csmonitor--2020-06-09--Home theater: Films that invoke the pleasures of summer

For most moviegoers , summer movies are synonymous with superheroes , monsters , sharks , and aliens .
When I think of summer movies , though , I ’ m more inclined to summon films having something to do with summertime itself – films that invoke the pleasures of sun and fun and romance .
This is something we can all especially find comfort in right now .
Often these movies express a nostalgia for a place or a time , for a first or a rekindled love .
Some are just flat out funny , with nothing more on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I confess I would much rather re-see “ National Lampoon ’ s Vacation ” or “ Caddyshack ” than “ Gladiator ” or “ Mission Impossible III.
” Many acknowledged summer classics are coming-of-age narratives drawing on a fondness for a bygone past .
They hearken back to the thrill of hearing those two hallowed words : “ Schools out !
” Set in small-town Northern California in 1962 , George Lucas ’ s “ American Graffiti ” ( 1973 ) takes place in a single night following high school graduation .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ boatload of young actors , including Richard Dreyfuss , Cindy Williams , Paul Le Mat , Candy Clark , and Harrison Ford .
Looked at today , the movie is not much more than a bright bauble with a great oldies soundtrack , but it captured how scary-thrilling it felt to be a teenager when suddenly adulthood beckoned .
In its own hang loose way , this is what Richard Linklater ’ s “ Dazed and Confused ” ( 1993 ) also expressed for mid-1970 ’ s suburban Texas teens on their last @ @ @ @ @ @ @ note : As a public service , all our coronavirus coverage is free .
No paywall .
Another venerable movie staple is the summer romance .
In its day , “ Dirty Dancing ” ( 1987 ) , with Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze swinging their torsos in the Catskills during an early 1960s family summer vacation , was the “ Citizen Kane ” of the genre for teens and young adults .
On the other hand , if you were the parents of this crowd , you might have harbored a lingering @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” ( 1955 ) , with Katharine Hepburn as a vacationing spinster in Venice , Italy , being romanced by Rosanno Brazzi .
Of course , just about any movie set in Venice is likely to provoke a swoon .
Scenery has redeemed many a movie .
And now , for special commendation , I ’ d like to single out a few disparate summer films .
In Before Sunrise ( 1995 ) , Jesse ( Ethan Hawke ) is on a train en route to Vienna , holding a Eurail Pass and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ America , when he meets Céline ( Julie Delpy ) , a French university student returning to Paris .
He convinces her to disembark with him and they spend the next 12 hours roaming around the city .
They gently flirt , speak soulfully , playfully , tentatively .
A beggar offers to write them a poem .
They kiss on the same Ferris wheel that once lifted aloft Orson Welles and Joseph Cotten in “ The Third Man.
” I don ’ t know of a movie that better expresses the vagabond @ @ @ @ @ @ @ excellent sequels , made in nine year intervals , followed : “ Before Sunset , ” and “ Before Midnight.
” All three were directed by Linklater . )
( Rated R ) “ Breaking Away ” ( 1979 ) is a gentle , sun-dappled summer comedy directed by Peter Yates .
In it , four local working class kids from Bloomington , Indiana , recently out of high school and played by Dennis Christopher , Daniel Stern , Dennis Quaid , and Jackie Earle Haley , attempt to make sense of their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a bicycle racing fanatic who inexplicably develops a passion for all things Italian , renaming Jake , his dog , “ Fellini ” and passing himself off as an exchange student to a pretty sorority girl ( Robyn Douglass ) .
His mother ( Barbara Barrie ) is sympathetic to her son ’ s eccentricities but his father ( Paul Dooley ) is at his wit ’ s end .
And yet what comes through all this exasperation is how much they love each other .
The Oscar-winning screenplay is by Steve Tesich @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who moved with his family to Bloomington when he was 13 .
This likely explains the film ’ s highly observant and affectionate insider/outsider perspective .
( Rated PG ) In “ Monsieur Hulot ’ s Holiday ” ( 1953 ) , the gangly Hulot , played by director Jacques Tati with an askew aplomb that rivals the gracefulness of the great silent film comics , arrives in a ramshackle French seaside resort in search of summer fun .
Tati captures just how strenuous that search can be .
This virtually wordless classic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sequences – like Hulot ’ s hyper-awkward tennis match , or his capsizing in a kayak , or a bit where a foxskin rug attaches itself to his foot – that are so perfectly designed you don ’ t know whether to laugh or gasp .
I did both .
( Unrated ; English subtitles ) These films are available to rent on at least one of these platforms : Amazon Prime Video , YouTube , Google Play , iTunes .

For most moviegoers, summer movies are synonymous with superheroes, monsters, sharks, and aliens. When I think of summer movies, though, I’m more inclined to summon films having something to do with summertime itself – films that invoke the pleasures of sun and fun and romance. This is something we can all especially find comfort in right now. Often these movies express a nostalgia for a place or a time, for a first or a rekindled love. Some are just flat out funny, with nothing more on their minds than the spritz of escapism. I confess I would much rather re-see “National Lampoon’s Vacation” or “Caddyshack” than “Gladiator” or “Mission Impossible III.”
Many acknowledged summer classics are coming-of-age narratives drawing on a fondness for a bygone past. They hearken back to the thrill of hearing those two hallowed words: “Schools out!” Set in small-town Northern California in 1962, George Lucas’s “American Graffiti” (1973) takes place in a single night following high school graduation. It introduced or elevated to stardom a boatload of young actors, including Richard Dreyfuss, Cindy Williams, Paul Le Mat, Candy Clark, and Harrison Ford.
Looked at today, the movie is not much more than a bright bauble with a great oldies soundtrack, but it captured how scary-thrilling it felt to be a teenager when suddenly adulthood beckoned. In its own hang loose way, this is what Richard Linklater’s “Dazed and Confused” (1993) also expressed for mid-1970’s suburban Texas teens on their last day of school.
Why We Wrote This With multiplexes closed, the usual summer blockbusters aren’t available. How to make do instead? Film critic Peter Rainer suggests movies that embrace summertime itself – ones that express a nostalgia for a place or a time, or for a first or a rekindled love.
Editor’s note: As a public service, all our coronavirus coverage is free. No paywall.
Another venerable movie staple is the summer romance. In its day, “Dirty Dancing” (1987), with Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze swinging their torsos in the Catskills during an early 1960s family summer vacation, was the “Citizen Kane” of the genre for teens and young adults. On the other hand, if you were the parents of this crowd, you might have harbored a lingering soft spot for something like “Summertime” (1955), with Katharine Hepburn as a vacationing spinster in Venice, Italy, being romanced by Rosanno Brazzi. Of course, just about any movie set in Venice is likely to provoke a swoon. Scenery has redeemed many a movie.
And now, for special commendation, I’d like to single out a few disparate summer films.
“Before Sunrise”
In Before Sunrise (1995), Jesse (Ethan Hawke) is on a train en route to Vienna, holding a Eurail Pass and an early morning plane ticket back to America, when he meets Céline (Julie Delpy), a French university student returning to Paris. He convinces her to disembark with him and they spend the next 12 hours roaming around the city. They gently flirt, speak soulfully, playfully, tentatively. A beggar offers to write them a poem. They kiss on the same Ferris wheel that once lifted aloft Orson Welles and Joseph Cotten in “The Third Man.” I don’t know of a movie that better expresses the vagabond spirit of summer courtship. (Two excellent sequels, made in nine year intervals, followed: “Before Sunset,” and “Before Midnight.” All three were directed by Linklater.) (Rated R)
“Breaking Away”
“Breaking Away” (1979) is a gentle, sun-dappled summer comedy directed by Peter Yates. In it, four local working class kids from Bloomington, Indiana, recently out of high school and played by Dennis Christopher, Daniel Stern, Dennis Quaid, and Jackie Earle Haley, attempt to make sense of their lives. Christopher is Dave Stohler, a bicycle racing fanatic who inexplicably develops a passion for all things Italian, renaming Jake, his dog, “Fellini” and passing himself off as an exchange student to a pretty sorority girl (Robyn Douglass). His mother (Barbara Barrie) is sympathetic to her son’s eccentricities but his father (Paul Dooley) is at his wit’s end. And yet what comes through all this exasperation is how much they love each other. The Oscar-winning screenplay is by Steve Tesich, a Yugoslavian immigrant and cycle enthusiast who moved with his family to Bloomington when he was 13. This likely explains the film’s highly observant and affectionate insider/outsider perspective. (Rated PG)
Get stories that
empower and uplift daily. By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy Already a subscriber? Log in to hide ads.
“Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday”
In “Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday” (1953), the gangly Hulot, played by director Jacques Tati with an askew aplomb that rivals the gracefulness of the great silent film comics, arrives in a ramshackle French seaside resort in search of summer fun. Tati captures just how strenuous that search can be. This virtually wordless classic, Tati’s best, has sequences – like Hulot’s hyper-awkward tennis match, or his capsizing in a kayak, or a bit where a foxskin rug attaches itself to his foot – that are so perfectly designed you don’t know whether to laugh or gasp. I did both. (Unrated; English subtitles)
These films are available to rent on at least one of these platforms: Amazon Prime Video, YouTube, Google Play, iTunes.


csmonitor--2020-05-25--Opera alfresco: How a Seattle singer shares his gift during COVID-19

“ It ’ s something to offer , and I hope it would inspire people to say , ‘ What do I have to offer ?
