Art makes society - an introductory visual essay
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Those women have thick bellies The ones dancing their way around the North And the Southern Mountain Desert Drum Nougat Freckle Potato Nose Like mine But nothing about me Is Enveloping enough I’d been plain Janed Long ago And now A percussive Sound And home Feels Like home Feels like Don’t kid yourself You’d do well in heaven You’re not fierce enough for the gypsies A bonfire Spirit Tucked up In a bonnet Eyes Like Vermeer Skin like Paper Hair like Straw No pony No pony I never called my father Daddy He never called me Honey Til now No pony No pony Lost in the Sahara? How ever far you go You continue to live in your own… Giddy up Giddy up In your own… Oh dark is the night! Of knights And donkeys tears Up my thigh Who’s hand? Went up the waist line? No Not the right question Who’s hand Do you remember? In your own... Shit
Introduction: Art is doing,
not viewing!
John Dewey Art as Experience – ethereal things and I
While
sitting, pondering the ideas I might use to write an essay such as ‘Art makes
society’ I organically began collating the words , thoughts and expressions of
artists, makers and thinkers that have come up since the start and maybe just
before I started to study again formally again under the title ‘Art, nature and
Society’ it must be said that the choosing of this course of study triggered
and enabled a new collation of inspiration or a new holder for those whom or
those whose work I ‘like’. Or might it
be said, it was in fact the invisible link that tied things already together.
By way of ‘making things’ for many years now it had occurred to me that in
‘making’ anything I would always have to be ‘losing’ something else or that the
art object would require a sacrifice or even a kind of death to the liveliness
of life, I do not say this as a given but perhaps as a personal and subjective
identification with art as such, or perhaps art just formalised. Why should I
name blog mourning and drawing anyway, I bet you were wondering what that was
all about? Well as I said… putting things down felt like multiple little deaths,
sometimes exquisite kinds of deaths but deaths all the same. Pages of little
white dwarfs stars… and here we are. Through the organisation of this essay a
few notions in particular seem to have arisen to the surface such as
disindentification, withdrawal and most importantly subordination, and yes this
word often comes up in the name of feminism of course but if I may simply here
I am namely talking of the subordination of one thing for another, though I do
not doubt that patriarchy has something to do with those diversions, or
separations. At the opposing end you’ll see a pull towards the experience of
art from intuition, voice, breath, body, atoms, space, leaves. At the end of
this essay we’ll find ourselves in a room full of plants and I get the feeling
you and I might both be pleased to have made a lucky escape, from being put on
a plinth.
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In his text ‘Art as experience’ John Dewey 1934 claims
that ‘in order to understand the meaning of the artistic products, we have to
forget them for a time, to turn aside from them and have recourse to the
ordinary forces and conditions of experience that we do not usually regard as
esthetic’ He uses the example of the Pantheon as well as many others as an
object which has esthetic standing only as the work becomes an experience for
the human being or other such places which hold civic commemoration. He
describes the collective life that was manifested in war, worship, the forum
that knew no division between what was characteristic of these places and
operations, and the arts that brought colour grace and dignity into them. Painting and sculpture were
organically one with architecture, as that was one with social purpose that
building served. Music and song were intimate parts of the rites and ceremonies
in which the meaning of the group life was consummated. Drama was a vital
re-enactment of the legends and history of group life.
“Today most European museums are among other
things memorials of the rise of nationalism and imperialism.” Think too of
Opera houses, galleries and museums those erect shows of wealth and power.”
Towards Dewey’s depiction of the artworks in his
chapter ‘The Live Creature’, he points to common conception; that the work of art is often
identified with the building, book, painting or statue in its existence apart
from human experience and in his words, the very perfection of these
objects, the prestige they possess because of a long history of unquestioned
admiration, creates conventions to get in the way of insight.
Art then is remitted to a separate realm, where
it is cut off from that association with the materials and aims of every other
form of human effort. In his opinion it
is our task then or the task of the curator of art history to restore
continuity between the refined and intensified forms of experience, that are
works of art and the everyday events, doings and sufferings that are
universally recognised to constitute experience.
