On May 25, 2020, Minnesota police officer Derek Chauvin brutally murdered George Floyd, an unarmed Black father accused of issuing a counterfeit $20 bill, while other police officers stood by. This tragedy, following many other recent police-involved shootings of unarmed Black men and women that have been broadcasted and protested nationwide, has sparked renewed and global visibility for the Black Lives Matter movement. This most recent wave of protests has prompted a discussion within the public art field: How can public art respond to the Black Lives Matters movement? Should it? What will we do about the public artwork that is being tagged and damaged during these protests? Public art, at its best, is an authentic reflection of our times and values. Public art should reflect the community around it, and represent the hopes, lives, and aspirations of the people in that community. What we can do as public art policy makers and administrators is uplift those voices in our communities that are calling for justice and equal protection for people of color under the law. It is time to talk about the lack of diversity within our public art commissions, artist selection panels, and our public art workforce. We need to address the elitism with which we dictate to communities which artworks are acceptable, and which persons and cultures are worth affirming with monuments and beautiful objects.

In early April, as the City of Boston became an escalating COVID-19 “hot spot,” Mayor Martin J. Walsh’s office responded with forceful measures on many fronts. In the midst of extreme circumstances, on April 3, the Mayor’s Office of Arts and Culture (MOAC) also announced the fourth cohort of artists-in-residence in its Boston AIR program. The program pairs local artists and staff from City of Boston departments to co-design projects that test new approaches to City policies and processes and that often address the social and political context of that year. In the years ahead, municipal and county government officials face unfathomable challenges in recovery and reconstruction stemming from COVID-19. Programs such as Boston AIR and Los Angeles County's Creative Strategist Artist-in-Residence have demonstrated that artists working in partnership with government are essential workers who bring creative practices and solutions to issues that municipalities face. Local arts councils and commissions often play a big role in conceiving and coordinating these programs in tandem with local government.

We all know that the arts can be seen as superfluous, or non-essential, especially in times of crisis or economic hardship. This was certainly the case for the small, working-class community of Elysian Valley (aka Frogtown), a mixed-use neighborhood along the Los Angeles River in the center of the city. In the middle of the last decade, residents of the area (with a mixture of Latino and Asian ancestries) co-existed uneasily with a small group of artists and craftspeople who (sometimes illegally) occupied the former manufacturing buildings lining the river. The relationship between the two groups was non-existent at best, and full of suspicion at worst. In 2006, a small group of artists, architects, and craftspeople came together to create the first Frogtown Artwalk. The event was intended to bring together and to support the creative group of individuals operating “in the shadows” of the area. The initial Artwalk, held in November, was small, underlit, and sparsely attended—nevertheless, an arts community was born.

We need to celebrate the important work that artists do every day. They imagine creative courses to solve problems. They create welcoming spaces to exercise cultural and civil rights and to challenge the status quo. They orchestrate rituals of spiritual and emotional healing. They configure single words, movements, marks, sounds to make meaning, purpose, and full-on expressions of beauty that remind us of the most fundamental things we humans share. Especially now, as we strategize to ensure that artists are supported and integrated into COVID-19 recovery and reconstruction, we need ready stories of their unique contributions substantiated with the real impacts of their approaches. Beginning with this post, a new ARTSblog series will celebrate the 11 music artists who were the exemplary nominees for the 2020 Johnson Fellowship for Artists Transforming Communities. Vastly different in their artistry—from classical orchestral work and blues, gospel, and American roots traditions to punk rock, improvisational, and genre stretching forms—each artist in their own right is advancing community, civic, and social goals.

Cultural space doesn’t just live in traditional retail space. Cultural space is born where culture thrives. While on the surface it seems that four artists created the Black art center Wa Na Wari, it is actually the continuation of the legacy of Frank and Goldyne Green, who were cultural space activists before there were words for this type of work. We don’t always think of our family homes as cultural spaces, but this Green home, and their other five properties, operated in this way. After the passing of Frank Green, artists Inye Wokoma, Jill Freidberg, Rachel Kessler, and I wondered what it would mean to rent it for a year as a cultural center. This social practice project was about the act of reclaiming so much of what has been lost in Seattle’s Central District. Our formerly redlined neighborhood has experienced drastic gentrification and displacement of our Black community. A neighborhood that was at one time 80% African American is now less than 10% Black. Wa Na Wari explores what it means for Black people to reclaim space in gentrified communities. Wa Na Wari is an art house and a community organizing effort. It is a model for how black homeowners can stay in their homes while also convening around black art. 