, ’ particularly in these strange times , ” says Mr. Wall .
“ It ’ s like a gift , ” says Mr. Wall .
That gift also returns the bounty he ’ s seeing and experiencing himself .
For instance , the Brooklyn landlord of his daughter , an aspiring actress , just forgave her three months ’ rent .
And his singing has brought unexpected healing .
His estranged brother reached @ @ @ @ @ @ @ started almost by accident .
But it ’ s yet one more creative new way for performers to connect people with the arts in Seattle and around the world , at a time when cultural organizations are suffering .
But the stay-home order hasn ’ t meant an end to singing , after all .
Each weekday , Mr. Wall has stepped into his yard , shared a bit of opera history , translation , and humor , and burst into song for an appreciative audience gathered below – safety spaced 6 feet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Stephen Wall had appeared in 99 productions at Seattle Opera .
It ’ s “ mildly driving me crazy , ” says Mr. Wall , a tenor .
“ We baseball fans prefer round numbers.
” Promptly at 5 o ’ clock one sunny afternoon , veteran Seattle Opera singer Stephen Wall steps out onto his raised front lawn – a grassy impromptu stage – drawing a scattering of applause from scores of people gathered along the tree-lined street below .
Neighbors sitting in lawn chairs , parents pushing strollers , dog @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tandem bicycle – all arrange themselves , safely spaced 6 feet apart , and excitedly await the show in the waterfront community of Ballard .
A seaplane flies by overhead , a dog lets out a single yap , and then all falls silent as the portly , gray-bearded Mr. Wall launches into the Verdi aria “ La Donna è Mobile.
” For a few minutes , his soaring voice seems to lift the audience up and away from earthly concerns – like a kite on the wind .
“ It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Wall , a classically trained tenor from Connecticut , who followed his wife Ginna , a nurse , to Seattle in 1979 and made a home here .
“ It ’ s something to offer , and I hope it would inspire people to say , ‘ What do I have to offer ?
, ’ particularly in these strange times.
” Editor ’ s note : As a public service , all our coronavirus coverage is free .
No paywall .
With Seattle Opera and so many arts venues shut down , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sharing their gifts are springing up all around Seattle and indeed , the world .
Amid Seattle ’ s lockdown , a drive-in dance show called “ Cooped Up ” allowed people in cars to watch dances unfolding in yards , porches , and windows .
Arts Corps , an award-winning group , has distributed arts kits to child care centers in low-income neighborhoods .
And many have pivoted to put classes , exhibits , and performances online – from classes by Pacific Northwest Ballet to streamed Shakespeare plays .
They ’ re @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as the region ’ s cultural and science nonprofits suffer , with nearly 5,000 people laid off and revenue losses estimated at more than $ 133 million this fiscal year alone , according to the Seattle-based arts advocacy and grant-making group ArtsFund .
“ There ’ s an incredible amount of resilience and responsiveness by the cultural sector , ” says Sarah Sidman , vice president of strategic initiatives and communications at ArtsFund .
“ We are seeing cultural nonprofits , whose mission is to serve the community , pivoting to make sure @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Mr. Wall ’ s 20-minute performances , held each weekday , began almost by accident in April .
He ’ d been teaching online music lessons all day in a curtained room , and stepped outside for a break .
“ When I finally emerged from my Hobbit hole , I realized it was a beautiful day , ” he says , and set out a speaker to play some jazz standards , thinking no one would mind .
On the contrary , people stopped to listen , or gave him a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a typical Seattle vibe , ” he says .
“ Seattle is a little introverted , but everyone was just ready to interact.
” A few days later , he opted to sing a few numbers himself .
People applauded , and asked for more .
And so , Mr. Wall ’ s mini-performances began , news spreading by word-of-mouth .
Martha Strickland , a teacher , lives one block away and first heard the singing on a walk with her daughter , Ada , and husband , Greg .
The family was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ since , pulling 3-year-old Ada in a red wagon .
On this warm spring day , Mr. Wall ends the Verdi aria with a striking high note .
“ Bravo !
” Ada cries out .
Everyone laughs and claps .
Ada , wearing pink heart sunglasses , enjoys a large lollipop during performances .
“ We ’ ve upgraded to lollipops because she keeps shouting ‘ Mary Had a Little Lamb , ’ ” Ms. Strickland confides .
As more children attend , Mr. Wall has pulled stunts such as his dramatic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bicycle from the side yard .
( “ Figaro also swings in on a rope , which I am not up to , ” he says . )
He donned a lion costume to sing “ If I Were King of the Forest ” from “ The Wizard of Oz.
” Whoever ’ s in the audience , Mr. Wall introduces each song with a bit of history , translation , and a light sense of humor .
“ For today I am picking mostly fairly cheerful songs for obvious reasons , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with opera , eventually you are going to have to get around to something tragic.
” He paints a scene from the 19th-century Italian opera “ Pagliacci , ” when a clown must perform just after learning of his wife ’ s betrayal .
“ Even though your heart is breaking , you must do the show .
Perform !
Laugh , clown , laugh !
” The doleful clown holds special meaning for Mr. Wall , as he explains later , recalling watching his mentor , Richard Knoll , play the role @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in 1971 .
“ That was it for me , ” he says .
“ Seeing him thrill an audience with that – the theatrical catharsis that the people felt that night with that incredibly over-the-top , melodramatic story – I thought , that ’ s pretty cool.
” “ I have been working on that ever since , ” he says wistfully .
“ It ’ s like having a coin collection : You carry it with you the rest of your life , and you just keep enriching the value of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his audience – a family gathered on the balcony next door , a woman relaxing on her porch swing , the lady in a straw hat sitting on the curb lawn with her white dog – Mr. Wall ’ s joy in performing comes through .
“ It ’ s just a beautiful thing , ” says Sofia Zieve , who came from northeast Seattle for the concert .
“ I love that he was able to express himself and do what he loves – it was a two-way street.
” Mr. Wall @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he ’ s seeing and experiencing himself .
For instance , the Brooklyn landlord of his daughter , an aspiring actress , just forgave her three months ’ rent .
And his singing has brought unexpected healing .
His estranged brother reached out from Maine .
“ We have reconciled , ” he says , choking up .
“ You hear these stories , and tell these stories , and you can start crying , ” he says .
“ Am I a wreck ?
No , it ’ s the words coming @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
... You can ’ t even believe your own ears , ” he says .
At Seattle Opera , Mr. Wall has appeared in 99 productions over 39 seasons ( which , he says , “ is mildly driving me crazy ; we baseball fans prefer round numbers ” ) .
He looks forward to the reopening , but for now has carved out a niche in Seattle ’ s “ new normal ” arts scene .
His last song ?
As always , it is “ Nessun Dorma , ” an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Turandot ” that has inspired millions in Italy and around the world in recent weeks , describing the victorious dawn .
Editor ’ s note : As a public service , all our coronavirus coverage is free .
No paywall .

“It’s something to offer, and I hope it would inspire people to say, ‘What do I have to offer?,’ particularly in these strange times,” says Mr. Wall.
“It’s like a gift,” says Mr. Wall. That gift also returns the bounty he’s seeing and experiencing himself. For instance, the Brooklyn landlord of his daughter, an aspiring actress, just forgave her three months’ rent. And his singing has brought unexpected healing. His estranged brother reached out from Maine.
The new tradition started almost by accident. But it’s yet one more creative new way for performers to connect people with the arts in Seattle and around the world, at a time when cultural organizations are suffering.
Picture an unforgettable opera performance. A hall with perfectly engineered acoustics? Elaborate costumes, perhaps? Simply standing in his yard, this tenor is sharing his talent, in an even more moving way.
But the stay-home order hasn’t meant an end to singing, after all. Each weekday, Mr. Wall has stepped into his yard, shared a bit of opera history, translation, and humor, and burst into song for an appreciative audience gathered below – safety spaced 6 feet apart.
Before COVID-19 shut down performances, Stephen Wall had appeared in 99 productions at Seattle Opera. It’s “mildly driving me crazy,” says Mr. Wall, a tenor. “We baseball fans prefer round numbers.”
Promptly at 5 o’clock one sunny afternoon, veteran Seattle Opera singer Stephen Wall steps out onto his raised front lawn – a grassy impromptu stage – drawing a scattering of applause from scores of people gathered along the tree-lined street below.
Neighbors sitting in lawn chairs, parents pushing strollers, dog walkers, and a couple on a tandem bicycle – all arrange themselves, safely spaced 6 feet apart, and excitedly await the show in the waterfront community of Ballard.
A seaplane flies by overhead, a dog lets out a single yap, and then all falls silent as the portly, gray-bearded Mr. Wall launches into the Verdi aria “La Donna è Mobile.” For a few minutes, his soaring voice seems to lift the audience up and away from earthly concerns – like a kite on the wind.
Why We Wrote This Picture an unforgettable opera performance. A hall with perfectly engineered acoustics? Elaborate costumes, perhaps? Simply standing in his yard, this tenor is sharing his talent, in an even more moving way.
“It’s like a gift,” says Mr. Wall, a classically trained tenor from Connecticut, who followed his wife Ginna, a nurse, to Seattle in 1979 and made a home here. “It’s something to offer, and I hope it would inspire people to say, ‘What do I have to offer?,’ particularly in these strange times.”