‘Mountain peaks do not float unsuspended; they
do not even just rest upon the earth’
Automatic art = fine art
John Dewey himself valued the experiential
substance of the arts. Recognising the indistinctness of mind and body, and
their ensuing codependence in artistic activity. ‘Modern taste tends to reckon as higher the
fine arts that reshape material, where the product is enduring instead of
fugitive, in contrast with the limitation of singing dancing and oral storytelling
to immediate audience.
“But the movements of individual body enter all reshapings of material. When
these movements carry over in dealings with physically external matters the
organic push from within an automatic art. They become, in so far, ‘fine’.”
Something of the rhythm of vital or
natural expression, something as it were of dancing and pantomime, must go into
carving, painting, and making statues, planning buildings, and writing stories.
Art as material culture
Cabbages and starfish
Art as action
Carla Lonzi. Out of Art! A tool in thinking against ourselves
Carla Lonzi (Florence, March 6, 1931 – Milan, August 2, 1982) was an Italian art critic and feminist
activist, who is best known as the cofounder of Rivolta Femminile (Feminine
Revolt), an Italian feminist collective formed in 1970. Lonzi’s
critique of art – considered as a sum of institutions, power relations and
forms of sociability – is the basis upon which she developed a feminist
practice of disidentification. Her continuous search for valuable forms of
disobedience against the patriarchal organization of life is based upon the
refusal to comply with the male mechanisms of reputation and success. Lonzi’s desire to establish non-hierarchical relations and communities
explicitly counters the patriarchal emphasis on success and competition.
Lonzi’s withdrawal is thus not merely a stepping aside. Rather, it becomes a challenging project which engages a desire for a transformation in which life,
creativity and self-expression can exist in radically new ways. Lonzi’s
writings from the late 1960s and the early 1970s demonstrate the significance
of her withdrawal from art for her elaboration of a feminist subjectivity.
In Taci, anzi parla subjectivity is sieved by the
practice of feminist consciousness-raising (autocoscienza) is the true protagonist of the book.
The journal is a document of experimentation within relationships and a
recollection of the profound changes that arise from it. Its subject matter is
intangible, since it tries to retrace an amorphous and protean form of life,
one stripped of its professional and social veils, reduced to its pure
potentiality for revolt and freedom.
“Existential nudism,” a desire for
truth at the limit of obscenity
She liquidates professional positions, even political
ones, because they are toxically compromising: anything that
accumulates and shines, like an electric device, must be dismissed. Lonzi’s own
writings don’t exist to prove something or to inscribe themselves in a
pantheon, a genealogy, a constellation. They come from the exploration of the
abyss of solitude and pain, and they seek out the frightening emptiness of
freedom.
‘Deculturation’, - the endless process of breaking the ties binding the subject to a
given, gendered identity.
contestation of the modernist legacy.
The collectives:
In 1970s Italy, women developed collectives that were characterized by a new-found determination to gain full autonomy of expression. Carla Lonzi, Carla Accardi and Serena Castaldi formed Rivolta Femminile (Female Revolt), a radical group that created space for women to question not only their interactions with the world, but most importantly to raise awareness of the self. Many similar feminist groups were formed at that time such as Libreria delle Donne di Milano (Milan Women’s Bookstore), Lotta Femminista (Feminist Struggle) and Anabasi. They proposed alternatives to patriarchy’s oppression of women in all its social relations, including within left political parties, trade unions and social movements.
While these autonomous feminist collectives raised issues of domestic labour and alternative models of collective care, campaigning for a salary for housework, they also explored the different roles of women in sexual relationships. The tactic of self-awareness (autocoscienza) became key and led to a self-determined and self-directed element of social and class struggle. Αutocoscienza was the feminist practice that aimed to reclaim women’s relationships by beginning first and foremost with the self, while also engaging with the complex differences that exist among women. The process of creating collectives became a way to question anew both the construction of the self as an individual subject and the collective meaning of performing common women’s experiences in the public sphere.
Αutocoscienza presupposes
both an abundance of the self and an intimate acceptance of the other through a
collaborative force: it is a feminist tactic of practicing trust. The
collaborative gatherings initiated via autocoscienza indicated relationships in which a
woman entrusted herself to another woman (affidamento) by narrating her personal stories and
private experiences. Through the stories that women were confessing and
revealing to one another, they were also articulating “their own existence and
personal identity” (Cavarero, Relating Narratives, 2000). In this practice of
self-awareness and consciousness-raising, the desire to express oneself, when
shared with others and their experiences, is transformed into a political act
that demands space outside the realms of the private and urges sociocultural
change. Collectives thus created a political space, and at the same time a zone
of trust that was finally able to host and give voice to women’s narratives and
experiences.
