American Culture, Bridget Conn

"New Land Studies (Evening Primrose)"; Silver gelatin cyanolumen prints, thread, turmeric; 13" x 11"; 2024

“New Land Studies (Evening Primrose)”; Silver gelatin cyanolumen print, thread, turmeric; 13″ x 11″; 2024

I was fortunate enough to see one of my favorite comedians, Eddie Izzard, at a show about a week before the election. To the surprise of no one, she did not avoid the subject of the dreaded upcoming American event. She frequently peppered her performance with the encouragement of: “Be curious. Be brave.”

Curiosity has never been a problem for me. Bravery, as of late, may be another question. I have been on a news blackout since November 6, and it’s hard not to envision an actual graphic of my head in the sand when I contemplate that choice.

Over my birthday in late September, I watched firsthand as Hurricane Helene swallowed up life as everyone knew it in Western North Carolina – the first place I ever felt, in my bones, a true sense of geographic home. I spent most of 2024 paralyzed by unexpected financial uncertainty, unable to fully embrace the new life I chose for myself when I left Georgia for Indiana. I spent the last half of 2023 stuck in the muddy waters of relocation, unable to create for months while living life out of boxes.

So as I find myself finally getting my head above water, in the unfortunate moment of November 2024, I’m just not ready to give myself back over to the desperation I felt during his first term. I know it’s a privilege to be able to take this stance. I know there will be a time to fight, and that now is the big deep breath before that time arrives.

In light of the election, writer Rob Brezsny posed a series of questions that I’ve been contemplating in recent days:

How do we cultivate cheerful buoyancy even as we neutralize the bigoted, autocratic poisons that are on the loose?
How can we be both wrathful insurrectionaries and exuberant lovers of life?
How can we stay in a good yet unruly mood as we overthrow the mass hallucinations that are metastasizing?
In the face of the danger, how do we remain intensely dedicated to building beauty and truth and justice and love even as we keep our imaginations wild and hungry and free?
Can our struggle also be a form of play?

These questions justify my instinct that we are going to have to preserve some joy and wonder to fight the darkness that lies ahead. I’m thinking a lot about the fine line between escapism and self-preservation. I’m usually the one drowning herself in the 24-hour news cycle, but I may just be rounding a corner, realizing humans really aren’t wired to take in all that information. And I’m drawing strength from my new environment in order to make these changes.

I made these “New Land Studies” this summer as I explored flowers and plants growing wild across our hills — symbols of my change in lifestyle that no longer requires me to keep a sterile, manicured lawn for the comfort of others. I’m experimenting compositionally, but also technically, as I sew together various brands of photo paper and only partially fix the lumen prints. I’m enjoying how the chemistry dictates the visuals based on the physicality of the sewn paper itself. This physicality reinforces my desire to be more present in moments, doing less in front of a screen, and more in the three-dimensional world.

We will all need to draw our strength from somewhere for the years to come in this country. I feel fortunate to have this land to ground me as I figure out the most appropriate ways to help those who will truly need help. I hope to create a space where I can invite others to be curious, and hopefully also brave.

sunrise

I don’t love that I can blink and a year flies by. But here we are.

A year ago, I had no concept that this small rural town in south central Indiana where I now live even existed, let alone that it would be a geography in which I could feel fulfilled. But here I am.

To say I have a lot of opinions and feelings about the current state of higher education in the United States would be an understatement. I still strongly identify as an educator, but higher education needs a revolution that likely will not come. As university administrators across the nation take notes from the playbook of the dismantling of New College of Florida, everything I’ve understood higher ed to be my whole life is burning to the ground.

I’ve instead become more curious about what can possibly arise from its ashes. As college evolves to become synonymous with “job training”, what new educational models can teach curiosity, critical thinking, playfulness, exploration, and experimentation? What can we call the new “thing” that takes the place of what college once was – a place to safely make mistakes, to attain knowledge that meaningfully impacts the student’s life and the lives of others – and not just teaches them to mold themselves into a particular shape that fits that shape’s hole?

I’m hoping this patch of land across these rolling hills can eventually provide some answers. In the summer of 2022, when my husband’s place of employment suddenly shut its doors without warning, I found myself verbalizing to anyone and everyone the wish for the space we have found here in this unexpectedly beautiful part of the US. Right now I am still in the process of taking it all in – letting our grass go to seed, identifying birds, decompressing from years of watching my work as an educator be slowly and actively dismantled, enjoying a distinct lack of oppressive heat and humidity, and learning to be more present in the moment. My studio and workspaces are coming together slowly and in pieces. It’s another practice in patience, as I realize that my studio in Savannah also took years to build into an efficient space. Patience, indeed.

But there’s a pole barn here that can fit a whole lot of enlargers in it, and a lot of space for visitors to roam.