Editor’s note: As a public service, all our coronavirus coverage is free. No paywall.
With Seattle Opera and so many arts venues shut down, creative new ways for performers to keep sharing their gifts are springing up all around Seattle and indeed, the world.
Amid Seattle’s lockdown, a drive-in dance show called “Cooped Up” allowed people in cars to watch dances unfolding in yards, porches, and windows. Arts Corps, an award-winning group, has distributed arts kits to child care centers in low-income neighborhoods. And many have pivoted to put classes, exhibits, and performances online – from classes by Pacific Northwest Ballet to streamed Shakespeare plays.
They’re keeping people connected with the arts even as the region’s cultural and science nonprofits suffer, with nearly 5,000 people laid off and revenue losses estimated at more than $133 million this fiscal year alone, according to the Seattle-based arts advocacy and grant-making group ArtsFund.
Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor View caption Hide caption Seattle Opera tenor Stephen Wall performs a mini-concert in his yard in Ballard on April 20, 2020. His last song is always “Nessun Dorma,” an uplifting aria from Puccini’s “Turandot” that describes the victorious dawn.
“There’s an incredible amount of resilience and responsiveness by the cultural sector,” says Sarah Sidman, vice president of strategic initiatives and communications at ArtsFund. “We are seeing cultural nonprofits, whose mission is to serve the community, pivoting to make sure access to the arts is not restricted.”
Mr. Wall’s 20-minute performances, held each weekday, began almost by accident in April. He’d been teaching online music lessons all day in a curtained room, and stepped outside for a break.
“When I finally emerged from my Hobbit hole, I realized it was a beautiful day,” he says, and set out a speaker to play some jazz standards, thinking no one would mind.
On the contrary, people stopped to listen, or gave him a thumbs-up. “That’s not a typical Seattle vibe,” he says. “Seattle is a little introverted, but everyone was just ready to interact.”
A few days later, he opted to sing a few numbers himself. People applauded, and asked for more. And so, Mr. Wall’s mini-performances began, news spreading by word-of-mouth.
Martha Strickland, a teacher, lives one block away and first heard the singing on a walk with her daughter, Ada, and husband, Greg. The family was hooked and has returned for every performance since, pulling 3-year-old Ada in a red wagon.
On this warm spring day, Mr. Wall ends the Verdi aria with a striking high note.
“Bravo!” Ada cries out. Everyone laughs and claps.
Ada, wearing pink heart sunglasses, enjoys a large lollipop during performances. “We’ve upgraded to lollipops because she keeps shouting ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’” Ms. Strickland confides.
As more children attend, Mr. Wall has pulled stunts such as his dramatic Figaro entrance: riding out on a bicycle from the side yard. (“Figaro also swings in on a rope, which I am not up to,” he says.) He donned a lion costume to sing “If I Were King of the Forest” from “The Wizard of Oz.”
Whoever’s in the audience, Mr. Wall introduces each song with a bit of history, translation, and a light sense of humor. “For today I am picking mostly fairly cheerful songs for obvious reasons,” he says, “but when dealing with opera, eventually you are going to have to get around to something tragic.”
He paints a scene from the 19th-century Italian opera “Pagliacci,” when a clown must perform just after learning of his wife’s betrayal. “Even though your heart is breaking, you must do the show. Perform! Laugh, clown, laugh!”
Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor View caption Hide caption Martha Strickland, a teacher, with her 3-year-old daughter, Ada, and husband, Greg. They live a block away from Seattle Opera tenor Stephen Wall and have attended many of his front-yard performances.
The doleful clown holds special meaning for Mr. Wall, as he explains later, recalling watching his mentor, Richard Knoll, play the role at Kansas City’s Capri Theater in 1971. “That was it for me,” he says. “Seeing him thrill an audience with that – the theatrical catharsis that the people felt that night with that incredibly over-the-top, melodramatic story – I thought, that’s pretty cool.”
“I have been working on that ever since,” he says wistfully. “It’s like having a coin collection: You carry it with you the rest of your life, and you just keep enriching the value of what it means to you.”
To his audience – a family gathered on the balcony next door, a woman relaxing on her porch swing, the lady in a straw hat sitting on the curb lawn with her white dog – Mr. Wall’s joy in performing comes through.
“It’s just a beautiful thing,” says Sofia Zieve, who came from northeast Seattle for the concert. “I love that he was able to express himself and do what he loves – it was a two-way street.”
Mr. Wall’s gift also returns the bounty he’s seeing and experiencing himself. For instance, the Brooklyn landlord of his daughter, an aspiring actress, just forgave her three months’ rent.
And his singing has brought unexpected healing. His estranged brother reached out from Maine. “We have reconciled,” he says, choking up.
“You hear these stories, and tell these stories, and you can start crying,” he says. “Am I a wreck? No, it’s the words coming out of your mouth are just miraculous. ... You can’t even believe your own ears,” he says.
At Seattle Opera, Mr. Wall has appeared in 99 productions over 39 seasons (which, he says, “is mildly driving me crazy; we baseball fans prefer round numbers”). He looks forward to the reopening, but for now has carved out a niche in Seattle’s “new normal” arts scene.
His last song? As always, it is “Nessun Dorma,” an uplifting aria from Puccini’s “Turandot” that has inspired millions in Italy and around the world in recent weeks, describing the victorious dawn.
Get stories that
empower and uplift daily. By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy Already a subscriber? Log in to hide ads.
“All’alba,” he sings, with arms raised high. “Vincerò! Vincerò! Vincerò!”
Editor’s note: As a public service, all our coronavirus coverage is free. No paywall.


csmonitor--2020-05-20--A books network in Zimbabwe is now a front-line virus response

“ Thats a massive help , ” texts Elvis when I send him yet another coronavirus fact sheet .
“ I going to send this to my folks and kinsmen.
” He adds “ uyilamulile , ” in Ndebele , one of Zimbabwe ’ s 16 languages , and translates : “ You have fought the battle for us.
” I am learning so much .
But I am no longer – for now – sending out books to remote corners of Zimbabwe as I ’ ve done for the last eight or so years .
In 2011 , Monitor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Zimbabwe after a couple of Home Forum essays I wrote mentioned the scarcity of books here .
It wasn ’ t just the scarcity of books , but also the price of them .
They remain far out of reach for all but the best-heeled .
Before Zimbabwe ’ s COVID-19 lockdown began March 31 , the lowest paid teachers at government schools were earning less than $ 250 per month .
If it ’ s a choice between buying food and a new book on that wage , which would you choose @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to me went mainly to established libraries : school libraries , a library at a teaching college , the main Turner Memorial Library in downtown Mutare – the so-called diamond city , named for its proximity to the Marange diamond fields in eastern Zimbabwe .
I sent books to a teacher friend at a school that had seen few new books in a long time , and to a couple who ran evening classes from a garage in a high-density suburb of Harare .
My condition was that recipients had to have asked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ As best I could , I collated requests and passed the books along .
I recorded parcel dispatch dates and reassured senders that I honestly didn ’ t think their packages had been lost , even if months had elapsed .
Amazingly , the parcels of books have almost never gone astray , a testament to Zimpost , the national mail service .
First I ’ d settle the “ reception fee ” at the post office .
Then , through FedEx and an astonishing network of local helpers , including students at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I got the books , magazines , and sometimes crayons and sharpeners to where they were needed most .
In the last three years , I ’ ve worked increasingly with individuals trying to set up mobile library clubs or build up library resources in remote , underserved parts of the country : Tsholotsho , Hwange , Gweru , Chipinge .
That all had to stop in April .
Even though Zimbabwe and much of southern Africa is far behind the West on the COVID-19 curve , it was imperative not to encourage @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mobile library , where a distributor physically brings the books , sometimes in a backpack – to a group of people to share .
Late one night , I discussed with some dedicated project leaders – farmers , parents , administrators , a grad student – how to quickly redirect our efforts , given the coronavirus crisis .
What we decided we wanted most was information about the pandemic to share .
Could I find it , with my faster internet connection in Harare , and share it with them ?
They would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ knew hadn ’ t been reached .
The best way to distribute the information was via text and WhatsApp .
Smartphones are slightly less common in rural areas here .
But almost everyone has an mbudzi , Shona for “ goat , ” a low-tech “ brick ” cellphone capable of sending and receiving text messages , calls , and mobile money transfers .
We patched together what we could find : public health diagrams , comic strips from UNICEF , and information from the World Health Organization and other international agencies .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ well-known Zimbabwe activist based in Britain , Betty Makoni , helpfully did some Shona translations of critical terms in a Sunday newspaper article , scans of which then spiraled throughout the country via the library clubs .
These book lovers and library club leaders are on the ground in Zimbabwe , in touch with grassroots communities , and determined to help .
A couple of them are also using the lockdown to study free online courses at U.S. institutions .
Meanwhile , I have book parcels under my kitchen table , awaiting distribution @ @ @ @ @ @ @ symbol of global solidarity and hope in a post-COVID-19 future .
Books and reading and literacy matter more than they ever did in Zimbabwe .
They just look slightly different now .

“Thats a massive help,” texts Elvis when I send him yet another coronavirus fact sheet. “I going to send this to my folks and kinsmen.” He adds “uyilamulile,” in Ndebele, one of Zimbabwe’s 16 languages, and translates: “You have fought the battle for us.”