‘The artist – she writes in her diary – is far too loaded with myth.’
Lonzi’s most famous test translated to English include ‘Let’s Spit on Hegel’ and ‘We are all Clitoridean Women’
Art creates sites of activity
Dancescapes, drawings & atoms
Anna
Halprin (July 13, 1920 – May 24, 2021) was an American
choreographer and dancer. She helped redefine dance in post-war America and
pioneer the experimental art form known as postmodern dance and referred to herself as a breaker of the rules
of modern dance. Here I wish to focus mainly on her move out of the city together with both
the inward and outwards changes this caused, and this bringing to the field the
notions of the ‘dancescape’ or dancescaping.’
Writing from New York, Halprin confided in
a letter to a friend her hopes about her urge for “wild open spaces”. “I want
to be left alone, live a normal resourceful life with a connection to the soil
and to the common pulse of the ordinary people.” Disenfranchised by the New
York art/ dance seen which she said created ‘a warped kind of dance’ she was eager to regenerate her work from the ground
up.
“I’m only interested in creating out of the soil and the people a healthy fresh dance that is alive and vital."
Moving to the woods of Mount Tamalpais she
soon recognised how her surroundings affected her kinaesthetic awareness. In
this she became aware that as she says ‘it is in our nature to become part of a
bigger nature.’ Turning her artistic practice to the botanical and geological
processes around her, crafting her movement much as a landscaper responds to
the earth. This deeply reconfigured her subsequent use of space and force, task and form, improvisation
and imagery- and
ultimately her sense of self. The focus was on potential and process, yielding
participatory events. Modelled as investigations and empirical problem solving,
exercises led dancers to think on their feet and to work ‘from the bone’. OR as
Dewey had earlier said:
Reshaping outer material through an
“organic push from within”
What the outdoor location enabled was
boundless experimentation with gesture and nature, thereby undoing precepts of
cause and effect, and determine ordinary task as formal structure.
In 1972 Halprin experienced a
life-changing moment when she depicted a tumour in her abdomen. Her survival of
it and its recurrence three years later was entwined with the process of
picturing her illness and overcoming denial and fear by dancing her self-portrait.
Since then she began to incorporate drawing more and more into her practice and
oeuvre both independently and collaboratively.
Dancing
= Drawing
“Drawing
as akin to dancing” is a “cognitive indecipherability manifested in
performance” that is both “tantalize our capacity to deal with wholes and
parts, continuity and discontinuity, synchrony and succession” Alfred bell
Teresa De Keersmaeker describes drawing as
“a way of organizing the space and time” as well as a means of “visualizing its
empty spaces”
“The daily practice of drawing is a kind
of handwriting . The fact that our practice of writing by hand is disappearing
has consequences on our thoughts.”
“Visualizing voids and measuring the earth” Teresa De Keersmaeker
Mary Overlie (January 15, 1946 – June 5, 2020) was an American
choreographer, dancer, theatre artist, professor, author, and the originator of
the Six Viewpoints technique for theatre and dance. Here I focus on an
interview intended for the ‘Schizo-Culture’ issue of Semiotext(e) said to
supposedly be followed by Duchamp’s Musical Sculpture. In describing and
differentiating herself from other big names at the time she follows a line of
movement as relayed and recalled and experienced somatically.
Overlie: The point for me is how the
molecular structure of the body is functioning. I look upon movement not as a
pattern in space and not as a structural pose and not progress across a surface.
The level I think of dance is on is atoms moving in accord with eachother – out
– or they rise and expand. They cause movements. I have an arabesque where
atoms start squeezing at the toe – with transfers of pressure in the body.
What are your
thoughts on narrativity of dance?
Overlie: In manifesting
awareness, I’m telling you a story only about what you see, not boy meets girl.
The audience waits to see what the next step is and hangs on it. They know
they’re taken on your line, but you don’t know what’s going to happen until
after it’s happened.
The question is can
life absorb art?
Overlie: The answer
is yes, and very fast. Contact (improvisation) is self-destructive art.
You mean it doesn’t
leave any trace? Doesn’t produce an object but materialises an idea.
