deer against a muted yellow background are separated in turn by borders of zigzagging pale gray and punctual sequences of brown lozenges. They fit together in a syntax of earth tones and wide eyes. It was estimated to be worth $1,000 in the same year that Wielgus’ personal collection went on display at The Museum of Primitive Art in New York. For a tenth of the price he had bought his first piece six years earlier because he wanted “to own something old.” It was an urn, curious to look at, solidly made, and a knock-off.

The desire to feel realness as a kind of acquisition might eventually lead, as it did for Wielgus, to public acclaim for connoisseurship. But being skilled at differentiating between what is valuable and what is fraudulent may not quite fulfill you, even after you have decided what to buy and keep. Living in proximity to the handiwork of another civilization may even tilt your sense of the one that has made your own life possible. Maybe it will grow harder and harder to feel at home as you try to parse achievement from indictment. “Feeling real is more than existing” wrote the psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott, “it is finding a way to exist as oneself, and to relate to objects as oneself, and to have a self into which to retreat for relaxation.”

Fig. 19. Textile (detail), Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Wielgus
Fig. 20. Colt 1878 Double-Action Frontier Sheriff’s Model Revolver, Decorated by Raymond Wielgus, c.1900; decorated 1983, Art Institute of Chicago.

This is only a guess at why Wielgus took additional steps as a collector and craftsman in the coming decades and became a more concentrated figure of sensitivity and menace. To me, there is a pathos in his need to share the unique traces of his own hand on an object designed to be held; but the result of his labor is a meticulously tricked-out series of firearms.

Working across dozens of Colts and Brownings, Remingtons and Smith & Westons from the nineteenth and early twentieth century, Wielgus sought to reclaim what was manufactured and make it a venue for the intensity and intimacy of his own precision. I do not know what he was trying to prove as he inlaid the guns with diamonds, embellished their barrels and cylinders with golden accents, or carved contoured pistol grips from elephant ivory for their stocks. I do know that these guns, chiseled into Art Nouveau, have also become more terrible, even though they can no longer be shot. It is because the number of people they might have threatened, maimed, or killed is trying to become unimportant. And because trying to make them beautiful is a daydream about what, with just the right degree of delicacy, a sensitive hand might do to celebrate how the West was won. Something about this dream is wheeling inside of these damascene assemblages that Wielgus loved because they were already feared.

6

“I thought that all this was perhaps nothing more than a way of remembering” Cecilia Vicuña begins her 1991 text, “Entering”:

“To remember (recordar) in the sense of playing the strings (recuerdas) of emotion/ Re-member, re-cordar, from cor, corazón, heart.”

Figs. 13-15. Vicuña, Ceclia, Chanccani Quipu (detail), 2012, ink on unspun wool, bambook, Image Courtesy of the University of Iowa Special Collections

If you make your way into a room full of people waiting to watch Vicuña perform, you may discover that the only seats left are at the front, within a few steps of where she will first stand up, not to read, but to enlist you in the creation of a temporary sculpture requiring audience members to extend their hands to create clasps and swivels for a single thread running through the room, unspooling above the heads of the still-seated, though she has asked you to stand by way of a gesture, then raised your left arm even a little higher than she can comfortably reach, after the thread is attached. The whole time she is chanting. The reading is both focused and open, partially improvised, shifting between Spanish and English, anecdote and song. The thread can be taut or slack but it begins and ends at the podium and remains suspended for the duration of the evening. Afterwards she will sign books, rewriting your name in a way that makes it suddenly new and charmed and odd to you, though you have never really cared for your name until now. And never realized, until now, how bad that felt, not to like it.  

If you sign up for a seat in the University of Iowa’s Special Collections, it is possible to read, or view, or momentarily hold Vicuña’s Chanccani Quipu, which arrives inside a box, where long cords of unspun wool have been knotted to a bamboo dowel. If you slowly pick it up each of the five cords will extend to their full length, arrayed with stenciled letters of the Roman alphabet, floating at the surface of the wool, most often in pairs. 