I am learning so much. But I am no longer – for now – sending out books to remote corners of Zimbabwe as I’ve done for the last eight or so years.
In 2011, Monitor readers began sending parcels of books to Zimbabwe after a couple of Home Forum essays I wrote mentioned the scarcity of books here. It wasn’t just the scarcity of books, but also the price of them. They remain far out of reach for all but the best-heeled. Before Zimbabwe’s COVID-19 lockdown began March 31, the lowest paid teachers at government schools were earning less than $250 per month. If it’s a choice between buying food and a new book on that wage, which would you choose?
The books that Monitor readers sent to me went mainly to established libraries: school libraries, a library at a teaching college, the main Turner Memorial Library in downtown Mutare – the so-called diamond city, named for its proximity to the Marange diamond fields in eastern Zimbabwe. I sent books to a teacher friend at a school that had seen few new books in a long time, and to a couple who ran evening classes from a garage in a high-density suburb of Harare. My condition was that recipients had to have asked for help with books or magazines. As best I could, I collated requests and passed the books along. I recorded parcel dispatch dates and reassured senders that I honestly didn’t think their packages had been lost, even if months had elapsed. Amazingly, the parcels of books have almost never gone astray, a testament to Zimpost, the national mail service.
First I’d settle the “reception fee” at the post office. Then, through FedEx and an astonishing network of local helpers, including students at the university where I was lecturing, I got the books, magazines, and sometimes crayons and sharpeners to where they were needed most. In the last three years, I’ve worked increasingly with individuals trying to set up mobile library clubs or build up library resources in remote, underserved parts of the country: Tsholotsho, Hwange, Gweru, Chipinge.
That all had to stop in April. Even though Zimbabwe and much of southern Africa is far behind the West on the COVID-19 curve, it was imperative not to encourage nonessential gatherings – such as at a mobile library, where a distributor physically brings the books, sometimes in a backpack – to a group of people to share.
Late one night, I discussed with some dedicated project leaders – farmers, parents, administrators, a grad student – how to quickly redirect our efforts, given the coronavirus crisis. What we decided we wanted most was information about the pandemic to share. Could I find it, with my faster internet connection in Harare, and share it with them? They would in turn distribute it to those they knew hadn’t been reached. The best way to distribute the information was via text and WhatsApp.
Smartphones are slightly less common in rural areas here. But almost everyone has an mbudzi, Shona for “goat,” a low-tech “brick” cellphone capable of sending and receiving text messages, calls, and mobile money transfers.
We patched together what we could find: public health diagrams, comic strips from UNICEF, and information from the World Health Organization and other international agencies. Elvis translated, where necessary. A well-known Zimbabwe activist based in Britain, Betty Makoni, helpfully did some Shona translations of critical terms in a Sunday newspaper article, scans of which then spiraled throughout the country via the library clubs.
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These book lovers and library club leaders are on the ground in Zimbabwe, in touch with grassroots communities, and determined to help. A couple of them are also using the lockdown to study free online courses at U.S. institutions. Meanwhile, I have book parcels under my kitchen table, awaiting distribution. Some have U.S. postmarks, a symbol of global solidarity and hope in a post-COVID-19 future.
Books and reading and literacy matter more than they ever did in Zimbabwe. They just look slightly different now.


csmonitor--2020-05-27--Art in the forbidden zone: Inside the Saudi cultural awakening

Ayman Tayseer is co-founder of the school .
“ You see a veiled mother in her 50s come in to enroll her daughter for classes , but really she is coming to take oud lessons herself !
” he says .
Many Saudis are already flocking to several private music academies .
At the Music Home School of Art , imported instructors have taught hundreds of Riyadh residents , from would-be rappers to older Saudis who missed out on music lessons when they were young .
The move bumps up against religious clerics whose dominance over Saudi society was undisputed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ marginalized by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman , who , as part of his plan to transform the country and its economy , seeks to create an entertainment industry , introduce art and music in schools , and nurture homegrown talent .
Over the past year , however , Saudi Arabia has been trying to change this perception as the leadership reverses a decades-old ban on cultural outlets and attempts to open up the kingdom to art , music , cinema , and theater .
When Westerners hear “ Saudi Arabia , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ oil , and more recently , the reckless politics of its crown prince .
Music and arts probably lie at the bottom of the list , if they make it at all .
“ I said , I want some pandemonium !
” Lionel Richie is yelling as he stalks up and down the stage deep in the Saudi desert .
Hundreds of robed men and women timidly sway side to side in their plush white leather chairs .
A few clap to the beat .
Like a sequined maestro desperately trying to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mr. Richie waves , points , claps , stomps , howls , and jokes – abruptly stopping several times during performing his 1980s funk songs to coach his audience how to ... groove .
At times it was as if the American artist was talking them through their worst fears , reassuring everyone : It ’ ll be OK. No one will judge you .
Go ahead and move .
Do something .
On the fourth song , one woman takes the plunge .
She runs down the steps of the venue , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the stage , both arms raised in the air .
A second woman quickly follows .
Two friends rush from their seats in the wings .
Five others join in .
By the time Mr. Richie gets to “ Brick House , ” a hit from his time with the Commodores in the 1970s , a third of the audience is up by the stage , twisting , turning , gyrating , singing in unison “ She ’ s a brick house !
” “ She is mighty-mighty !
” Inhibitions gone , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ loose , as if four decades of restrictions and foreboding have just been broken .
At the end of his headlining performance at the Winter at Tantora festival in late February in the Saudi desert , Mr. Richie , drenched in sweat and wearing a satisfied grin , sums up the night in a single sentence : “ Things here will never be the same again.
” When Westerners hear “ Saudi Arabia , ” many may think of conservative Islam , oil , and more recently , the reckless politics of its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lie at the bottom of the list , if they make it at all .
Yet over the past year , Saudi Arabia has been trying to change this perception both at home and abroad by parachuting in big names : Mr. Richie , Enrique Iglesias , Andrea Bocelli .
While these high-profile acts in a glitzy mirrored concert hall in the desert may capture headlines and Instagram feeds , they are just one small part of sweeping changes underway in Saudi Arabia as the leadership reverses a decades-old ban on cultural outlets @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to art , music , cinema , and theater .
The move bumps up against the religious clerics , whose ultra-Orthodox interpretation of Islam prohibits live music , theater , and movies as “ anti-Islamic ” and whose dominance over Saudi society was undisputed for decades .
But over the past two years , these clerics have been marginalized and intimidated by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman , who , as part of his ambitious plan to transform the country and its economy , seeks to create an entertainment industry , introduce art @ @ @ @ @ @ @ homegrown talent .
While the new openness has been temporarily slowed by COVID-19 , analysts expect it to pick up again as soon as social distancing eases and schools reopen .
Officials here say the sweeping changes are designed to bring the kingdom into the 21st century and are a response to the demands of hundreds of thousands of Saudis who have studied in the West .
Critics remain skeptical , claiming that the polarizing Crown Prince Mohammed is attempting to whitewash his image , tainted by the killing of Washington Post journalist @ @ @ @ @ @ @ human rights activists at home .
Others chalk up the change to economic concerns .
They claim as the drop in oil revenues and a costly war in Yemen force the Saudi government to end cradle-to-grave welfare and impose taxes , it is looking for a distraction – less bread and more circus .
No matter what the motivations , many Saudis say these dramatic cultural changes are real and undeniable – with implications for society for generations to come .
For four decades , live music in Saudi Arabia was not just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feared mutawa , or vice police , patrolled the streets and arrested people for not being in the mosque during prayers , for being in mixed groups of men and women , and for improper dress .
The authorities made music their business .
They would shut down private concerts , raid music lessons , and confiscate keyboards and speakers .
“ If the police saw you carrying an oud or guitar , they would snatch it and could smash it right in front of you , ” says Khaled Abdulrahim , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Art , a music club that promotes Saudi musical heritage .
Mr. Abdulrahim is carrying his oud , a pear-shaped lutelike instrument , up the stairs to a friend ’ s office in a Riyadh tower for a lunch-break music session .
He stops every few minutes and looks over his shoulder ; he still can ’ t shake that feeling of someone lurking .
“ If you were going to play at a friend ’ s house , you would have to wrap your oud in a blanket and hide it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It was contraband , like a drug , ” he says .
It may be hard to imagine today , but Saudi Arabia was once rife with music and local artists .
Each region and town had its own folk songs with particular beats , instruments , and scales .
Women would sing on TV , and music was common at weddings and festivals .
Music nights were even held in Mecca and Medina .
Everything changed in 1979 .
Local extremists seized the Grand Mosque of Mecca , taking hostages and accusing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its Islamic roots by inviting in Western culture .
A deadly two-week siege and battle at Islam ’ s holiest site shook the nation , occurring months after Shiite clerics led a revolution in Iran .
Sensing a sudden shift toward Islamicism and a potent mix of pulpit and politics , the Saudi royal family decided to shift to the right , pushing its own ultraconservative school of Wahhabi Islam to compete with Iran ’ s fiery , revolutionary interpretation of the faith .
Culture and art at home were the first sacrifices @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mixing were banned .
Mr. Abdulrahim , like many Saudi men and women who grew up between 1980 and 2010 , learned to play the oud , an instrument common in Gulf folk music , quietly through friends .
But today the religious police are gone .
