By Marianne Dhenin for Yes! Media. Broadcast version by Emily Scott for Ohio News Service, reporting for the YES! Media-Public News Service Collaboration
In Philadelphia, there's a mural around every corner. Since 1984, local organization Mural Arts Philadelphia has created more than 3,600 murals on building exteriors across the city. According to its mission, the organization believes these striking works of public art have the power to "transform public spaces and individual lives."
"We always say that art ignites change," said Jane Golden, the organization's executive director. "There is something deeply catalytic about the work."
Researchers agree: Studies show that public art has a host of benefits for communities. Its community-building powers can combat feelings of anxiety and social isolation. When locals participate in creating public art, these effects are amplified. A 2018 London-based survey found that 84% of respondents believed participating in public art projects benefited their well-being.
Public art also provides economic benefits, including new jobs and increased tourism. Murals, in particular, are great for artistic placemaking and city marketing. It's no surprise that art-focused bus and walking tours have grown popular in dozens of cities in recent years, from Sao Paulo, Brazil, and London to Austin, Texas, where the city-led Art in Public Places program has been funding public art for more than 30 years.
Elsewhere, public art is used to address practical problems like safety. For example, last year in Cincinnati, nonprofit organization ArtWorks created a permanent, illuminated art installation to light a popular walking trail in the Avondale neighborhood. The installation has aesthetic benefits, but it has also improved the neighborhood's walkability and residents' safety after dark.
ArtWorks also provides economic benefits to Cincinnati residents. It creates jobs and fosters youth development through an apprenticeship program. Since its founding in 1996, the organization has employed more than 4,000 young people, ages 14-21, and 3,000 professional artists and creatives in art projects throughout the city.
"Our apprentices are being mentored by professional artists on the job," explained Sydney Fine, senior director of impact at ArtWorks. "So beyond being an arts nonprofit, we are also in many ways a career-readiness, positive youth development organization."
However, one of the most meaningful effects of public art is that it creates what urban designer Mitchell Reardon calls "community fingerprints" - spaces that make people feel represented, foster community ties, and give people a sense of ownership and belonging in their neighborhoods.
As a senior planner at Vancouver, British Columbia-based urban planning and design consultancy Happy City, Reardon has seen how public art serves communities. "Often, we look to public art as a way to address a challenge that a city is looking to solve - say, a transportation issue or safe streets - while doing so in a way that is going to be meaningful for a broader cross section of people," he explained.
In the United States, public art depicting American communities carries on an artistic tradition that blossomed almost a century ago, when the Works Progress Administration, a Great Depression-era New Deal agency, began funding the visual arts. Through a program called the Federal Art Project, the Works Progress Administration employed more than 10,000 artists, who created a significant body of public art, including thousands of murals, between 1935 and 1943.
According to Victoria Grieve, a historian of visual culture in America and author of "The Federal Art Project and the Creation of Middlebrow Culture," supporters of the Federal Art Project shared a belief in "the relationship between the arts and the daily lives of the American people, and the educational, social, and economic benefits of widespread cultural access."
Many of the murals produced during the period represented this ethos and belonged to an emerging artistic tradition called "American Scene Painting," a style of realism inspired by American history, mythology and culture. Federal Art Project murals commissioned for airports, post offices and public schools depicted the everyday lives and contributions of working-class Americans, American immigrants, and communities of color, meant to foster a shared "American" cultural identity.
While the representation of people of color in public art during the period was often problematic, and New Deal programs failed to meet many of civil rights leaders' most pressing demands, the Federal Art Project still had some upsides for the nation's marginalized communities. According to Lauren Rebecca Sklaroff, author of "Black Culture and the New Deal: The Quest for Civil Rights in the Roosevelt Era," the program created needed opportunities for interracial cultural exchange and allowed artists of color to exercise "cultural self-determination."
In other words, New Deal funding and increased attention to public art allowed more artists - Native American, Chicano, Black, and Asian American - than ever before to paint their communities into American art. Those artists' creations also allowed underrepresented communities to see themselves, perhaps for the first time, on the walls of their cities. Today, Mural Arts Philadelphia and ArtWorks honor the spirit of this work.
James Daniel Burns, a staff artist at Mural Arts Philadelphia, has experienced this firsthand. "Sometimes, [a mural] can propel the identity of a place into fruition," he said.
Fine agreed. She said a mural of Cincinnati-based civil rights activist Louise Shropshire on the side of Avondale's main recreation center has helped turn the location into a vibrant community hub. The mural was created in 2019 as part of a new quality-of-life plan for the neighborhood. "The main focus of the plan is increasing safety and wellness," explained Fine. "And so, murals have been a part of that. Documenting the important historical figures that have come from a neighborhood and increasing that pride, which then further activates that neighborhood in that space," she explained.