The quipu is an Andean system of record-keeping at least as old as the Incan empire, when they served as calculators, calendars and keepers of myth. Largely burned and buried during and after the Spanish conquest, their threat was rooted in the opacity of their code, which could transmit knowledge through a system of knots, whose direction, type, and placement at particular points on strings of various colors and lengths all had consequences. Together they told more than the Spanish could see, though they were legible to the foot-messengers or Chasqui who ran them in relays across the tens of thousands of miles of roads and rope bridges holding a world together. Vicuña’s Chanccani Quipu, as we read in the enclosed Instruction Manual & Orientation to Various Meanings: “reinvents the concept of quipu, the ancient system of writing with knots, transforming it into a metaphor in space; a book/sculpture that condenses the clash of two cultures and worldviews: the Andean oral universe and the Western world of print.” It materializes a “command or plea (depending on the tone of voice)” in which “breath metaphorically imprints the unspun wool floating as a shadow.”

Fig. 14

There is no historical or archeological evidence of unspun wool being used for quipu. For Vicuña, the material’s vitality depends on the way that absolutely nothing binds it together. It is a charge of potentiality, “a shaft of light/ running across/ the worlds” of there and here, was and would be, the inevitable and the undone.

Fig. 15

Once, she put her hand to the ear of an alpaca grazing on a slope above Lake Titicaca to touch an adornment of unspun wool that she could see there, which marked the animal as sacred. The slightest part of divinity, offered back as a memory of what it is and was: the softest puff of cosmic gas that birthed the waters of the universe.

Vicuña first left Chile after the country’s democratically-elected government was overthrown by a military junta on September 11, 1973. The coup was backed by the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States, which also funded cultural initiatives that benefited individual artists like Jackson Pollock, who painted Mural, the most famous work owned by the University of Iowa, and institutions like the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, which co-hosted Vicuña’s reading. Which is to say that the hands in that room were already holding something between them that might or might not be named by any number of invocations, prayers, or curses.

The gift of being asked to notice something about what you have been holding, together, is that you are being trusted to keep noticing; to soften or shift your grip and see what might come from attending to the pressure and the possibilities of holding, of being held, differently.

Fig. 16. Vicuña, Cecilia, Chanccani Quipu, Image courtesy of Granary Books, 2012

5

Where Scherstjanoi pursues something approaching a private language, Ronnie Tjampitjinpa’s paintings enact congruent explorations of what a line might do in the longer shadow of a song. Encryption is inseparable from the realization of a piece like Tingari Cycle, but Tjampitjinpa’s method is predicated on an interdependence between personal reverie and intergenerational memory. 

While information about the Tingari is limited by design, what appears in the swerves of luminescent ochre on the canvas is more about time than it is about capture. 

There is the time it takes to trace the movement of the line as it extends back and forth or tacks toward the corners of each concentric square.

This time is recursive and mesmeric, like the bright punctuation of beginnings that the brush repeats inside the hum of each cascading stack.

Fig. 11. Tjampitjinpa, Ronnie, Tingari Cycle, 2000, Acrylic on Canvas, 191 x 94, Gift of William G. Buss and Barbara M. Buss

Beneath this time of hand, eye, and nervous system, there is a time of depiction which is pleated and mythic.

Joined into a larger system of figures and practices known only to initiates, they affirm the Tingari as sacred ancestors to the Pintubi people by way of ceremonies, signs, and song cycles.

Retaining this dimension of esoteric knowledge for themselves has allowed Pintubi artists like Tjampitjinpa to sell work on portable surfaces since the 1970s without compromising the patterns and codes that make it available and awake to relations beyond the marketplace. This strategic opacity is not just protective but enabling, as it allows a work to speak in distinct registers for multiple audiences simultaneously. These practices of painting and song continue to serve as sites for Indigenous pedagogy. Because Australia, like the United States, has failed to acknowledge the depth of how a past rooted in settler colonialism underwrites its present, these interventions become relay points of survival.