Music can be heard in the streets .
Few have experienced this rapid transformation more profoundly than Fawaz Al-Shawaf , the frontman for the underground Saudi heavy metal band Creative Waste – underground , that is , until 2019 .
Mr. Al-Shawaf is sitting in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s Eastern Province .
He has a thin frame and a mild-mannered demeanor that betrays the manic energy and full-throated growls he brought to the stage for years in defiance of the religious police .
In the mid-2000s , Mr. Al-Shawaf and Creative Waste performed at private gatherings and foreign-worker compounds in the oil-rich Eastern Province , away from the mutawa ’ s reach .
Mr. Al-Shawaf developed a love for heavy metal while living in the United States for two years with his father , who was working in Virginia .
He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with friends in his garage after he returned to Saudi Arabia .
In 2004 , Creative Waste was born .
“ We had no teacher , we had no YouTube , we didn ’ t even know how to tune a guitar , ” Mr. Al-Shawaf says .
“ At first , it was horrible.
” Success soon followed , though .
It began with local crowds of a few dozen .
Then , in 2005 , the band produced its first CD and performed a live concert in neighboring Bahrain .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Eastern Province quickly became home to a burgeoning heavy metal scene .
But in 2009 , the movement ran into a religious wall .
A few bold promoters decided to replicate Creative Waste ’ s success with heavy metal music at a compound in the more conservative Riyadh – the heart of the religious establishment .
It ended in disaster : a police raid , a media smear campaign accusing the bands of devil worship , arrests , a deportation , and jail time .
The ensuing crackdown on the underground heavy metal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to play abroad , touring in the U.S. and Europe .
Now in 2020 , Mr. Al-Shawaf has come full circle – from fugitive musician to state guest of honor , invited to perform at state-organized festivals .
In October 2019 , Creative Waste did what many thought was impossible : play a public gig at a cafe .
“ My mother had never seen us perform live , ” Mr. Al-Shawaf says .
“ After seeing us live for the first time , she ‘ got ’ our music.
” Dozens of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through a cavernous copper entrance .
They whisper to each other as they splinter off to look at different exhibits – photos of refugees , a 1,000-year-old gold-gilded Quran , a display about humanity ’ s reliance on mobile phones .
Here at the King Abdulaziz World Center for World Culture , an institution funded by oil giant ARAMCO in eastern Saudi Arabia has emerged as an anchor in the kingdom ’ s cultural renaissance .
In futuristic curved buildings rising from the sands of Dhahran , the center , also known as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ audiences to the performing arts and cinema , grooming a generation of domestic artists and inventors along the way .
Opened in 2017 , it includes the first museum , cinema , theater , and art gallery of its kind in the country .
When it solicited works from local artists in 2019 , Ithra received more than 600 submissions and is now grooming several contemporary artists , from painters to sculptors .
Art has gone from taboo to trendy , suddenly in demand by princes , the government , and corporations , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Saudi artists to produce works for their marble-floored offices .
Observers say there is no better place to be an artist right now – commercially , at least – than in Saudi Arabia .
Painters and sculptors who have flourished for years in cultural exile abroad are flocking home .
“ If an artist in Europe becomes noticed within five to six years , that is considered rapid recognition , ” says Candida Pestana , curator of contemporary art at Ithra .
“ Here in Saudi , that would happen in a single @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coming to Saudi cities , displaying works from surrealists to the more contemporary , and surprisingly , political .
At the base of a sleek glass building in the heart of Riyadh ’ s financial district , dozens of Saudis mill through an exhibition of replicas of the last artist one would expect to see in the country : Banksy , a British graffiti artist .
They scan Arabic and English explainers of the anonymous painter ’ s protest works on social inequality , mass consumerism , and injustice .
Young women take @ @ @ @ @ @ @ masked Banksy spray-painting on a street wall .
Such an exhibit , held without Banksy ’ s consent , may seem tame to museumgoers in Europe or the U.S .
But it is an edgy – even dangerous – choice for a kingdom where the leadership has locked up human rights activists and lashed bloggers , and censors the media .
“ Where is the art he did for the Palestinians ?
” asks Mohammed Al Saud as he enters the exhibition with his wife , Nour .
A volunteer points him to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hole in the wall , ” a porthole revealing a Bahamas-blue ocean and an idyllic island painted on the gray concrete separation barrier rising on the West Bank .
Mr. Al Saud stops at a re-creation of Banksy ’ s 2015 work “ Son of a Migrant From Syria , ” featuring Steve Jobs carrying a sack over his left shoulder and an Apple IIe in his right hand , which was originally painted in the Calais migrant encampment in France .
“ What is this trying to say , that Steve Jobs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Al Saud asks a volunteer .
“ No , it is about migrants , ” interrupts a Saudi woman .
“ Steve Jobs is of Syrian origin .
It means refugees and migrants can contribute and excel , just like Jobs.
” Mr. Al Saud nods silently , impressed .
He steps closer to the painting and motions with his hand to his veiled wife , now lingering over a photo on the opposite wall .
The two peer at the caption .
“ Mashallah , my God , isn ’ t that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wife .
“ Each graffiti has a larger message.
” Ms. Al Saud nods .
“ I didn ’ t know art could be political.
” Yet the question lingers : How do you bring arts and music to a nation that for decades has been told they are immoral ?
That task falls in part to former concert violinist Gehad al-Khaldi .
In February , Ms. al-Khaldi was appointed chief executive officer of the Music Commission , one of 12 bodies formed by the Ministry of Culture to regulate and promote everything @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Culture , we are planning to have music for all , ” Ms. al-Khaldi says via a videoconference call .
“ By ‘ music for all , ’ I mean we will introduce a music education platform for everyone , at all ages.
” The nascent commission is working with the Ministry of Education and Saudi universities to develop music education courses for children , secondary schools , and universities .
The challenges are steep .
Due to the decades-old music ban , there are no Saudi music teachers , and the government @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of qualified people in a few short years to serve 30,000 schools spread out across a country six times the size of Germany .
But the top priority is to introduce music and the arts at an early age to boost creative thinking .
Behind the drive is the desire to produce a generation of Saudis who are well rounded and can think outside the box , not just be comfortable in government-backed jobs , as the country eventually transitions to a post-oil society .
“ Music can enhance the way of thinking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ms. al-Khaldi says .
“ This is why music is important , not just for society in Saudi Arabia , but for all human beings.
” Even though COVID-19 has forced the closure of the kingdom ’ s schools , the Music Commission is pushing ahead to develop an intensive one-year course for education majors , music advocacy campaigns for wider Saudi society , and an academy and conservatory to nurture local talent .
Many Saudis are already flocking to several private music academies that have popped up over the past year .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ School of Art , which opened in a tower in central Riyadh late last year .
On a Thursday night in early March , a young woman practices guitar chords with her instructor in one room .
In another , a father encourages his two young daughters at the piano .
The institute is the creation of local artists and Ayman Tayseer , former dean of the University of Jordan School of Arts and Design , who saw an opportunity in Saudi Arabia ’ s new embrace of culture .
In a few @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tunisia , Egypt , and Ukraine have taught hundreds of Riyadh residents ranging from would-be rappers to older Saudis who missed out on music lessons when they were young .
“ You see a veiled mother in her 50s come in to enroll her daughter for classes , but really she is coming to take oud lessons herself !
” Mr. Tayseer says with a laugh .
Saudi music lovers face concerns few would consider .
Women who wear the full-face niqab want to sing but refuse to lift the veil that muffles @ @ @ @ @ @ @ struggling to learn how to read sheet music .
“ There is a large amount of hunger and talent , ” Mr. Tayseer says .
“ But many have never even seen a live music performance before , so this is all very new.
” The highlight tonight is the open mic .
Dozens of young Saudis gather at the institute ’ s airy studio , with a view of the Riyadh skyline , for a chance to strum their latest song on the oud or just belt out Beyoncé .
“ Before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ourselves .
Now all of a sudden it is everywhere , ” says Abdullah Mohammed , a self-taught cellist warming up on the side .
“ It is as if we are catching up on decades of lost time in a single year.
” More than just a creative outlet , music is offering a sense of community in a society that has long been governed by “ thou shalt not ” in a conservative city where houses are fenced in by high concrete walls .
But even amid the camaraderie , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of intimidation .
Women , and some men , shout “ no photos , everyone !
” before they walk onstage , to protect against images showing up on the internet .
Women sit toward the back of the room to avoid being seen by others as they sway to the beat .
The last hurdle in Saudi Arabia ’ s embrace of arts and music may be from within : the fear of being judged for having a good time .
Yet there is still plenty of criticism of the kingdom ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and abroad .
Some believe Crown Prince Mohammed is simply focusing on social liberalization to placate demands for opening from the West rather than tackling true political reform in the tightly ruled kingdom .
“ Keeping the public busy with concerts and festivals is not the answer , ” says Oraib Rantawi , geopolitical analyst and director of the Amman-based Al Quds Center for Political Studies .
“ Sidelining the religious establishment and cultural openings are small , positive steps , but the major reform needs are the social contract itself and true @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are simply buying time , ” he says of the crown prince .
While liberal social reforms may seem low-risk with the ruling family ’ s iron grip on power , they do alienate a conservative establishment and segments of society in cities and rural areas whose identities are intertwined with traditional practices .
