When Life Gives You a Car Fire, Make it Art

The first thing you need to understand is that my next-door neighbours engage in nefarious and not-precisely-legal activities.  As a result, our shared driveway is often the site for disruptive shenanigans at all hours of the day and night, but especially at night.  Peak shenanigans were reached in February, when someone abandoned a stolen PT Cruiser convertible and lit it on fire in the driveway.  It was, at the time, incredibly scary.  And then, when the Police appeared to leave the burnt-out car there, blocking access, it became funny.  I began referring to it as an art installation.  And, as is my duty as a curator, originally of art, I created a didactic label for it.  What else could I do?

Partially Torched, 2022 Anonymous

Mixed media, PT Cruiser 

Partially Torched is a metaphor for two years of urban crisis during a pandemic. Emblematic of municipal window dressing, the car depicts atavistic style over function, the charred hood masking the health crisis beneath.  The blackened, smashed windshield calls out racially motivated violence, poorly contained, yet defined by police action represented by the forgotten police tape.  Juxtaposed against the residential homes of Old East Village, this installation invites both critical appraisal of London's visible systemic imbalances and a gesture toward the wry irony that nothing ever changes.

After two days, the car was finally taken away, so all exhibition plans were cancelled.

 

The original post was on Twitter, then shared to Instagram.  You can view the Insta post at this link. 

Here's the original Tweet thread about the car:

There's a car on fire in my driveway. So how's your night going?

— Maya H. (@mambolica) February 24, 2022

I'm grading PLE (Personal Learning Environment) maps and analyses, which help a person to map out their professional/academic/leisure learning environments, in order to understand their knowledge/experience strengths and weaknesses.  One assignment triggered a very specific memory in response, about which I probably hadn't thought in many years. 

I remember in my undergrad, 25 years ago (!), when I still thought I would be an anthropologist, I was tasked with creating a kinship chart--sort of like a family tree, but with symbols that represent people, altered to reflect deceased or ostracized members.  My chart was large, but almost every person who should have been intimately close in a traditional extended family, was shaded, meaning they were dead or estranged.  Of course, knowing most of my family was deceased, on both sides, was not news, but seeing it laid bare before me was deeply uncomfortable.  I stared at it a long time, uncertain of how I felt.  A friend walked into my room and asked what I was doing.  After the explanation, she too stared at it for a while, before bursting into laughter.  She kept apologising for laughing at something that was so sad, but it was funny, in a tragic way.  I, too, began to laugh, until we were both crying.  We hugged and I thanked her. 

At the time, I couldn't tell you (or her) why I was thanking her, but today I can pinpoint that moment as one that was foundational to my desire to help create connections between people and my interest in community bonds and identity.

 

Legend of typical kinship relations, scraped from Google.

The Road to Candidacy

Some people have suggested I should use this blog to market my extensive knowledge and experience in museums.  Consider the immediately preceding sentence as me doing just that.  I've never been good at marketing myself, and I lack to dedication to this format I had, way back in 2001, when I first wrote a blog.  I also suffer tremendous imposter syndrome and rarely think the work I produce (except in putting together exhibitions, which I don't do much of these days) is scholarly enough to share.  What I am comfortable doing; however, is talking about emotional things, the feelings we humans get to work through when life bites us, and how we persevere.*

On March 15, 2021, which happens to be my mother's birthday, I achieved PhD Candidacy.  It's something that happens in most doctoral students' lives, if they make it past the halfway mark in their programme, but back in January, there were indications I wouldn't.  You see, in spite of many drafts and revisions and meetings with all or part of my Committee, my original Thesis Proposal in December was rejected.  I failed.  I did not expect to fail.  I'd expected provisional acceptance pending revisions, but failure was not on my radar.  According to my Committee, it was a deliberation between provisional pass pending revisions or failure, and for various reasons that were probably sound, in the end they opted to reject my Proposal.

The Thesis Proposal, if you're unaware, is the document you provide that outlines the rationale for, theoretical underpinnings of, and methodology to carry out one's Thesis.  It is not developed in a black box, it is guided to varying degrees by one's Supervisor and Committee members.  The Thesis Proposal Defence, at least for my Faculty, is a meeting between the student, their full Committee, and an impartial Chair.  The student explains their Thesis Proposal in a short presentation no more than 20 minutes, and then for another 80 minutes or so, the Committee asks the student questions.  Those questions can be anything from critique and requests for elaboration to blue-sky questions to test how far the Thesis can go.  In the process, the Committee discovers weaknesses in the Thesis Proposal that need to be addressed before it can go ahead.  Then they deliberate in-camera for a while and come back with a decision.  There are four (maybe five) possible outcomes:

• Accept, as-is, no revisions;
• Accept, with edits, and two weeks to make those edits;
• Accept, with revisions, and one month to make those revisions, which may require revisiting the literature, or whatever;
• Reject, with three months to redo and defend again;
• and, if there's a fifth, in situations of egregious underperformance, I suppose it's removal from the programme. 