Fig. 12. Tjampitjinpa composing, image courtesy of the University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art

4

What would a writing look like that tried to place this waiting in suspended animation? One that founded its emergence on a refusal to differentiate between unfolding and concealment? This is one way of experiencing the work of Valeri Scherstjanoi, a selection of which is now held within the Marvin and Ruth and Sackner Archive of Concrete and Visual Poetry, acquired by the University of Iowa’s Special Collections in 2019. Scherstjanoi, born in Sagiz, Kazakhstan and now based in Berlin, pursues a poetry rooted in sound, performance, and ritual. The writing that results is often asemic, documenting something more like texture than sentences. Such is the case with Wie Verbindungs – i (n). Constituting itself from connective (Verbindingung) vertical and diagonal strokes of the pen, Scherstjanoi’s poem flirts with crochet, making meaning in the space between the shifting directions and the varying thickness of a mark.

Fig. 10. Scherstjanoi, Valeri, Detail of Wie Verbindung – i (n) from das russische abc – scribentisch, 1990, Image courtesy of University of Iowa Special Collections

Elsewhere he has pursued something more like the simultaneous creation of a performance and its score, as in ars scribiendi / poesia sonora. Linking each of his invented symbols with both an accompanying sound and a particular memory, Scherstjanoi improvises his composition while drawing exclusively upon this associative repertoire of signs and sounds.

There is something enticing and unsettling in the diligent work of a person seeking to be a friend to his own mind. And something almost evanescent in the resulting textures as they unfold an ability to absorb the contradiction of being exposed and remaining unknown. If it is another antidote to the problem of relays and waiting, it is one that requires an act of splitting before making the parts work in tandem — meticulously and flamboyantly — so that the question of your subservience will be deferred instead of resolved. 

The interplay of glyphs and hisses, buzzing loops, low growls and little jags are not willful act of regression but they are not exactly innovations either. They are more like a spell against forgetting; that something in you is always available to obey something just to the side of you; that your mother’s mother tongue was music.

3

Ensō came to the University of Iowa Museum of Art by way of tragedy. It was given from Sato himself in memory of Mary Hagihara Kujawski Roberts, who served as the museum’s director between 1988 and 1990, when she died of cancer at the age of 41. A centerpiece in her legacy opened at the Taiwan Museum of Art in the final year of her life. Forms and Functions of African Art marked the first significant exhibition of African art in Taiwan, but it also embodied Roberts’ commitment to intercultural exchange and the communicative power of aesthetic experience. “We hope” she wrote in her preface to the show’s catalogue, “that this exhibition will be a good-will ambassador […] making manifest our strong interest in international peace and understanding.”

Fig. 7. Preface to Forms and Functions of African Art, written by Chen Kuei-miao, Director of the National Museum of History, Taiwan, 1990

Roberts had hoped to gather interviews with visitors to the exhibition, which was eventually seen by half a million people. Her health kept her from making the trip to Taipei and these conversations entered an inexistent archive. Would it have been one of intimacy or estrangement?

The circularity of the opón Ifá that was displayed near the threshold of two galleries in Taipei was a common, though not a constitutive feature of the form. Yoruban divination boards can also be square (onígunmerin) or the shape of a crescent (ìlàjì opòn), evoking the four corners of the world or the arching heavens above the earth’s horizon line. A circular board (opón ribiti) is said to model a cross-section of the cosmos envisioned as a closed calabash, its intricately patterned border surrounding a smooth, expansive surface. 

Like the ensō, this is a technology for making contingency sweep into view, though its methods for doing so are as distinct as its relationship to temporality. Where the inerasable quality of sumi-e ink facilitates one means of capturing flickers of passing energy, an opón Ifá is more like a stage upon which the future speaks inside of the present. This is a renewable process, activated when a diviner (babalawo) sprinkles it with dust before throwing sixteen palm nuts across its interior to produce a configuration of eight sets of signs. Each sign is associated with one of 256 names and a corresponding verse which the diviner has committed to memory. They are chanted aloud for the client to interpret. 