Quiet criticism emerges in some such pockets of society that reject the changes on cultural and religious grounds .
“ There shouldn ’ t be songs and live music , ” says Abu Mohammed , a resident of Al @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tantora festival .
“ We accept tourism , we accept the arts , but Western concerts come with drinking , mixing of men and women , and promiscuity .
That just isn ’ t our culture.
” One reason there hasn ’ t been more pushback from conservatives is the sheer speed with which the changes are taking place .
“ Before you have time to react to cinemas being built , there are concerts .
Before you can react to the concerts , women can drive and go to sporting events , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ engineer .
“ You never have time to keep up , let alone organize popular objection to it .
Our heads are still spinning.
” Still , even if a backlash were to develop , analysts believe the new arts movement is now established enough to remain for the foreseeable future .
As Ms. al-Khaldi , the Music Commission CEO , puts it : “ Life without music is a mistake .
”

Ayman Tayseer is co-founder of the school. “You see a veiled mother in her 50s come in to enroll her daughter for classes, but really she is coming to take oud lessons herself!” he says.
Many Saudis are already flocking to several private music academies. At the Music Home School of Art, imported instructors have taught hundreds of Riyadh residents, from would-be rappers to older Saudis who missed out on music lessons when they were young.
The move bumps up against religious clerics whose dominance over Saudi society was undisputed for decades. But they have been marginalized by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, who, as part of his plan to transform the country and its economy, seeks to create an entertainment industry, introduce art and music in schools, and nurture homegrown talent.
Behind the Saudi government’s encouragement of arts and culture that have long been taboo is the desire to create a more well-rounded citizenry. It wants the next generation to be more innovative as the country transitions to a post-oil society.
Over the past year, however, Saudi Arabia has been trying to change this perception as the leadership reverses a decades-old ban on cultural outlets and attempts to open up the kingdom to art, music, cinema, and theater.
When Westerners hear “Saudi Arabia,” many may think of conservative Islam, oil, and more recently, the reckless politics of its crown prince. Music and arts probably lie at the bottom of the list, if they make it at all.
“I said, I want some pandemonium!”
Lionel Richie is yelling as he stalks up and down the stage deep in the Saudi desert.
Hundreds of robed men and women timidly sway side to side in their plush white leather chairs. A few clap to the beat. Like a sequined maestro desperately trying to wrench notes from a somnolent orchestra, Mr. Richie waves, points, claps, stomps, howls, and jokes – abruptly stopping several times during performing his 1980s funk songs to coach his audience how to ... groove. At times it was as if the American artist was talking them through their worst fears, reassuring everyone: It’ll be OK. No one will judge you. Go ahead and move. Do something.
Why We Wrote This Behind the Saudi government’s encouragement of arts and culture that have long been taboo is the desire to create a more well-rounded citizenry. It wants the next generation to be more innovative as the country transitions to a post-oil society.
On the fourth song, one woman takes the plunge. She runs down the steps of the venue, right up to the orchestra pit by the stage, both arms raised in the air. A second woman quickly follows. Two friends rush from their seats in the wings. Five others join in.
By the time Mr. Richie gets to “Brick House,” a hit from his time with the Commodores in the 1970s, a third of the audience is up by the stage, twisting, turning, gyrating, singing in unison “She’s a brick house!” “She is mighty-mighty!”
Inhibitions gone, social norms jettisoned, Saudis are letting loose, as if four decades of restrictions and foreboding have just been broken. At the end of his headlining performance at the Winter at Tantora festival in late February in the Saudi desert, Mr. Richie, drenched in sweat and wearing a satisfied grin, sums up the night in a single sentence: “Things here will never be the same again.”
When Westerners hear “Saudi Arabia,” many may think of conservative Islam, oil, and more recently, the reckless politics of its crown prince. Music and arts probably lie at the bottom of the list, if they make it at all.
Yet over the past year, Saudi Arabia has been trying to change this perception both at home and abroad by parachuting in big names: Mr. Richie, Enrique Iglesias, Andrea Bocelli. While these high-profile acts in a glitzy mirrored concert hall in the desert may capture headlines and Instagram feeds, they are just one small part of sweeping changes underway in Saudi Arabia as the leadership reverses a decades-old ban on cultural outlets and attempts to open up the kingdom to art, music, cinema, and theater.
The move bumps up against the religious clerics, whose ultra-Orthodox interpretation of Islam prohibits live music, theater, and movies as “anti-Islamic” and whose dominance over Saudi society was undisputed for decades.
But over the past two years, these clerics have been marginalized and intimidated by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, who, as part of his ambitious plan to transform the country and its economy, seeks to create an entertainment industry, introduce art and music in schools, and nurture homegrown talent.
Courtesy of The Royal Commission for Al-Ula View caption Hide caption “Things here will never be the same again.” – Lionel Richie, the American R&B star of the 1970s and ‘80s (center left) during a performance in Saudi Arabia in late February, summing up changes sweeping the kingdom
While the new openness has been temporarily slowed by COVID-19, analysts expect it to pick up again as soon as social distancing eases and schools reopen. Officials here say the sweeping changes are designed to bring the kingdom into the 21st century and are a response to the demands of hundreds of thousands of Saudis who have studied in the West. Critics remain skeptical, claiming that the polarizing Crown Prince Mohammed is attempting to whitewash his image, tainted by the killing of Washington Post journalist Jamal Khashoggi abroad and the jailing of human rights activists at home. Others chalk up the change to economic concerns. They claim as the drop in oil revenues and a costly war in Yemen force the Saudi government to end cradle-to-grave welfare and impose taxes, it is looking for a distraction – less bread and more circus.
No matter what the motivations, many Saudis say these dramatic cultural changes are real and undeniable – with implications for society for generations to come.
A musical past
For four decades, live music in Saudi Arabia was not just banned; it was policed. The feared mutawa, or vice police, patrolled the streets and arrested people for not being in the mosque during prayers, for being in mixed groups of men and women, and for improper dress. The authorities made music their business. They would shut down private concerts, raid music lessons, and confiscate keyboards and speakers.
“If the police saw you carrying an oud or guitar, they would snatch it and could smash it right in front of you,” says Khaled Abdulrahim, a musician and head of the Riyadh Lounge of Art, a music club that promotes Saudi musical heritage.
Mr. Abdulrahim is carrying his oud, a pear-shaped lutelike instrument, up the stairs to a friend’s office in a Riyadh tower for a lunch-break music session. He stops every few minutes and looks over his shoulder; he still can’t shake that feeling of someone lurking.
“If you were going to play at a friend’s house, you would have to wrap your oud in a blanket and hide it in the trunk of your car. It was contraband, like a drug,” he says.
It may be hard to imagine today, but Saudi Arabia was once rife with music and local artists. Each region and town had its own folk songs with particular beats, instruments, and scales. Women would sing on TV, and music was common at weddings and festivals. Music nights were even held in Mecca and Medina.
Everything changed in 1979. Local extremists seized the Grand Mosque of Mecca, taking hostages and accusing the House of Saud of straying from its Islamic roots by inviting in Western culture. A deadly two-week siege and battle at Islam’s holiest site shook the nation, occurring months after Shiite clerics led a revolution in Iran. Sensing a sudden shift toward Islamicism and a potent mix of pulpit and politics, the Saudi royal family decided to shift to the right, pushing its own ultraconservative school of Wahhabi Islam to compete with Iran’s fiery, revolutionary interpretation of the faith.
Culture and art at home were the first sacrifices. Music, cinema, and gender mixing were banned. Mr. Abdulrahim, like many Saudi men and women who grew up between 1980 and 2010, learned to play the oud, an instrument common in Gulf folk music, quietly through friends. But today the religious police are gone. Music can be heard in the streets.
Heavy metal
Few have experienced this rapid transformation more profoundly than Fawaz Al-Shawaf, the frontman for the underground Saudi heavy metal band Creative Waste – underground, that is, until 2019.
Mr. Al-Shawaf is sitting in a cafe in Dhahran in Saudi Arabia’s Eastern Province. He has a thin frame and a mild-mannered demeanor that betrays the manic energy and full-throated growls he brought to the stage for years in defiance of the religious police. In the mid-2000s, Mr. Al-Shawaf and Creative Waste performed at private gatherings and foreign-worker compounds in the oil-rich Eastern Province, away from the mutawa’s reach.
Mr. Al-Shawaf developed a love for heavy metal while living in the United States for two years with his father, who was working in Virginia. He decided to form a heavy metal band with friends in his garage after he returned to Saudi Arabia. In 2004, Creative Waste was born.
“We had no teacher, we had no YouTube, we didn’t even know how to tune a guitar,” Mr. Al-Shawaf says. “At first, it was horrible.”
Taylor Luck View caption Hide caption An Emirati artist created a sculpture of a rockfall, called Falling Stones Garden, at an exhibition earlier this year in Al Ula, Saudi Arabia.
Success soon followed, though. It began with local crowds of a few dozen. Then, in 2005, the band produced its first CD and performed a live concert in neighboring Bahrain. The group was setting a trend: The Eastern Province quickly became home to a burgeoning heavy metal scene.
But in 2009, the movement ran into a religious wall. A few bold promoters decided to replicate Creative Waste’s success with heavy metal music at a compound in the more conservative Riyadh – the heart of the religious establishment.