Overlie: So every time it
produces itself there’s no art. It transcends body discipline – opens
incredible pathways with your bones and muscles. It’s forever unpredictable,
forever engaged. Its performance of the level of watching a sunset – because
that’s what you’re watching, you’re watching nature, not an artist…’
I am dealing in connections rather than championing forms. When it works it can become both – life and art. When it doesn’t work it either becomes life, or when it becomes art, it dies from the other end. Form doesn’t work because you start choosing. Therefore I can use everything that exists in the world.
So how can I bring us back? How can I bring these notions back into the notion of ‘art makes society’ well perhaps it is a wish, to explore, to engage to leave behind or self-destruct on the part of the art I have been known to make. It is about an art that is made from the manifestation of awareness to make, grow, produce or inhabit something that takes its place in the bigger whole without damaging or exasperating particular political forces, to reach an end in some way, or not? How about art as a process of renewal without the trace of it needing to be necessary?
Art is participatory
Leiko Ikemura & Valentine on Rabbits, Cosmic
Beings and spaces too domestic
You might be wondering why, in a section called ‘Art is participatory’ I am not showing you dances and groups of people as before, but still things, drawings and sculptures. Well, I do have a reason of course. Here and you may have noticed at the beginning is a drawing by Leiko Ikemura, a postcard I picked up some moth ago at the Whitechapel gallery in London, I’d gone there to see the solo Eileen Agar: Angel of Anarchy which focused on her lesser known collage work, apparently transforming the everyday into the extraordinary. I have plastered this image all over the page to illustrate the relationship I have had with it for the past months, you could say that every time I looked at this image I decided I wanted to make art again, however slender, weedy, lilth, delicate, ghostly, anxious, scarce that was going to be. When I doubted my next steps (I’d spent previous years exploring the Moroccan Mediterranean) I found the post-code as a friendly reminder and when I’d forgotten and I went back to my mums house, there it was. Me. The interaction I’ve had with this drawing has ultimately been back and forth and continues to be an interaction; it is my smallest and noblest example of perhaps not how art makes society, but how makes me. And in the sense of what I will later present in the work of my favourite film maker Chantal Akerman that the change on a micro level is the best way to mess with the shape and form of the macro. This picture made me want to draw, to do automatic drawings, to stroke my dog and to savour the taste of something, maybe life. I wasn’t too interested in her missing arm, it didn’t bother me and I can’t find out information on this drawing, but of course I found out some information about the artist and her world.
Ikemura’s bronze sculpture Usagi Kannon (Rabbit Bodhisattva of Mercy) the takes the form of an anthropomorphised rabbit with a bell-shaped skirt big enough for a person to shelter beneath, it affords visitors refuge under its voluminous metal skirts. Ikemura created Usagi Kannon in response to the Tōhoku earthquake of 2011, which caused a devasting tsunami and triggered the nuclear disaster at the Fukushima Daiichi power plant. Ikemura is described as an artist ‘who seeks out the interconnectivity of all matter, of all life forces, pointing to a world where beings and forms of all kinds are worthy of love and respect.’
Valentine Schlegel
Her sculpted interiors were
too immobile to be displayed in museums, and yet too domestic to be appreciated
as architecture.
Parisian society had little
time for women using media not sanctioned as high art.
This Woman Could Sleep in
Water,
which took place at CAC Brétigny in Paris, reintroduced one of France’s most
spirited and multifaceted artists to the world. The exhibition took its name
from a comment made by one of Schlegel’s fishermen friends, who was in awe of
the sea-loving artist’s ability to nap just about anywhere.
Schlegel was born in 1925 in
Sète, a port city in south-eastern France. Growing up in a family of artisans
informed her relationship to tools and her love of the handmade. After studying
drawing at the fine arts school in Montpellier, she worked for an arts festival
in Avignon where she alternated between roles as a costume designer, props
specialist, set painter and stage manager.
Schlegel worked constantly
with its vernacular materials and toggled between Paris and Sète. Her oeuvre
drew upon her Mediterranean roots and her travels to Greece, Portugal, Spain
and Italy.