Both Mural Arts Philadelphia and ArtWorks take great care to ensure locals feel represented in the murals in their neighborhoods. The organizations partner with local community leaders, organizers and activists to plan and implement new projects. In Cincinnati, this process takes an average of eight months. At Mural Arts Philadelphia, things move much faster. Most of its murals begin with an application filed by someone living in the community where a project will be implemented. They're expected to rally a community around the proposed project before applying. After that, creating a mural takes only 4 to 8 weeks. At the end of the process, Golden said people feel real ownership of the work.
These collaborative planning processes also forge strong relationships within and between communities. Staff artist Burns said he has a trove of personal stories for each of the projects he has completed in Philadelphia, "rooted in the relationships with people who shape these projects."
Those relationships last long after the paint has dried. Golden said that Mural Arts Philadelphia also remains a fierce advocate for its art and the communities its projects foster after completion. A mural on South 30th Street in West Philadelphia is an excellent example. The mural depicts a person alone in a small raft on a turbulent sea - a metaphor for the feelings that locals who had contemplated suicide described to Burns, the lead artist on the project.
The mural, completed in 2012, resulted from a two-year-long collaboration between Mural Arts, the Department of Behavioral Health and Intellectual disAbility Services, and the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. The project also engaged more than 1,200 community members. It was meant to shed light on youth suicide rates in Philadelphia, which were rising at the time, and provide a voice for survivors, attempters, and their families and friends.
"The mural created a community of love, a community of care, where people kept coming together long after the mural was created and finished," Golden said. "It was really inspiring."
When Mural Arts got word that a new dorm would be built in front of the mural, obstructing the view of it from the street, Golden said her team organized with the community that had contributed to the project and others in West Philadelphia. They sent a strong message to the developer. "'Look,' we said, 'this project is really important,'" Golden said. The group was able to secure a donation from the developers to create a new mural. The new project, which is still in its early stages, will bring the same collaborators together again to create a mural with a similar vision in a central location.
By holding developers accountable and addressing practical problems, such as street safety, organizations such as Mural Arts Philadelphia and ArtWorks create clear value for their communities through their work. The same is true of dozens of other public art organizations, including the Bay Area Mural Program in Oakland, California; the Portland Street Art Alliance in Portland, Oregon; and the Chicago Public Art Group in Chicago. The work itself also fosters a sense of communal ownership over space, strengthens neighborhood ties, and allows folks to see themselves represented on the walls of their cities. The message it sends is clear: Public art is good for us and our cities.
"I think a city that is vibrant and thriving has art right at the center," Golden says.
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Marianne Dhenin wrote this article for YES! Magazine. Dhenin, a writer and researcher based in Cairo, holds a master's degree in Human Rights Law and Justice and is earning a Ph.D. in Middle East History. She writes about social justice, politics and the Middle East. Follow her on Twitter @mariannedhe.
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The Wind River Water and Buffalo Alliance is looking for a graphic artist to develop a logo.
Before Europeans arrived, some 60 million buffalo roamed North America.
After the animal was slaughtered, in part to extinguish tribes that lived alongside buffalo for centuries, just 23 remained by 1900.
Wes Martel - senior conservation associate with the Greater Yellowstone Coalition - said the new logo should convey a message of hope and power, as the alliance works to restore buffalo and other key elements of indigenous culture.
"So now we're seeing a revival," said Martel, "we're seeing a new energy, we're seeing our young people now becoming educated in the modern technological ways and scientific ways that we need to protect what we have. And that's all we're trying to do, protect a way of life."
Artists are encouraged to submit logo designs by email to media@greateryellowstone.org by May 15. The top entry will be awarded $2,500, second place will receive $1,00, and third place gets $500.
Details on how to apply and the design specifications are online at greateryellowstone.org.
The alliance - based on the Wind River Indian Reservation at Fort Washakie, Wyoming - uses a community-centered approach to support food sovereignty, river restoration, buffalo restoration, advocacy, and education.
Martel said the reservation's landscapes are ideal for protecting the Indigenous way of life.
"We have everything at Wind River that Yellowstone has, except Old Faithful," said Martel. "All of the buffalo, and grizzlies, and wolves, and bighorn sheep, and elk, and deer, and antelope - and all these other relatives that we have on this earth, are with us at Wind River."