It ended in disaster: a police raid, a media smear campaign accusing the bands of devil worship, arrests, a deportation, and jail time. The ensuing crackdown on the underground heavy metal scene forced Mr. Al-Shawaf and Creative Waste to play abroad, touring in the U.S. and Europe.
Now in 2020, Mr. Al-Shawaf has come full circle – from fugitive musician to state guest of honor, invited to perform at state-organized festivals. In October 2019, Creative Waste did what many thought was impossible: play a public gig at a cafe.
“My mother had never seen us perform live,” Mr. Al-Shawaf says. “After seeing us live for the first time, she ‘got’ our music.”
From taboo to trendy
Dozens of Saudi schoolgirls draped in black abayas wander through a cavernous copper entrance. They whisper to each other as they splinter off to look at different exhibits – photos of refugees, a 1,000-year-old gold-gilded Quran, a display about humanity’s reliance on mobile phones.
Here at the King Abdulaziz World Center for World Culture, an institution funded by oil giant ARAMCO in eastern Saudi Arabia has emerged as an anchor in the kingdom’s cultural renaissance. In futuristic curved buildings rising from the sands of Dhahran, the center, also known as Ithra, is working to introduce Saudi audiences to the performing arts and cinema, grooming a generation of domestic artists and inventors along the way.
Opened in 2017, it includes the first museum, cinema, theater, and art gallery of its kind in the country. When it solicited works from local artists in 2019, Ithra received more than 600 submissions and is now grooming several contemporary artists, from painters to sculptors.
Art has gone from taboo to trendy, suddenly in demand by princes, the government, and corporations, many of which are rushing to commission Saudi artists to produce works for their marble-floored offices. Observers say there is no better place to be an artist right now – commercially, at least – than in Saudi Arabia. Painters and sculptors who have flourished for years in cultural exile abroad are flocking home.
“If an artist in Europe becomes noticed within five to six years, that is considered rapid recognition,” says Candida Pestana, curator of contemporary art at Ithra. “Here in Saudi, that would happen in a single year.”
Meanwhile, international exhibitions are coming to Saudi cities, displaying works from surrealists to the more contemporary, and surprisingly, political. At the base of a sleek glass building in the heart of Riyadh’s financial district, dozens of Saudis mill through an exhibition of replicas of the last artist one would expect to see in the country: Banksy, a British graffiti artist.
Taylor Luck View caption Hide caption Saudi visitors mill around the social protest works of Banksy, an anonymous British graffiti artist, at an exhibition in Riyadh that not long ago would have been scandalous – even dangerous – to stage in the religiously conservative country.
They scan Arabic and English explainers of the anonymous painter’s protest works on social inequality, mass consumerism, and injustice. Young women take videos of a live reenactment of a masked Banksy spray-painting on a street wall. Such an exhibit, held without Banksy’s consent, may seem tame to museumgoers in Europe or the U.S. But it is an edgy – even dangerous – choice for a kingdom where the leadership has locked up human rights activists and lashed bloggers, and censors the media.
“Where is the art he did for the Palestinians?” asks Mohammed Al Saud as he enters the exhibition with his wife, Nour.
A volunteer points him to a photo of Banksy’s “hole in the wall,” a porthole revealing a Bahamas-blue ocean and an idyllic island painted on the gray concrete separation barrier rising on the West Bank. Mr. Al Saud stops at a re-creation of Banksy’s 2015 work “Son of a Migrant From Syria,” featuring Steve Jobs carrying a sack over his left shoulder and an Apple IIe in his right hand, which was originally painted in the Calais migrant encampment in France.
“What is this trying to say, that Steve Jobs and businessmen are thieves?” Mr. Al Saud asks a volunteer.
“No, it is about migrants,” interrupts a Saudi woman. “Steve Jobs is of Syrian origin. It means refugees and migrants can contribute and excel, just like Jobs.”
Mr. Al Saud nods silently, impressed. He steps closer to the painting and motions with his hand to his veiled wife, now lingering over a photo on the opposite wall. The two peer at the caption.
“Mashallah, my God, isn’t that interesting?” he says to his wife. “Each graffiti has a larger message.”
Ms. Al Saud nods. “I didn’t know art could be political.”
Musical infrastructure
Yet the question lingers: How do you bring arts and music to a nation that for decades has been told they are immoral?
That task falls in part to former concert violinist Gehad al-Khaldi. In February, Ms. al-Khaldi was appointed chief executive officer of the Music Commission, one of 12 bodies formed by the Ministry of Culture to regulate and promote everything cultural.
“Under the Ministry of Culture, we are planning to have music for all,” Ms. al-Khaldi says via a videoconference call. “By ‘music for all,’ I mean we will introduce a music education platform for everyone, at all ages.”
The nascent commission is working with the Ministry of Education and Saudi universities to develop music education courses for children, secondary schools, and universities. The challenges are steep. Due to the decades-old music ban, there are no Saudi music teachers, and the government will be hard-pressed to build a cadre of qualified people in a few short years to serve 30,000 schools spread out across a country six times the size of Germany.
But the top priority is to introduce music and the arts at an early age to boost creative thinking. Behind the drive is the desire to produce a generation of Saudis who are well rounded and can think outside the box, not just be comfortable in government-backed jobs, as the country eventually transitions to a post-oil society.
Taylor Luck View caption Hide caption A Concise Passage, an installation made from shipping materials, symbolizes the importance of Al Ula, Saudi Arabia, as an ancient trade route.
“Music can enhance the way of thinking, communicating, and innovating,” Ms. al-Khaldi says. “This is why music is important, not just for society in Saudi Arabia, but for all human beings.”
Even though COVID-19 has forced the closure of the kingdom’s schools, the Music Commission is pushing ahead to develop an intensive one-year course for education majors, music advocacy campaigns for wider Saudi society, and an academy and conservatory to nurture local talent.
Making up for lost time
Many Saudis are already flocking to several private music academies that have popped up over the past year. One such institute is the Music Home School of Art, which opened in a tower in central Riyadh late last year. On a Thursday night in early March, a young woman practices guitar chords with her instructor in one room. In another, a father encourages his two young daughters at the piano.
The institute is the creation of local artists and Ayman Tayseer, former dean of the University of Jordan School of Arts and Design, who saw an opportunity in Saudi Arabia’s new embrace of culture. In a few short months, he and instructors from Tunisia, Egypt, and Ukraine have taught hundreds of Riyadh residents ranging from would-be rappers to older Saudis who missed out on music lessons when they were young.
“You see a veiled mother in her 50s come in to enroll her daughter for classes, but really she is coming to take oud lessons herself!” Mr. Tayseer says with a laugh.
Saudi music lovers face concerns few would consider. Women who wear the full-face niqab want to sing but refuse to lift the veil that muffles their voices. Many drop out after struggling to learn how to read sheet music.
“There is a large amount of hunger and talent,” Mr. Tayseer says. “But many have never even seen a live music performance before, so this is all very new.”
The highlight tonight is the open mic. Dozens of young Saudis gather at the institute’s airy studio, with a view of the Riyadh skyline, for a chance to strum their latest song on the oud or just belt out Beyoncé.
“Before, music was something we kept to ourselves. Now all of a sudden it is everywhere,” says Abdullah Mohammed, a self-taught cellist warming up on the side. “It is as if we are catching up on decades of lost time in a single year.”
More than just a creative outlet, music is offering a sense of community in a society that has long been governed by “thou shalt not” in a conservative city where houses are fenced in by high concrete walls.
But even amid the camaraderie, a lingering self-consciousness exists, ingrained by decades of intimidation. Women, and some men, shout “no photos, everyone!” before they walk onstage, to protect against images showing up on the internet. Women sit toward the back of the room to avoid being seen by others as they sway to the beat. The last hurdle in Saudi Arabia’s embrace of arts and music may be from within: the fear of being judged for having a good time.
Resistance to change
Yet there is still plenty of criticism of the kingdom’s cultural opening, both at home and abroad. Some believe Crown Prince Mohammed is simply focusing on social liberalization to placate demands for opening from the West rather than tackling true political reform in the tightly ruled kingdom.
“Keeping the public busy with concerts and festivals is not the answer,” says Oraib Rantawi, geopolitical analyst and director of the Amman-based Al Quds Center for Political Studies. “Sidelining the religious establishment and cultural openings are small, positive steps, but the major reform needs are the social contract itself and true political representation. MBS and the Saudis are simply buying time,” he says of the crown prince.
While liberal social reforms may seem low-risk with the ruling family’s iron grip on power, they do alienate a conservative establishment and segments of society in cities and rural areas whose identities are intertwined with traditional practices. Quiet criticism emerges in some such pockets of society that reject the changes on cultural and religious grounds.
“There shouldn’t be songs and live music,” says Abu Mohammed, a resident of Al Ula, home of the Winter at Tantora festival. “We accept tourism, we accept the arts, but Western concerts come with drinking, mixing of men and women, and promiscuity. That just isn’t our culture.”
One reason there hasn’t been more pushback from conservatives is the sheer speed with which the changes are taking place.
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“Before you have time to react to cinemas being built, there are concerts. Before you can react to the concerts, women can drive and go to sporting events,” says Abdulrahman Ali, a Riyadh engineer. “You never have time to keep up, let alone organize popular objection to it. Our heads are still spinning.”