After a period of
experimentation, she created a series of ceramic vases using a coil technique,
mostly executed in the 1950s. The gestural contours and fantastical volumes
were inspired by organic outlines of trees and birds, and evoke the
freewheeling, jubilant shapes of Henri Matisse’s paper cut-outs. Schlegel’s
mastery of various crafts enabled her to make a range of everyday objects:
mahogany serving utensils, a stoneware whistle shaped like a bird, painted
terra-cotta figurines, leather gladiator sandals and—arguably her greatest
achievement—sculptural plaster fireplaces.
“A pot is designed to hold
flowers. Without flowers, it’s nothing. To have a life of its own, it must also
be a sculpture”
Schlegel insisted in an interview published in the catalog of one of her Paris
exhibitions that she believed in creating sculptures à vivre:
dynamic objects that possessed their own sense of folklore.
Art as cultural capital - Re-enchanting the familiar and the functional — Les
Lalanne
1.
The most dynamic husband-and-wife duos of the 20th century,
François-Xavier and Claude Lalanne, whose surreal sculptures and exquisite
decorative arts are now more coveted than ever.
2. The 1970s ushered in a renewed
interest in nature and the organic — exemplified by the works of François-Xavier (1927-2008) and Claude Lalanne (1924-2019).
3. Courted by Surrealists and
celebrities alike, their distinctive blend of fine and decorative arts, which
was based on naturalistic forms, has made their work highly prized by
contemporary collectors.
4. When Claude passed away in
April 2019 at the age of 93, French president Emmanuel Macron and his wife, Brigitte,
released a statement of condolences, speaking of how the couple kneaded
together ‘imagination, humour and poetry’ to create works that ‘re-enchant the
familiar and the functional’.
5. François-Xavier’s first
private commission was a sculptural bar for the home
of fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Bergé. at Christie’s in 2009, and
sold for €2,753,000, more than 15 times its low estimate.
6. In 1976 the singer Serge
Gainsbourg named an album after Claude Lalanne’s sculpture L’Homme à
Tête de Chou, or ‘The Man with the Head of a Cabbage’, and placed
it on the front cover of the LP.
7. They rarely collaborated on
individual pieces; François-Xavier’s creations were more often inspired by the
animal kingdom while Claude favoured the botanical. They were, however, united
in their love for historic French craftsmanship, the surreal and the humour
they brought to their fine and decorative art.
8. Both François-Xavier and
Claude Lalanne believed art should be part of the everyday, an idea that shines
through in their sculptural yet functional creations. Even the sheep are
intended to be used as furniture.
9. During their long and
successful career, Les Lalanne became darlings of the fashion world. In
addition to working with Saint Laurent, Claude was commissioned by Hubert de
Givenchy, Karl Lagerfeld, Marc Jacobs, John Galliano and Reed Krakoff, among
others.
10. Yet Les Lalanne refused to conform, and
soon their work was everywhere, from photoshoots in magazines to Paris’s
most fashionable galleries.
11. Their work appears in major
collections including the Cooper Hewitt Museum in New York, the Museé Nationale
d’Art Moderne/Centre Georges Pompidou, and the Museé d’Histoire Naturelle in
Paris.
12. Their legacy continues to
resonate in the fashion world, with pieces being installed in Chanel, Dior and
Tom Ford flagship stores. Collectors include the decorator Peter Marino, who
used François-Xavier’s sculptures in his designs for Chanel’s fine jewellery
shops, and Reed Krakoff, the creative director of Coach.
Art as a medium of exclusion, resistance or
layered meanings, Chantal
Akerman, feminine endings
Whatever
story she was filming, Akerman always let it develop from a distance. For some—
including many of her admirers—it seemed that her lengthy, often static shots
were meant to be grueling or tedious to watch. Eric de Kuyper, the semiotician
who co-wrote Je tu il elle and two of Akerman’s later films, once praised her
movies for the “slow and diffuse boredom” he thought they induced. Her early
films in particular succeed in part because they test our patience and make us
weather their long takes of, for instance, the cleaning of a tub or the making
of a roast. “Never before was the materiality of women’s time in the home
rendered so viscerally,” the scholar B. Ruby Rich wrote about Jeanne Dielman in
1983, when it finally had a theatrical run in New York. Its tempo, she said,
was one “of
endless time, repetitively restoring itself.” Bracing for long scenes of potato peeling or
bathroom scrubbing, many viewers have tended to approach Jeanne Dielman and the
films Akerman made around the same time as if they were unpleasant gauntlets to
run.