Maybe you will never not be looking for what feels otherwise to your own muddled, inchoate experience of time, or for the promise of questions transformed by the right time and place.

There are other reasons to be patient while critiquing an appropriative and hyperventilating past that shared in this wish. Because invariably, even as museums sought to serve as an infrastructure for creating interfaces between cultures, they have always marked these transmissions with their own conceptions of what is legible and therefore valuable. Works of African art displaying evidence of use within rituals and performance were consistently preferred by museums and collectors as they began to compete amongst themselves within the terrains of acquired, emblematic authenticity. But the flexibility of this criteria regarding the value of wear-and-tear as applied to art that is African, rather than European, only serves to affirm the inequalities built into the institutions that house them.

 

Fig. 8. Catalog image for opón Ifá as it appeared in Forms and Functions of African Art, 1990

Because there can be no plausible history of European modernism without an acknowledgement of its imaginative construction of the “primitive,” there can be no full accounting for how integral these cross-cultural exchanges were. That would mean seeing what Picasso would have painted if he had never set eyes on an Iberian mask. Existing at a level somewhere between inspiration and strip-mining, canonical modernists seeking to redefine how art might still belong to a broken world were doing so in the variegated shadows of colonialism. This tension didn’t simply coincide with the early 20th century’s contestation of what art could be and do; it suffused these contestations when things were most aggressively and deliriously up for grabs.

In one telling of the world to come, it was imagined that art itself could dissolve from a rarefied sphere of exceptional treasures and disperse itself into the contours of everyday life. That the consecrated and de-sacralized tended to blur into one another was not a glitch but a feature of this possibility. Not only the Ifa divination system, but its requisite apparatus might look like an anticipation of that world, and something more than beautiful or functional. Regardless of how consequential these designations or their suspension were for any of the people actualizing the spiritual, social, and practical exchanges that passed across this board, its presence in the museum is predicated on their absence.

While we might retain a utopian desire to see art and life merge in order to reconfigure the world, this desire cannot sidestep these histories of expropriation. As the anthropologist James Clifford pointed out apropos of MoMA’s 1984 exhibition ‘Primitivism’ in 20th Century Art: Affinity of the Tribal and the Modern: “The fact that rather abruptly, in the space of a few decades, a large class of non-Western artifacts came to be redefined as art is a taxonomic shift that requires critical historical discussion, not celebration. That this construction of a generous category of art pitched at a global scale occurred just as the planet’s tribal peoples came massively under European political, economic, and evangelical dominion cannot be irrelevant.”

Fig. 9. Artist Unknown, Opon Ifa (divination tray), Wood, 54.61 x 54.61 x 3.81, The Stanley Collection of African Art

It is not impossible that the significant crack running along the grain of this divination board’s interior is why it fell into disuse and became available to purchase, though there is no provenance research to confirm this. And no innocence would be on offer if it did. The opposite of innocence is information, which is liable to increase at the edges of things; this opon Ifa is one example, though with more information, we also get more ambivalence. In particular there is the problem of Eshu, the Yoruban messenger god whose face usually appears prominently at the top of divination boards.

In his commentary on this work, the art historian Cornelius Adepegba emphasizes that “the curious thing about this piece is not only the presence of two faces but [that] the markings on the faces are not the same. On one, there is ‘pele’ the three vertical gashes on each cheek, which is common to almost all the Yoruba sub-groups […] The other one has the so-called ‘cat’s whiskers’ which converge at the corners of the mouth and is restricted to the Yagba in the northeastern corner of Yoruba land where it has spread to the Nupe and the ethnic groups around the Niger/Benne confluence. Among the Oyo and Ife people, it is known as the slave mark and it is found on the cross-bearer and equestrian figures, both of which have been interpreted as errand runners in Benin art. Among the Yoruba, court attendants to rulers as well as even the subjects can be referred to as slaves. So as the case is here, the interpretation of the figures is difficult. What is certain is that one face is subordinate to the other.”