As I waited, and waited, and waited for my Committee's decision, I began to suspect that they were deliberating between Accept with revisions, or Reject.  When we all reconvened almost 25 minutes after they went in-camera, the Chair announced their decision.  The reason they gave for Rejecting was more about timing than how terrible my Thesis Proposal was (although it was flawed, remember, it had been through drafts and discussion with all members of my Committee over a period of months, and so it wasn't terrible), and they all agreed my presentation was very good.  The reason was the time of year.  It was, on that day, December 18.  I was, as were they, in the thick of end of term grading, as well as the pressures of seasonal activities (even in a pandemic).  Grading fills the Christmas break.  How was I supposed to revise my Proposal while spending hours and hours grading.   

Disappointment, self-doubt, and even despondency are common symptoms of PhD studies.  (The summer of 2019 I considered dropping out as the pressures of my Qualifying Exams mounted and I felt I wasn't getting the support I needed. I didn't, and in the end, I passed my Quals.)  But, initially, upon hearing my Committee's decision, I was merely bummed.  I shrugged it off and planned a debrief with my Supervisor for the coming Monday.  In that debrief, I was given the task of returning to the literature and to rethink my angle of attack.  And then I spent the next two weeks grading for two classes, and although I read a handful of articles and chapters, I basically didn't think about my Thesis Proposal much at all. 

Suddenly, it was January 3rd.  A new semester was starting.  I'd picked up a pretty big TA contract, because I thought I'd have the time as I'd, at the time, believed my Proposal would be behind me.  So now I had a contract and had to redo my Thesis Proposal.  I was fairly sure I could do it.  I usually rise to the challenge when I'm under pressure and I do my best work when I'm busy.  My Supervisor and I began working out a plan as I realised I didn't actually want to focus my thesis on what I'd initially flagged, and my readings shifted and I began rewriting.  I felt uncertain and scared, and my imposter syndrome was at an all-time high.  You see, if you fail your Thesis Proposal a second time, the typical outcome is that you get ushered out the door.  Add to this fresh pandemic restrictions, seasonal depression, and you have a recipe for emotional distress.  I also felt a different pressure, one of keeping a promise to the veterans I work(ed) with at the museum, around whom my Thesis revolves; the promise to keep and share their stories, to write their histories.  The idea I would fail them also weighed on me.  And then came the emails from the Programme Director and the letter from the Graduate Committee on Standing. 

There is nothing so confidence shattering as having the Powers That Be tell you they have doubts.  Doubts in my ability to see things through.  Doubts that I have the emotional/mental resiliency to carry on.  Doubts I can shoulder my other responsibilities at the same time.  The Programme Director is a really good guy, but he has a sort of script he has to work from in cases of students who don't produce the work expected of them.  One of the line items "offered" to those students is a Leave of Absence.  In theory, Leaves of Absence are amazing.  They give the student time to think things through, take a mental or emotional break, figure things out, or look after other life issues that need attending to.  In practice, the way they are handled is kind of barbaric.  A Leave of Absence provides a student a break, but also cuts them off from their TA work (source of income), school resources like the Health and Wellness programmes, and, their Benefits.  Those benefits are the things that make if possible for students in distress to get help at low or no cost.  As a student who has made use of those benefits, who uses the Health and Wellness resources, and who does not have a parent, spouse, or external funding shoring up her bank account so therefore needs TA contracts, being put on Leave would probably have devastating effects.  Moreover, I knew my project was good and if they could just let me get on with it, I was sure I could pull it off.  Through tears, I pleaded not to be put on Leave, and explained how my Supervisor and I had come up with a plan to get my Thesis Proposal done, in two months.  Please, I said, "if you put me on Leave, my mental health will be at greater risk and you will cut me off from financial resources I desperately need.  I will have no choice but to drop out and take whatever work I can find."