In
Chantal Akerman par Chantal Akerman, her self-portrait film from 1997, she compares her
movies to a lean, bony cow that a desperate farmer tries and fails to sell. That line was her
characteristically self-deprecating way of describing an important feature of
her style and politics. What interested her was not the sprawling
indefiniteness of boredom but the nervy tension and clipped rhythms of anxiety. The women in her films pass
through worlds that can’t accommodate them and set them on edge. They end up imprisoned in
suffocating domestic arrangements, like the young woman locked up by her
paranoid boyfriend in La Captive (2000), a loose Proust adaptation; they get
abandoned by men they trusted or reencounter men they used to love (Golden
Eighties); they project independence as well as precariousness, like the two
underage friends who traipse through Paris in the short J’ai faim, j’ai froid
(1984). For the most part they come off as runaways fleeing the cozier, more
settled domestic arrangements that their parents—and, in particular, their
mothers—might have wanted them to inherit.
By
the 1990s Akerman was increasingly inclined to talk about her movies as if they
were tragicomic
Jewish parables. She
took inspiration from Singer and Kafka. “I feel very close to him for many
reasons,” she said about Kafka in 1983. “He always wanted to get a fiancée, and
he never could; finally people like us can’t do it. Another point is that Kafka doesn’t make
pathos.” To not “make
pathos” was perhaps the closest she came to a definite statement about her ethics
as a filmmaker.
She
wanted to play with despair, render it both deeply and with a cutting irony. To
introduce any distorting or melodramatic devices into her movies would entail
ruining that tone and violating the viewer’s trust. She talked about this
prospect as if it were equivalent to breaking a divine commandment, sometimes
the second—“I am fighting against idolatry,” she told two interviewers in 2011—and
sometimes the fifth. Whenever she pictured herself facing down another person
from behind the camera or confronting a viewer through the screen, she thought:
“Thou shalt not kill.”
“When the films are finished it’s as if I’d made
nothing but mist”
“When other people talked about me using my first and
last name I knew that they were talking about a person who for them had made
more than mist but something like an oeuvre. I didn’t want to contradict them,”
she wrote. “So I said nothing.”
But
starting with La Chambre 1 (The Room 1) and Hôtel Monterey (both 1972), space
and time become the subject of Akerman’s films, or are given equal prominence,
due to a range of formal and stylistic techniques. The films eschew close-ups
and shot/reverse-shot sequences in favor of longshot framing and deep focus, in
which most if not all of a person’s body is visible along with much of the
surrounding environment; this forces the viewer to scan the space of the shot
for relevant details of behavior and setting. Symmetrical frame composition,
with the camera placed at the same height perpendicular to the setting, creates
a noticeable rectilinear patterning from shot to shot as well as a high degree
of uniformity, sensitizing one to subtle changes over time. The long take
coupled with dead time produces a feeling of anticipation: The viewer waits for
something significant to happen, and becomes acutely conscious of that waiting.
Whole films are organized around spatial and temporal structures. Akerman’s repeated
pan of her apartment in La Chambre 1 refuses to privilege the filmmaker lying
in bed as it takes in the surrounding space and its contents.
Akerman pushes dedramatization even further than her
cinematic forebears, fully reversing traditional narrative hierarchy and
focusing on microactions.
Potted plants illustrate the perversion of our current social and cultural relations to nature. Aesthetisied as décor and given meaning through the lens of fashion and style. Separated from any local ecology, they are celebrated for their individual physical characteristics, which get homogenised through marketing. There is a violence of separation since plants have intricate and lively systems of communication that largely happen through their roots and mycorrhizal networks. But potted plants are completely dependent on the care of their human “owner”. They cannot grow in search of water and minerals as they would do outside of pots. Furthermore they are completely cut off from any possibilities of communication, community, interaction, or support. The plants become prisoners.
Ghosts
Haunted by, and haunt us with, the absence of their ecosystem.
Vegetal life is ghostly in many ways. A plant sometimes takes hours or days to react to an impulse.
And we have plant blindness
Becoming a ghost and a plant is a cautious and humble attempt at rehearsing different ways of relating in a time and place
Responsibilities are overwhelming
There is no easy way of navigating the haunted world we find ourselves in
Conclusions
So far I have no conclusions
We spend the majority of our
time as adults in ways that fuel the motor of production and consumption.
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