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.

By Cinnamon Janzer for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Chrystal Blair for Michigan News Connection reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

Drive through nearly any part of the Great Plains and you’d be hard pressed to not come across incarnations of the enduring symbol of the U.S. Midwest—barns. Even though a wooden structure painted red and dotted with white trim may be the classic image that comes to mind when we think of barns, they come in a range of styles from bank barns with axes parallel to a hill to round barns with domed roofs. 

Despite different designs, one thing that all barns have in common is the special place they hold in the lives of the community members where they exist. Barns have historically offered a unique reciprocal way for rural community members to come together and enjoy the pride and satisfaction that comes from the shared accomplishment of raising a barn—an act that, for centuries, was unable to be done alone.

“It took a large group of people to work together in harmony to get the frames up. It was a strong community effort, like a lot of other things that happened in rural areas like husking bees and quilting and sewing bees,” says Steve Stier, an educator and historic preservation specialist who focuses on traditional barns through his work with the Michigan Barn Preservation Network. Because barns were needed by nearly everyone, it was known that by participating, you were sure to have the support you needed when the day inevitably came that you’d be the one requiring community labor. 

Today, Stier sees the process of raising a barn as an increasingly rare way for a community to come together. “It brings this joy that people have when they work together, shoulder to shoulder, accomplishing a significant piece of work like raising a [barn] frame. People are just ecstatic about the way they feel about it.” 

Stier notes that quite a bit of creativity, craftsmanship, and problem solving go into building a barn and its rehabilitation.

While modern machinery has removed much of the need for a community approach to barn raising, organizations like Stier’s are keeping the art alive and bringing people together through workshops, field programs, awards, and grants. At the Barn School, classes often include assessing the condition and stability of a barn; and learning about barn architecture, construction, maintenance and repair approaches. They also provide a handy Barn School 101 booklet, barn condition check sheet, and a resource document. This is a significant offering as we see barns and unused agricultural structures being reimagined as new community gathering spaces from hosting events to artist residencies across the country.

From the National Barn Alliance and the Center for Rural Affairs to Friends of Minnesota Barns and Iowa Barn Foundation, there is a significant national and Midwestern movement to preserve America’s historic barns and rural heritage. There are active initiatives to document barn structures and historic farms in almost all 50 states through state historical preservation offices. 

And these barn preservation efforts are being made with good reason — “They’ve become the icon of the rural landscape,” Stier says.


Cinnamon Janzer wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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By Rose Vance-Grom for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Farah Siddiqi for Ohio News Connection reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

Akron, Ohio has been a hotbed for jazz in the Midwest since the 1930s. Its central location between bigger cities like New York and Chicago made it a perfect stop for traveling musicians. Many renowned artists, including Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald, performed in Akron as they passed through; but there was also a thriving local scene, the roots of which can still be felt today. 

For much of the 20^th century, Akron was an industrial powerhouse. People flocked to the “Rubber Capital of the World” in search of jobs causing the population to jump, growing from 70,000 in 1910 to nearly 210,000 by 1920. Akron’s Black population increased eightfold in that time, and many of them settled along Howard Street between Downtown and West Akron.

Where It All Began

This neighborhood – dubbed “Little Harlem” – became the center of the business and entertainment district along Howard Street, with Black-owned hotels, restaurants, clubs, barbershops, and beauty salons that served the tight knit community. According to the Ohio Informer, Akron’s short lived Black newspaper, there was always music and dancing at the clubs down “Rhythm Row” from the Cosmopolitan, to the Hi-Hat Club, to Benny Rivers, just to name a few.

By the late 1960s the rubber industry was dwindling and much of Howard Street, like the rest of Akron, was in decline. A 1968 “urban renewal” project to build a highway spur linking Akron to the larger interstate network would seal the fate of Howard Street. Construction on the Innerbelt began in 1970, resulting in the destruction of the predominantly Black neighborhood within the decade. Adding salt to the proverbial wound, the project was never fully completed and is now mostly abandoned. In 2023, the City of Akron issued an apology for the lasting harm the project caused for generations of Akronites. 

The loss of the Howard Street neighborhood was devastating but it was not the end of the jazz scene. It lived on in small clubs and church basements, and through the people who continued to play anywhere they could. 

Where It Lives On

When Justin Tibbs, a local saxophonist and composer, was a teenager in the 2000s his mom snuck him into a blues bar where he met local legends Jim Noel, Waymon “Punchy” Atkinson, and Donald Stembridge. 

“Growing up, I always had to ask one of the legendary guys, ‘where’s the jam session at?’, and it would be in some church somewhere. We would go there and play tunes and watch ‘em all play. I didn’t know how big they were,” Tibbs said of his early experiences. This exposure led Tibbs to enroll in The University of Akron in 2006, later joining the Jazz Studies program. 

The University of Akron Jazz Ensemble has a direct link to Howard Street. It began in 1978, under the direction of Roland Paolucci, a jazz pianist who played on Howard Street in the late 1950s and early 1960s. He led the program for 22 years before Jack Schantz, a UA graduate and jazz trumpeter, took over for the next 20 years.

The program continues today, co-chaired by Theron Brown, a jazz pianist and two-time UA graduate. Brown moved from Zanesville, Ohio in 2005, unaware of Akron’s jazz history and Howard Street until about 2009, “That’s when I just heard of the names like Punchy Atkinson and Jimmy Noel.”