I meant it. I cry about all kinds of things, like movies and sentimental adverts, and displays of random kindness, but crying in front of the Director, and begging to be allowed to do what I knew I could accomplish, was humiliating.  My Supervisor had faith in me, so why couldn't he?  I was given a week to demonstrate how I would be get it all done, and with the strong encouragement to drop or reduce my TA contract.  Over a series of emails and another meeting, I was able to demonstrate a plan of action, and with the support of the professor for whom I was TAing, I was able to shift my hours to the second half of the term.  I was given the go-ahead by the Director.  Extension granted.  The letter from the Graduate Committee on Standing was another kick in the teeth my fragile emotional well-being did not need.  One sentence telling my my extension was granted.  A much shorter sentence to wish me good luck, and a paragraph outlining how serious it all is.

We wish you good luck moving forward.

The grounds for approving extensions are based on our assessment of the progress you have made toward the successful completion of your thesis proposal and your supervisor’s confidence in your ability to defend your proposal by the end of the Winter 2021 term. If you do not defend your proposal by the end of this extension, the Committee will be very reluctant to approve further extensions and if we do not recommend an extension, we will recommend to SGS that your registration be terminated.

 

Looking back, it's not as bad a letter as I remember it.  Presumably, this is because I was, as stated, immensely fragile, exhausted, and struggling to keep it all together, whereas now I am a full Candidate and all this is behind me.  At the time, the letter almost undid the glimmer of hope I'd found after escaping a Leave of Absence.  Almost, but not quite.  Because if there's one thing I don't back down from, it's a threat (which is a blessing and often a curse). I also had tremendous support from my friends and my Mom, who were there to listen and to offer words of encouragement when needed.  Hearing my mother say, "No matter what happens, I am proud of you and the work you've done," was much better than pep-talks about not giving up.  Working for a professor empathetic to the struggles of PhD studies, being willing to accommodate my priorities, and lending both an ear and sharing his own difficult journey to doctorate, was a gift.  Having continued access to antidepressants, and a doctor who understood why a temporary increase in dosage was the right move, was also tremendously important.  And not losing the benefits to pay for them was a bonus.

What followed was a month of the most dedicated, focused research and writing I have ever carried out in my entire life.  And, what came out of that was a much, much better Thesis Proposal and the eventual decision to Accept it, as-is, no revisions, about which I am really rather proud.  The Chair of my second Defence was the Programme Director, which was also quite satisfying, as was the follow-up letter from the Graduate Committee on Standing, congratulating me. 

There's no moral to this story.  I needed a break, but couldn't take one.  I just wanted it to be over.  And now it is, but not because I got put on Leave or I dropped out.  I'm sure things will get crazy again, but for the moment, I'm in a lull and it's awesome.  And I'm a fucking Doctoral Candidate. 

 

* Persevere is a pretty weird word, don't you think?  Of severity.  That's kind of how it translates. How do we get the "pushing through" part from "of severity"?  It probably comes from Latin.  If you care, you can Google it. 

Tante Ina's Jewish Children

Today is International Holocaust Remembrance Day. I'm half-Jewish, and strangely, my Holocaust connection comes from my Dutch Goyim family, not my New York Jewish family. I mean, probably my Nana and Zaide lost relatives, but I don't know who. I've never tried to find out.

I'd like to share the story my mom posted yesterday, in her words, and I'm including a photograph that I dug out of a box of random photos my great-aunts ("the Tantes" as they were known) had sent mom three decades ago. 

Today I have a short but intense story, regarding my aunt in the Netherlands. She was a teacher in Amsterdam who had been assigned to a Jewish school in the Ghetto round 1942*. She worked with the Rabbi to ensure her curriculum was sensitive to Jewish culture (unusual at that time). She loved the children she described as alert and very bright. After many months, she arrived at school at the usual time in the morning, to an empty school yard and a locked school. It was eerily silent. She located the caretaker who informed my aunt that the children were gone. The Nazis rounded them up overnight and put them onto a train. My aunt stood stalk still processing this information. Then, her tears began to flow and continued to flow for the rest of her life. Then and there she decided to join the Dutch Resistance. In her eighties, near the end of life and suffering from dementia, she still remembered those absent children. Her tears would roll silently down her cheeks and she’d keep saying: “I should have done more”. Her name was Ina Hogenkamp and she went on to do much more.

These are her Jewish children, when they were still alive with bright futures ahead of them. 

*It was 1941.

We Return Now to Our Previous Broadcast

It's been almost three years since I last published anything in this blog.  Not that I believe I have any readers, but I feel a bit guilty for neglecting what was shaping up to be a pretty nifty (to me) blog about things museumish in nature. 

What happened?  Everything, just about.