The project is an Indigenous-centered organization of the Eastern Shoshone and Northern Arapaho Tribes working with elders, young people and tribal leaders.
Martel said he hopes the new logo can capture the sentiments and energy felt when tribes are blessed with buffalo, their spiritual connection, and the power they bring to lodges, ceremonies, and overall well-being.
"This whole movement that we're seeing now, of restoring buffalo and restoring our heritage and restoring our energy, our spiritual strength," said Martel, "that's really powerful."
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By Kate Mothes for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Mike Moen for Minnesota News Connection reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration
In Norway, the hardingfele, or the Hardanger fiddle, is deeply woven into the nation's cultural tapestry. From the earliest known iteration made in 1651 by Ole Jonsen Jaastad, the instrument originates from its namesake region, the western district of Hardanger, where it was traditionally used to play wedding music, dances, and other songs.
A Hardanger fiddle looks at first glance like an intricately ornamented violin, with a fingerboard and tailpiece often inlaid with mother-of-pearl, ebony, or bone. It is more lightweight, however, with four slimmer strings, ink decorations on the wooden body, and the scroll at the end often carved into the likeness of a dragon or wild animal.
Another key element of a Hardanger fiddle is the addition of sympathetic strings, which sit in a layer below those that the bow touches, vibrating when the instrument is played and adding a richness to the sound. "You are playing, generally, two notes at once whenever you play a Hardanger fiddle," says luthier Robert "Bud" Larsen, a side effect of the instrument's flat bridge.
Larsen, who is based in Brainerd, Minnesota, was introduced to the art of fiddle-making and restoration with the help of local violin-maker Gunnar Helland. Helland had emigrated to the U.S. from Norway in 1901. After stints in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, and Minneapolis, he established a shop in Fargo, North Dakota, to carry on his family's craft tradition.
"Our family moved into the same building where Gunnar had his shop," Larsen says. "We hung out a lot, and I was very interested in what he was building. When I was in the seventh grade, he gave me an old violin and helped me through the process of restoring it."
Larsen's lifelong love for the instrument was born. Over the next several decades, he would build at least 40 Hardanger fiddles and restore more than twice that many.
Preserving, and Evolving, Tradition
Troyd Geist, state folklorist of North Dakota, is a big fan of traditional culture and history. He focuses not only on the heritage of traditional arts but also sees the potential for craft to contribute to health and a sense of wellbeing. He heads an apprenticeship program where a master artist is paired with a younger person in order to pass along knowledge.
Geist is fascinated by how U.S. makers have gradually evolved the Hardanger fiddle over time. Though the instruments have maintained many of their recognizable features, their designs have become distinctly American.
"For instance, the fiddles in Norway would have different rosemaling designs and different flowers that they really focus on," Geist says. "And the head above the fret is often carved, in Norway, like a lion or a dragon. They do that here, too, but they also carve, instead of a lion or a dog head on the end of it, a buffalo head."
Larsen and others in the community who are passionate about the Hardanger fiddle liken the craft to being similar to language.
"We know that a language that is not willing to change will soon die," says Larsen, who was a linguist in Papua New Guinea for more than 20 years before turning to fiddle making. "If people say a language should be prescriptive and you should write it the way the dictionary tells you to, and speak it that way, then the language will die out because it can't change. And that's the same with Hardanger fiddle music. Because new music is being written, and it's being used in different genres as well, it will stay with us for a long time because the music has learned to adapt to people's interests and cultures."
Both Geist and Larsen agree that it's important to continue to teach others how to make the fiddles, which can sometimes take a novice apprentice up to two years to complete. Some makers seek to protect their secrets, but "if you're not willing to share broadly and freely, the tradition is going to die," Geist says.
A Generational History
First comes the making of a fiddle and then, of course, comes the playing. Arts Midwest's GIG Fund recently supported an event at the Historical and Cultural Society of Clay County (HCS) where more than 220 people attended a concert performed by the Fargo Spelemannslag.
A spelemannslag is a group of folk musicians, often dominated by fiddles.
The wintertime concert featured a song written two centuries ago by Eirik Medås. "Eirik's direct descendant, a high school student named Elsa Ruth Pryor, played a new song that she wrote herself, on a Hardanger Fiddle that she made herself," says Markus Krueger, programming director of HCS.
"Minnesota and North Dakota are the two most Norwegian states in America. For a lot of people in our community, this is the music of their childhood that they remember their parents and grandparents playing," Krueger says, reflecting on the significance of the event. "It's a symbol of Norwegian culture and heritage, and even more than that, it's a symbol of Midwest culture."
