Earlier this year, Colin and I were invited to join a new collaborative called Healing Place. Led by indigenous artists, Healing Place asks how the area surrounding the Mississippi River can be both a source of healing, and a place in need of healing.
That question — which is really many questions woven together, and still forming — intersects all of our work in different ways. Whether we connect primarily with healing as a process, with place, with the river and water, or with all of these elements, the collaborative deepens our understandings and relationships, and furthers the possibilities for creative confluence.
As artists who develop public projects that engage with ecologies of place, our interest in joining Healing Place is to deepen our understanding ofwhere we are and who we are with. This means building our relationships with indigenous artists and other collaborative members, and together, questioning what this place means and what it can become.
We also hope to deepen our understanding of who we are, which means reflecting on our own identities and experiences, and challenging our assumptions about place and the people who inhabit it. How do our foundational understandings of place, and of this place in particular—many of which come from the Euro-centric, capitalist frameworks we have all been steeped in — impact the ways we work and live? What is the value of resisting these assumptions and frameworks, and striving for reorientation?
Over the past few years, Works Progress has developed a number of collaborative public art projects that are rooted in place, or that engage and connect people with the places they live and with particular social or environmental issues. Some people have oriented our work within the broad field of creative placemaking, a term that is now ubiquitous in conversations about public art and community development, though placemaking has been a familiar concept to design and planning professionals for quite awhile.
We’ve always been ambivalent about creative placemaking, and about the role of artists in placemaking projects, especially those projects whose organizing frameworks were not developed by artists or by the people they seek to impact — even if they do engage artists and community members — but were developed by organizations, institutions, and funders to achieve (among other things) their own goals. These frameworks have their own internal logic, and importantly, pre-conceived ideas about what a place is and can become. The assumptions, approaches, and overarching goals that guide these frameworks are not always explicitly stated — but if you listen closely to the language used to name and describe place-based projects, a lot is revealed.
How we understand what a place is — what elements comprise a place, and how those relate to its past, present, and future — really matters. Where (and when) does a place begin? Who tells the stories of that place, and what stories are absent? As artists and designers working in place, how do we imagine our role in relationship to others who are actively involved with shaping what a place becomes? How do we approach power, or build power? How do we resist it?
One of the core partners of Healing Place, dancemaker Emily Johnson, writes:
“I think about place, how it holds us. How the actual, physical ground holds us — and everything we make up. For me, noticing is a start and a constant. I try to notice where I am. And then, there is a rooting that happens, a connecting between where I physically am and everywhere I have ever been. Memories come. New stories are made. I recognize the little bit of ground I am on as specific and unique and connected to every single other bit of ground in the world. Know who you are and who you are with. Or, at the very least, pay attention. To me, this is the most important part of dancemaking and living.” (Silent Story)
This approach to place — beginning slowly, and turning our attention first to where we are, who we are, and who we are with — is something I’ve come to associate with Healing Place, and in particular, with the indigenous artists who are leading our collaborative conversation. From the beginning, this way of engaging place has resonated. It guides the kind of public art and design work I hope that Works Progress can be part of creating in the future.
How can we create public art and design projects that encourage participants to experience place as a sum of relationships — physical, temporal, spiritual — rather than as a mere affect of our built environment, our economic or political systems, or of the ideas, symbolism and creative power of our dominant culture? How can this work be part of a broader healing process that impacts our relationships, our environment, and our ability to respond to the urgent need for social and spatial justice?
One thing our indigenous Healing Place collaborators continue to point out, which distinguishes indigenous understandings of place from Euro-centric approaches: Place is relative, it is relation. Which is another way of saying that it is relationships that matter. We are in relationship — to each other, to place, to power — whether we recognize it or not. Proceeding with that in mind, how can we live and work — as artists, as organizers, as relatives or as neighbors — in ways that embody the ideals and values of healthy and equitable relationships? How can we live in place, and not just make it?
We continue to ask these questions, not as an intellectual exercise, or to be the ones with the right answers. For us (and I imagine for other Healing Place partners) the process of forming and participating in a collaborative is fundamentally about finding our place, together. It’s an active and ongoing process that generates more questions than answers or solutions.
Colin and I are both grateful for the opportunity to learn from and with indigenous artists, scholars, and organizers — because we know that substantive or systemic changes will require different frameworks. And not all of these frameworks will be new, innovative, or attractive to funders. Some of the most important frameworks will be very old, and will come from this place, rather than to it.