Lingering with this difficulty, we might also wonder if the carver withheld the image of Eshu as an act of reverence and strategy. Perhaps the object was always intended for sale and not for use. But if we are confused by what it is showing, this is also in keeping with the evasiveness attending to any interpretation of Eshu. Both healer and tormentor, he is a capricious trickster figure of crossroads and paradox. Adjacent to any errand-boy and at home in any interval of human waiting, he is sanguine to the rhythm and power of our anticipation and desperation to be heard or to hear something back, to arrive inside a point where signal and noise will separate.

2

Somewhere inside of an ordinary hour, in the autumn of the previous century, Shōzō Satō sat down to draw an ensō in a single black brushstroke of ink. 

If some part of you can see the figure still shining itself dry a few moments later, can you see when it began to make incompleteness the condition of its completion? 

Fig. 4. Sato, Shozo, Ensō: Zen Circle, 1990, Sumi-e, 59.69 x 49.53, Gift of the Artist

It’s true that these things happen all the time. In the lexical cradle one word makes for another, like the wind caught in a window. In the ordinary way that any concept calls back to its opposite, simply by showing its face.

Still, this ensō is not identical with an idea or a shape, even if the form itself has been a standard expression in Japanese Zen art since at least the fifteenth century. It now circulates as a variable corporate logo or piece of product packaging, shorthand for serenity and ease. But it is never easy to see the singularity of anything that is actually in front of us. For example, the way that this particular ensō has an internal seam of care and an evenness of tempo that we can trace across the striations of limpid gray in its curve.   

In his book The Art of Sumi-e Satō offers instructions for placing one circle inside of another by aligning the gesture of the hand with the measured spinning of the brush, which should be pressed downward and to the right as soon as the bristles touch the paper while the hand rotates “the handle slowly to the right between thumb and forefinger so that the brush itself makes a complete circle.”

Fig. 5. Ensō (detail), photographed by a cellular phone assembled in China and containing rare earth metals mined in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

And so it has; somewhere inside of an ordinary day, in a year when history itself was purporting to be at an end. Though it was not autumn but the summer of 1989 when Francis Fukuyama famously proclaimed that a century which “began full of self-confidence in the ultimate triumph of Western liberal democracy seems at its close to be returning full circle to where it started: not to an ‘end of ideology’ or a convergence between capitalism and socialism, as previously predicted, but to an unabashed victory of economic and political liberalism.”

Born in Kobe, Japan in 1933, Satō traveled with his father to Hiroshima in search of surviving relatives after the U.S. nuclear attack on August 6, 1945. They slept outside in the decimated city for weeks and found no one.

Years after learning that the sustained exposure to radiation he incurred during that trip had left him sterile, Satō would reroute the word into his description of what remained alive in the dynamism of a brushstroke’s impact (unpitsu no kihaku). The visible history in living lines should “‘cut the paper’ and remain with the work unfadingly through the centuries. A kind of radiation, you may not be able to see this power, but it is there, penetrating your bones and moving your soul.”

Here, the bristles of the brush separate to expose the underlying paper where the circle’s outer edges crumble into streaks of “flying white” as the incompletion of the arc offers a gift to what is lost and what persists.  It pulses in the afterglow of liquid darkness, holding the form open, tenderly now, to the event of our seeing.

Fig. 6. Ensō, “Given in memory of Mary Hagihara Kujawski Roberts. Her life was short in duration, her legacy reached a full circle in the richness of her contributions.”

1

Beneath Shades Never Fades is a woodcut print by Soghra Khurasani, an artist based in Vadodara, India. Acquired by the University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art in 2016, it is scheduled to go on display in 2022.