Following the previous post, my personal life took a sudden left turn, mashing me up against the side window, and taking me on a dramatic journey of rediscovery.  In a bid to stop the mad spiral, and find renewed purpose, I applied to the University of Toronto Faculty of Information doctoral studies.  This was not my first attempt to commence a PhD, although it was my first attempt to do it at UofT (my undergraduate alma mater).  Fearing the worst, I decided that if I was not accepted, I would completely change careers and go drive motorcoaches for Greyhound. 

UofT's gain is Greyhound's loss, I suppose.  In March of 2017, I was accepted and so that's where I've been for the last 2 years.  I continue(d) to work and volunteer with community museums and had to learn how to go from thinking at a purely practical level to a theoretical level.  This has been both tremendously challenging and rewarding.  There are many places where museum practice and museum theory intersect, but often the barriers to smooth intersection (such as language, funding, politics, timelines, etc.) are enormous.  Hopefully, when I'm all done, whenever that is, and I have my fancy piece of paper, cap and gown, I'll be in a much better position to intervene in how theory is applied in practice, and how practice can influence theory. 

PhD studies are a very special kind of struggle.  Imposter syndrome and anxiety are rampant among students, young and old, regardless of gender.  Many's the time I have felt baffled by my assignments, undermined by my lack of understanding of what others seemingly grasp with ease, and honestly re-evaluated my life decisions.  It's a slog.  But it's also exciting, eye-opening, satisfying, and I am grateful to have been accepted into the program. 

With that said, I hope to breathe new life into this blog, talk about some of the things I've studied and experienced, as well as just museum talk as before. 

MacAllister "Mac" Johnson

As we passed the Mac Johnson Wildlife area near Brockville, on the way to the family cabin, I thought of my old prof, MacAllister "Mac" Johnson. I wondered if it was the same person. One of the few profs I had at UofT for whom I had a true fondness, I decided to look him up to find out.  Sadly, what I learned was my professor passed away in August this year.

Mac referred to himself as a "dinosaur" because he was a relic of a time when art history was examined through a philosophical lens that married aesthetics and history. He loved that I was utterly unable to separate art from the context in which it occurred.  He, like his own professor, Erwin Panofsky, loved iconography and the meanings behind everything.

He was, I believe, a confirmed bachelor who liked movie dates with Millie, his chihuahua, and once astounded us with the statement that 'The Mummy', starring Brendan Fraser, was an aesthetic and artistic triumph and really "a lot of fun". He made me like  frou-frou 18th century art because he steeped it in the history of its time, the hidden messages, and the technological advances of print making. RIP, Mac, you were poorly understood by your department, thought quite eccentric by many of your students, but I always wished I'd known you better.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_McAllister-Johnson

Thinking About Memory

Memory is a tricky thing.  Few of us have perfect recall, and many of us have deeply flawed memories at the best of time.  Our ability to recall past events changes as we age, and brain injuries, illness, medical intervention, and substances have an impact on how our brain stores and retrieves memories.  I, for instance, am terrible at remembering names and rarely remember small talk.  I often need prompting in social situations, because I remember faces far better than anything else.  (So, if I don't introduce you to someone, it's because I either can't remember your name, or the other person's.)  Yet my early childhood memory is phenomenal, as is my memory of events.  I can remember trivial knowledge, which is great for Quiz night down at the pub, but not so great when I'm trying to remember the little details I need to know for the work I do.  Good thing I keep excellent reference files, eh?

I work with the memories of others.  It's the nature of working with the history of the recent past.  The work I do is heavily infused with oral history and lived experience, but I receive that history second-hand.  For many of the veterans with whom I've worked, the memories of their Second World War are remarkable in their clarity and vividness.  For each and every one I've interviewed, their experience is Truth.  Some will say that they don't remember all the details, some will offer a disclaimer that they "may be wrong, but this is how [they] remember it."  When two veterans recall the same story, they often remember it differently.  Everyone brings their own biases to their experience, too, at the time and again when the event is remembered.  This can significantly alter how something is perceived.  Occasionally, their stories conflict in names, dates, or the sequence of events, but to each, theirs is True.  Yet they can't both be accurate.  Or can they?

How do I, as a curator and historian, parse these divergent oral histories, knowing that our unsteady, inconstant memory makes them potentially unreliable? 

I have been thinking pretty hard about these questions lately. I don't yet have an answer good enough to share, but I am reading about memory and oral history when I have free time. If I am going to progress with that book about Canadians on radar during WWII, I need to figure out how to balance the authority of History with the authenticity of lived experience.