Brown was part of a Howard Street tribute concert in 2019 at BLU Jazz+, one of Akron’s premier live jazz venues. He played with 91-year-old Jimmy Noel for the first time, only months before his death. Brown reflected, “That’s when I really woke up… There is literally nobody else that can tell the story. We need to go out and find out … there’s a spirit in the air for this music, there’s a vibe, you can call it whatever you want.”

It was similar for Tibbs, who grew up in Akron, “I would talk with them, and they would tell me stories… And I wish I would have had an iPhone at that time to record everything because it’s gone to history… It’s sad that history is gone, but I feel like I’m a part of it in a way because I know their story.”

Jazz for the Future

This sentiment has been shared in recent years as more attention than ever is being paid to this era of history. In 2016, Brown started the Rubber City Jazz and Blues Festival to celebrate Akron’s musical legacy. Now in its ninth year, it has grown into a cultural festival featuring dance, performance art, digital art, and a celebration of Black musical traditions. 

Students at The University of Akron are now further documenting this history with the Green Book Cleveland Project, started by Mark Souther of Cleveland State University with the Cuyahoga Valley National Park in 2021. The restorative history project is rooted in the “Negro Motorist Greenbook” published between 1936 and 1966 for Black travelers and documents the entertainment, leisure, and recreation sites available at the time. 

In addition to his Jazz Studies courses, Brown recently co-taught a project-based class with Dr. Hillary Nunn, called “Round Howard Street: Telling the Story of Akron Jazz” in which students studied jazz culture in connection with the City of Akron to bring about a fuller understanding of its Black History. 

Both Brown and Tibbs credit The University of Akron for fostering an environment for young musicians to meet and play together. “I wouldn’t know any of my buddies that play if it wasn’t for that. It centralized the community in a space even though Howard [Street] didn’t exist,” Brown said. Tibbs similarly reflected, “It’s a whole new generation of musicians… that play original music”. Brown and Tibbs are just two of many musicians playing in the area, all of whom will tell you that Akron still has a unique sound.


Rose Vance-Grom wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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By Kate Mothes for Arts Midwest.
Broadcast version by Kathleen Shannon for Greater Dakota News Service reporting for the Arts Midwest-Public News Service Collaboration

On the five-acre campus of the Cheyenne River Youth Project (CRYP), a unique, community-wide graffiti art event—the first and only in Indian Country—aims for more than just the walls. Located in Eagle Butte, South Dakota, on the Cheyenne River Reservation (one of nine Native Nations in the state), the organization has focused on providing youth with opportunities to get creative, develop healthy habits, work together, and learn new skills since its inception in 1988.

Executive Director Julie Garreau, who has been with CRYP since the beginning, is no stranger to balancing numerous aspects of the program. On the day Garreau spoke to me from her office, she and the CRYP team were preparing to welcome artists from around the nation—and this year, New Zealand—to kick off the tenth annual RedCan Graffiti Jam.

Far more than just an art showcase, RedCan promotes collaboration and community initiatives through pairing artists with teen interns of a CRYP Lakota Art Fellow. “CRYP created the Lakota Art Fellowship in 2019 so it could provide opportunities for teens on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation who have an interest in pursuing careers in the arts, and who have completed multiple internships through the nonprofit youth project’s dedicated art institute,” says communications director Heather Steinberger.

An Evolving Event

Garreau remembers RedCan as “a risky kind of project to initiate, but I feel like with CRYP we really understand kids, and you’ve got to take some risks sometimes to keep them interested and motivated and you have to do things very differently.”

Starting with the evening they arrive, the artists enjoy a traditional Lakota meal of buffalo soup, wojapi (a berry sauce), and fry bread. The four-day event, which includes performances, skateboard painting, music, and community meals, serves to not only engage but keep kids’ attention while celebrating Lakota identity and culture. 

This year, buildings in the mural lineup included the animal shelter, veterans building, radio station, and food pantry. Garreau takes time to discuss with the artists what the buildings are used for and their history within the community. Murals are also installed in the Waniyetu Wowapi Art Park, an open-air space where a series of wooden panels, shipping containers, and walls host constantly revolving graffiti compositions.

Returning artists include, among many others: East, an artist of Cherokee descent from Denver; CYFI, a Yaqui and Azteca artist from Minneapolis; and Natasha Martinez, a.k.a. Rezmo, a Diné and Mexicá artist currently living in the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community in Arizona. New to the event this year are Māori artists Phat1 and Lady Diva, from Aotearoa (New Zealand); Midwestern artist Brady Scott; and Kansas-born Ponca artist Amp.

Celebrating Connections

Rezmo had just arrived in Eagle Butte when in an email she wrote, “What I look forward to the most this year is painting in the community and making connections with the community members that come out and talk to us throughout the week.” At home in Arizona, she works in youth services and teaches art to kids ranging from pre-K age to teens, so partnering up with interns and young artists at RedCan sparks her energy. “It makes me happy to teach them and share what I know,” she says.

Garreau relates a story she heard from artist Hoka Skenandore, a Lakota artist who painted a mural spelling “Lakota” in both the Lakota language and in sign language, depicting each letter in hands of varying skin tones. “He said, this little boy came up to him and was watching him for a while,” Garreau shares. “Then the little boy went up to the mural and put his hand on the wall. And he said, ‘Huh, just like me.’ That’s the other part of this, right? Seeing yourself in these spaces and knowing that you are part of this, you know that this is for you—for us.”


Kate Mothes wrote this story for Arts Midwest.


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