The eye hovers just high enough to view the shape of a crater inundated with scarlet. The scene seems to shiver even as it fumes. Which is to say, it is built out of questions: What kind of green needs a vein of lava to get fed? What kind of shade is a brighter shade of blood?

Fig. 3. Khurasani, Soghra, Beneath Shades Never Fades, 2014, Woodcut, 87 x 138, The Waswo X. Waswo Collection of Indian Printmaking

Asked by an interviewer, Khurasani said this relationship began in 2009, when she was a student, and persisted for the next half-decade: “Every time I apply the paint to the woodblocks, it is a shade of red, I don’t know why I cannot stop using this color.”

Not-knowing lives within language like a folded, evasive pigment. Any sight of “lava” is citational, since the term did not exist before Vesuvius erupted. Whether or not we have any use for this fact, it will continue to function. The etymological weight (from labes: to fall, to subside, to collapse) lifts and slumps in our mouths as we speak it. 

Khursani’s topographies have been read as “a relay of landscapes that urge a catharsis that can come about by allowing women to be heard in equal voices” by Sumesh Sharma, who has written elsewhere on the anticipatory relationship between Khursani’s prints and a brutal, highly-publicized case of rape and murder in Delhi. But even as Khursani’s print imagines a vegetation that thickens as it is fed by a tense, complementary coloring of magma instead of turning to ash, her composition renders the process of a relief print — in which any patterning depends on what has been carved away from the surface and out of view — more emphatically what it is: a manifestation of violence and control.

Not-knowing delineates a rim of what occurs without us, but in us, including us even when we do not want to be included. It is nested within a cratering present, where someone is always telling you about an impending collapse and redescribing what their campaign will do to keep you safe from a shared internal enemy. “Khurasani’s output can be ominous if examined in conjunction with the resounding electoral victory of Narendra Modi, India’s new prime minister who has been accused of supposedly abetting a pogrom against the minority Muslim community” wrote Zeenat Nagree in 2014, as reactionary nationalists gained cultural and electoral momentum in Poland, the United States, and Brazil.

The Furthest Edge of Longing

Seeing is a dialogue about the limits of sight. For example, you are standing on earth and the moon is out and brightly full. You are allowing yourself to feel alone with it by remaining almost entirely still, smoothing the edge of its diameter with your open eyes. 

Fig. 1. The Mare Orientale Basin as photographed by the Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter, 2010

Around four billion years ago an asteroid careened into the lunar crust, with an impact that would create a basin of concentric rings spreading across five hundred miles. The crater will be christened by the Prussian astronomer Julius Heinrich Franz, whose observations were occasioned by a rare window of libration.  

A technical term for the subtle wavering of the Moon as a result of its tilted axis in relation to its orbital plane, libration allows margins to show the shape of their truth, which is flux. For Franz, on one night of a dark century at the Royal Observatory of Königsberg, libration meant staying up late and straining to see the shadowy fragments of a mountain range at the easternmost extremity of an otherwise familiar face.

Fig. 2. Diagram and detail from Julius Heinrich Franz’s Die Randlandschaften des Mondes, 1913

It would remain the Mare Orientale even after the International Astronomical Union inverted the relevant East-West axes in 1961, with an astronaut’s view from the Moon serving as the point of orientation for a rewritten map. Obsolescence is one of the things that naming does best. Every lunar mare is a mare because the imaginations of seventeenth century astronomers saw the Moon teeming with oceans. 

Maps and catalogues, the intransigent, glimmering errancy of nomination. These inertias may seem like all we can see, but it depends on where we’re standing and how long we are willing to watch. 

Any dialogue depends on intervals. The one between the Earth and the Moon requires a long moment of floating in which East cannot be East and West cannot be West. Otherwise, nothing they are saying to one another can make any sense at all.

On Earth, Julius Heinrich Franz’s description is published in Leipzig at the outset of 1906.

On Earth, in the Imperial Theater of Johannesburg, South Africa, Mahatma Gandhi will introduce the concept of Satyagraha on September 11th of the same year.