The concert featured performances by Bud Larsen and Loretta Kelley, the president of the Hardanger Fiddle Association of America. It was a meaningful showcase of a living tradition, passed down through generations.
"The immigrants brought their fiddles with them, and they kept playing them in America, says Krueger. "They kept making them in America. We still make them and play them today."
Kate Mothes wrote this story for Arts Midwest.
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By Ann Thomas for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Mark Moran for Iowa News Service reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration
Natural light floods through large windows lining nearly every wall of the Trappist Caskets production facility in northeast Iowa, wrapping it in view of New Melleray Abbey's 3,400 acres, 1,200 of which are abundant in timber.
The storage racks at Trappist Caskets, designed and fabricated by master welder Brother Dennis, stretch six caskets tall between the concrete floor and the rafters that span the length of the shipping bay. This area manages the ebb and flow of production and shipping. The goal is to keep them full at all times. Today, there are several vacancies-demand has been very high.
At first glance, the racks are overwhelming for their enormity, and the realization that each space represents an individual awaiting preparation for burial adds more gravity.
A wealth of midwestern natural resources, combined with the Trappist monks of New Melleray's need to financially support themselves through their own labor and maintain a life steeped in prayer, inspired its entry into casket manufacturing in 1999.
Each casket crafted by monks and employees at this facility in Peosta, Iowa, captures unrepeatable characteristics in walnut, oak, cherry or pine grain. But one casket on the shipping bay's floor this Tuesday stands out. Its design and far deeper red draw the eye quicker than all other cherry caskets in the shelving.
The lone casket served its owner first as a coffee table, its cherry wood aging in open air for 20 years. Rings left by glasses mark the lid's finish. With upholstering completed this morning, and its lid newly reinforced, this old cherry casket is on its way to the funeral home so as to serve the priest in death who purchased it. He will be buried in it within the next few days. Paul Pankowski, Production Manager for Trappist Caskets, notes it isn't uncommon for caskets to be purchased and turned into bookshelves, wine racks, and coffee tables, then for owners to eventually be buried in them.
The design for these have evolved since the cherry wood one was built. Recent interest in green burials necessitates biodegradable joinery and alternate handles, meaning designs continue to evolve.
Pankowski oversees all aspects of production on the circuitous workshop floor, and can identify by eye where boards moving their way through originated. He points out lighter tones that range through black walnut of Wisconsin and Missouri. Iowa's distinguishes itself from all others by richness of its depth, and the incomparable hardness of central Iowa's oak dulls blades quicker than any other wood. The whiteness and clarity of pine harvested from the monks' own land is easily recognizable in contrast to pine sourced from other areas.
For Brother Joseph, it's hard to believe the growth of this work. From the production facility's modest beginnings in the monks' barns to the far reaching ties maintained through prayer and memorial tree plantings for those buried in Trappist Caskets and their families-the span is remarkable.
Brother Joseph, who began in those barns in 2006 and continues to work in varied roles from woodworking to upholstering in the new facility completed in 2007, recalls how cramped and dusty the barns were. He stresses how critical the employment of nearby community members is now - to meet the high demand for their caskets and to ensure the monks' freedom to maintain the rhythm of monastic life.
The monks' concern for land stewardship led Brother Joseph to pursue the hire of their full-time forester, John Schroeder, six years ago. Schroeder is initiating large scale prairie restoration and reforestation projects which prioritize the needs of New Melleray Abbey's land and creeks lying on the cusp of Iowa's Driftless region. It is an area spared by the grinding weight of glaciers moving out of the midwest around 12,000 years ago. This land's delicate ecological balance and exceptionally rich soil are responsible for traits found in the trees that grow here.
Among the most grateful customers Trappist Caskets serves are parents who must bury their children. The monks offer these caskets free of charge. Funeral homes and hospitals are quick to connect families in these tragic circumstances to the monks. The Federal Trade Commission's Funeral Rule ensures that consumers are not limited to caskets offered by funeral homes for purchase and use, and anyone is free to contact Trappist Caskets, whose staff is always ready to guide families through meeting needs.
Trappist Caskets' employees can relate to this devastating experience. Production Manager Paul Pankowski and his wife lost a premature baby, and his first-hand knowledge infuses compassion in every step of the production process. His three-decade long experience within strict quality parameters of the custom kitchen cabinetry business prior to working at Trappist Caskets also informs his approach to all he does.
While the end goal of both industries is perfection, his purpose, as well as all who work at Trappist Caskets, is not to turn a profit, but rather offer an encounter with beauty and consolation during a time of grief.
Ann Thomas wrote this story for Arts Midwest.
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