“We own what we make.” That’s the watchword of a national grassroots-to-grassroots coalition called Performing Our Future, which we both help lead. It unites communities across the country who have spent generations resisting economic exploitation—who historically have not owned what they make—and who have long been set against each other along racial, political, regional, and rural-urban lines. How have these communities come together? Through the work of cultural organizing. Cultural organizing is not the same as conventional community organizing or activism. Conventional community organizing and activism typically work from deficits: identify what’s missing in our communities, find and mobilize the people who agree with you, call out the inequity and injustice, and fight the bad guys. In the coalfields of East Kentucky and the inner city of West Baltimore, where we work, this usually means “organizing around” problems like unemployment, drugs, or disenfranchisement. Sometimes a meeting might start with a poem, or a protest might include beautiful puppets. But that’s still not cultural organizing. Cultural organizing is more than activism-plus-art.

Sometimes the source of our perceived needs is shielded, just to remind us of the greatness we take for granted and get us to yearn for something regular again. For many, that greatness is integrated in art, through creation and sharing. The brilliance of the solar system and the access to the sun is something we all share. Despite the classes we put ourselves in, despite the prejudices we choose to uphold and create, our sun is seemingly the same. It is a reminder of a new day beginning and, ready or not, another chance to be. My biggest lesson from the excessive alone time and relaxation of busyness is that though it seems many things are inaccessible, I still have access. I can still create, think, make mistakes, and breathe. 

Developing a pricing strategy in the arts requires as much art as it does arithmetic. And both parts are equally important. After all, the value of a creator’s work isn’t in the cost of the raw materials. It is in the experience, the expertise, and the skill added to those raw materials. And it is in the feelings, emotions, and experiences that affect the reader, or the viewer, or the audience member. But there is no math formula for that. There is no explicit mark-up percentage that captures emotion. It is subjective. So, I’m giving you permission to ignore math—not forever, and not completely, but just for a bit while we talk about a pricing framework to capture more than just the math.

The Dance/NYC Junior Committee (JComm for short) is a group of dancers, arts administrators, and advocates that includes emerging leaders from the field working to create positive change in the New York City dance and artist community through research, activism, and community support. Through this challenging time, JComm has been a community I could rely on for support and comfort. As “social distancing” became an increasingly common theme among social media feeds, the news, and even my favorite podcasts, I was concerned and disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to feel connected or stay close to this dear group during a time of panic. 

As we turned the corner into 2020, the Americans for the Arts staff put our heads together to come up with 10 big trends that we think are worth paying attention to this year. Together, these ten trends will inform Americans for the Arts’ next strategic planning process, which will occur this year to drive our work from 2021 to 2023. Some of them you’ll surely already know about—it is an election year, after all! But others may surprise you. From demographics to climate change to the creative economy and more, take a read and let us know what you think—what resonates most with you? What is top of your mind that is missing here? And what are you planning to do to prepare? 

For systemic change to take place, anti-oppression work compels us to examine our organizational core values and how they’re manifest in our processes, in order to critically identify where there are gaps to be filled. These gaps are then addressed by examining how we’re allocating our time, resources, and power to build our staff, board, communities, and audiences. More significantly, anti-oppression work requires us to fill these gaps through staffing, curatorial, and artistic choices that advance inclusivity and representation in order to address racial injustices. Anti-oppression work looks like a life-long commitment to equity, diversity, and inclusion; it is a continuous process of active learning in which artists and arts leaders pursue change, while leaving a map for those who are doing the work with us, to ensure that this work is sustained and remains constant.

As a queer, North Korean immigrant whose family has been displaced from our native land for three generations, Andrea Smith’s framework of the “Heteropatriarchy and Three Pillars of White Supremacy” helped me understand how my own experiences as a perpetual Other (and potential “terrorist threat” from the Axis of Evil) is connected to a larger system of white supremacy. Therefore, to fully pursue our company’s artistic mission of creating a culture of peace and nonviolence, I searched for ways to align our company’s work with ongoing efforts to attain racial justice, while decolonizing my practice within arts and cultural institutions. But how does this framework become activated into something practical and real? How does one create cultural change? How do I affirm my relationships to others, to the land I stand upon, and honor my interdependence with our collective struggles?