This past weekend, at the encouragement of Healing Place partners and to further these questions, I joined a Bdote Field Trip* offered by theMinnesota Humanities Center. This day-long trip was led by indigenous scholars Ethan Neerdaels, Ramona Kitto Stately, and Mona Smith, one of the leaders of Healing Place and the originator of the Bdote Memory Map. This field trip took us to five Bdote sites and introduced us to Dakota stories and perspectives that surround the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota Rivers.
On this field trip, we were encouraged to approach place not only with our heads — thinking about what a place appears to be or what it might mean — but also with our hearts, letting ourselves experience and feel the range of emotions that such an encounter might provoke.
Before we all boarded the bus for the day-long trip, Mona gave us a short introduction to the Bodte memory mapping project. If you haven’t taken the time to look at this map, I highly recommend it. It’s a tremendous resource for anyone interested in place, and particularly those who seek indigenous perspectives on this place and its past, present, and future.
Mona reminded us that although the Bdote map and field trip might look like a series of discrete sites and occurrences across a map, any approach to recording and communicating place this way — dots on a map, fixed names — can never really encapsulate the indigenous way, which is much more fluid, both in space and time. The map is itself a very western construct. The Bdote memory map incorporates interviews with indigenous people, so although it takes the form of a map, it really is a non-linear, narrative project. It is one way to begin a conversation about place from an indigenous perspective.
This fundamental difference in approach to place — the map of territories and events versus the more fluid and relational memory map — is so important to understand, because it illustrates some of the ways that this place has been systematically exploited, and that indigenous places have been overwritten by colonizers, historically and on an ongoing basis.
Place as a resource to be mapped, acquired, named, described, utilized, improved, and sold, is something many of us have internalized as just the way things are. As a result, we continue to inscribe this way of thinking upon the places we inhabit. As artists and designers, we also inscribe this way of thinking upon and through many of the projects we create.
This is an oversimplification, of course — and there are many great examples of projects that directly challenge this paradigm — but it is still something worth considering: How do our tendencies to see place as something external to us, to be mapped and made, influence what we imagine to be our role and responsibility in shaping it? How does our colonial imagination influence our placemaking?
The language we use to describe our place-based projects says a lot about the frameworks and assumptions that underly our thinking. When we name projects or describe the ways we work, what are we really saying — and more importantly, doing — about place? What does it mean when creative assets are mapped by those who also claim the power to define them? When artists and communities are mobilized as a force for change? When underutilized spaces or communities are developed, or when the economic return or commercial success of a project or space is one of the primary ways we measure its value? Who counts in these conceptions and calculations? Who benefits from them?
This is not to say that artistic or community-oriented projects intend the kind violence or displacement we associate with colonialism, but when we rely so heavily upon these frameworks, both for naming and for conceptualizing our processes of engagement with place and the people who inhabit it, it’s hard not to see how this continues the same arc. When we start from here, it’s difficult not to feel limited in our ability to create a true alternative.
To that end, does it matter whether the framework for a project comes from within a community or artistic process, versus when it comes as part of an initiative that a government agency, organization or funder has conceived? To what extent does the support we are able to gather for our projects also define the paradigms we work within?
On the Bdote Field Trip, we spent a lot of time talking about the systematic ways that European colonizers erased (and continue to erase) indigenous people and stories from this place. This has been done by mobilizing the U.S. Military, by stealing land, by creating deceptive treaty agreements and establishing laws that concentrate power with few, and also by naming places and effectively over-writing their histories.
By now, most of us (should) know this story, but the particular ways that it has shaped our experience of place is still surprisingly absent from our conversations about the past, and also about the present and future.
On the Bdote field trip we heard the personal experiences and family stories of indigenous men and women while standing in the very places where so many terrible and important things have happened. It is an encounter with place that has been erased from our collective memory, but not from the land or from the bodies of the people who still live here. Confronting this truth is painful, but necessary. As one of the field trip leaders said, we can’t heal from trauma if we don’t acknowledge that it occurred. If we don’t acknowledge our past, how can we address the ways it continues to influence our present and future?
The Bdote field trip really drove home for me the urgency of healing, and not just for indigenous people. Healing means addressing our varied relationships to this place. It will require an honest reconciliation with the ways this place has (and the ways we have) been shaped by violence and trauma — even the ways we have benefited from it — and what this continues to mean for our lives and relationships.
We can start slowly, and close to home. Language is powerful. So is our ability to use language to shape reality, to pay attention.
How do our ideas and assumptions — about land and property, about the management of natural resources, about the efficacy of personal or political power — influence how we talk about place? And how is this talk part of a longer history of colonialism and displacement? Can we resist these tendencies? What would that mean, in practice?
— Shanai Matteson for Works Progress Studio
*The Minnesota Humanities Center is offering the Bdote Field Trip again on August. You can learn more and sign-up here.