Still, even if a backlash were to develop, analysts believe the new arts movement is now established enough to remain for the foreseeable future. As Ms. al-Khaldi, the Music Commission CEO, puts it: “Life without music is a mistake.”


csmonitor--2020-05-19--Creativity: Artists find it both abundant and scarce during crisis

“ There is good study and good conversation that says , out of lament , out of crisis , out of grief – creativity flourishes , ” says John Pfautz , who convenes the Center for Creativity committee at Augustana College in Rock Island , Illinois .
“ Creativity finds a foothold in times like these.
” From studios to dining rooms turned workshops during quarantine , creative people are seizing a moment oddly marked by an abundance of time and a scarcity of resources .
Artists are pioneering works they hope will be valued by an anxious world – @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the process .
“ It ’ s a very domestic art ; it ’ s not a studio art .
And we ’ re all kind of living these domestic lives now , where we ’ re cooking , organizing , writing , mending clothes – so it fits well with all of that , ” she says .
Janet Hayes has had to reinvent herself because what she did up until March – glass flameworking – isn ’ t available to her anymore .
She teaches at The Crucible , a nonprofit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In a studio there , she uses a torch to melt glass to become sculptures such as paperweights or animal figures – or at least she did .
Now she is making beaded jewelry instead .
The month of April was supposed to be full of travel and public events for artist Brian Fox , whose realistic depictions of pro athletes and rock stars make him a sought-after talent .
But when everything was canceled due to the COVID-19 crisis , he suddenly found 50 to 60 hours a week to devote @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him personally .
“ I ’ ve got books full of ideas , but I ’ ve never had the time to take some of the best ones and ... really develop them , ” Mr. Fox says at his riverside studio , where paintings of Aerosmith ’ s Steven Tyler now share space with a life-size Vietnam War scene .
A pile of sketchbooks , filled up since the pandemic began , reveals what Vietnam veterans have been telling him lately .
Editor ’ s note : As a public service , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ No paywall .
“ I want to tell their story , ” Mr. Fox says .
“ I asked the veterans , What do you want people to never forget ?
They said , ‘ Never forget the ones who never came home.
’ It ’ s all about that.
” From Mr. Fox ’ s studio in a converted textile mill in Fall River , Massachusetts , to dining rooms turned workshops during quarantine , creative people are seizing a moment oddly marked by both abundance and scarcity .
With orders to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in unexpected hours to finally finish , or at least advance , projects they ’ ve been keeping on the back burner .
On a practical level , they ’ re also adapting to constraints , such as the need to make do with materials already at hand and to produce work that can be sold at lower price points .
“ People are just going from one medium to another , doing whatever they have to do to survive , ” says Gail Karr , chairwoman of the Northern New Mexico Fine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ don ’ t think anybody is expecting big bucks right away because nobody ’ s got them to spend ” on artwork .
Artists are also pioneering works they hope will be valued by an anxious world – and will soothe their own souls in the process .
Finding that sweet spot involves branching out beyond familiar creative processes .
“ There is good study and good conversation that says , out of lament , out of crisis , out of grief – creativity flourishes , ” says John Pfautz , who convenes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ College in Rock Island , Illinois , and is co-chairman of the music department .
“ Creativity finds a foothold in times like these.
” That ’ s because artists embrace new perspectives , Professor Pfautz says , and they are currently investigating what the pandemic has upended .
They ’ re also communicating losses that can ’ t easily be put into words , such as the regret felt by one tapestry-maker who can ’ t travel to see her grandchildren in Israel .
“ Art speaks where casual conversation or typical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Professor Pfautz says .
“ The violin player who can ’ t perform .
...
The tapestry-maker who can ’ t see her family .
...
They all have a way of articulating that lament in a way that we can connect with.
” Springtime normally means lots of packing , driving , and unpacking for Maria and Miro Kenarov , a married pair of Bulgarian-born artists who sell at regional art festivals from Houston , Texas , to Palm Springs , California .
But when eight upcoming shows were canceled this year @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are already shaping the arcs of their careers .
Ms. Kenarova , a ceramicist , has started working with a long-accumulated store of beads and stones to make necklaces .
Another new collection combines clay , fused glass , and photos in mixed-media pieces for wall display .
Constraint “ is something that provokes my creativity : What can I add here to make it more interesting , or what can I experiment with ?
” she says .
Mr. Kenarov , a painter known for his desert scenes , sees a modified @ @ @ @ @ @ @ presence .
For the first time , he ’ s begun selling his work at virtual art shows and exploring partnerships with online galleries .
If he can replace some of his art-show income with online sales , he says , the couple won ’ t need to travel as much – and can spend more time in Santa Fe , New Mexico , actually making art .
“ We ’ ve been here 28 years , and I ’ ve never before had two months in the studio , ” he says @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Kenarovs ’ 8 to 10 hours a day in the studio , enables creativity to flourish even in unnerving times , according to Jonathan Feinstein , a professor who teaches creativity and innovation at the Yale School of Management .
He noticed in his course this spring that students who structured their days and maintained a discipline , such as practicing a musical instrument , were more relaxed and prolific .
Others needed to establish habits to keep anxiety from interfering .
“ With this pandemic , yes , we have more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the time ?
” Professor Feinstein asks .
“ Creativity does best when people have habits and routines.
” Janet Hayes of Oakland , California , has had to reinvent herself because what she did up until March – glass flameworking – isn ’ t available to her anymore .
She teaches at The Crucible , a nonprofit industrial arts school in Oakland .
In a studio there , she uses a torch to melt glass to become sculptures such as paperweights or animal figures – or at least she did .
Gone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her access to various types of glass-working equipment , including a kiln where she ’ d make glass platters , bowls , and trays .
Also gone is the sense of excitement and danger associated with molten glass .
“ Once you melt the glass , you have to pretty much go with it , ” Ms. Hayes says .
“ You have to allow it to flow the way it ’ s going to flow .
The more complicated the pieces are ... the more opportunity for variations and chance to take @ @ @ @ @ @ @ couldn ’ t be more different .
She ’ s now making beaded necklaces and bracelets in the two-bedroom apartment where she lives with her husband and 10-year-old son .
Jewelry-making at a dining room table is just right for this moment , she says , because it meets the pandemic-season needs of her family .
It allows her to stop and restart a project many times a day , which means she can manage at-home interruptions and tend to her son while he can ’ t go to school .
She ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ make jewelry via videoconference , and hopes to offer online classes this summer if The Crucible remains closed .
And unlike hot glass , the materials are controllable – a good fit for disorienting times when almost everything else feels unpredictable .
“ It ’ s precise , ” Ms. Hayes says .
“ It ’ s easy to control .
And you can get incredibly detailed with it .
It ’ s a very domestic art ; it ’ s not a studio art .
And we ’ re all kind of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we ’ re cooking , organizing , writing , mending clothes – so it fits well with all of that.
” Even the most in-demand artists are balancing what ’ s fulfilling with what can pay the bills .
Consider Mr. Fox , the Fall River painter whose commissioned work hangs in homes of clients like NFL star Tom Brady .
His originals sell for $ 3,500 to $ 50,000 , he says .
But lately he ’ s been adding to a noncommissioned series of playful werewolf images that help broaden his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ That ’ s man cave material , ” he says , pointing to his football paintings .
“ One guy who buys all this sports stuff bought four or five original werewolf paintings , big ones for $ 15,000 or $ 20,000 apiece , and he put them in his living room ” where his wife and houseguests will see them .
“ The werewolf broadens my commercial value because I ’ m now out of the man caves , ” Mr. Fox says .
Yet even as they exploit new opportunities @ @ @ @ @ @ @ afoot .
The pandemic has served up time to release a bit of what ’ s been waiting inside to come out .
Now they ’ re glimpsing what they ’ re capable of creating – if only they had the time .
“ We all have abilities , and we are not given those by mistake , ” Mr. Fox says .
“ The original ideas I have , need to be explored .
Otherwise I ’ d be wasting a God-given gift.
” Editor ’ s note : As a public @ @ @ @ @ @ @ free .
No paywall .

“There is good study and good conversation that says, out of lament, out of crisis, out of grief – creativity flourishes,” says John Pfautz, who convenes the Center for Creativity committee at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois. “Creativity finds a foothold in times like these.”
From studios to dining rooms turned workshops during quarantine, creative people are seizing a moment oddly marked by an abundance of time and a scarcity of resources. Artists are pioneering works they hope will be valued by an anxious world – and will soothe their own souls in the process.
Can creativity actually increase during a lockdown? Artists are finding ways to invigorate their work by branching out and adapting to changed circumstances.
“It’s a very domestic art; it’s not a studio art. And we’re all kind of living these domestic lives now, where we’re cooking, organizing, writing, mending clothes – so it fits well with all of that,” she says.
Janet Hayes has had to reinvent herself because what she did up until March – glass flameworking – isn’t available to her anymore. She teaches at The Crucible, a nonprofit industrial arts school in Oakland, California. In a studio there, she uses a torch to melt glass to become sculptures such as paperweights or animal figures – or at least she did. Now she is making beaded jewelry instead.
The month of April was supposed to be full of travel and public events for artist Brian Fox, whose realistic depictions of pro athletes and rock stars make him a sought-after talent. But when everything was canceled due to the COVID-19 crisis, he suddenly found 50 to 60 hours a week to devote to projects that have deep meaning for him personally.
“I’ve got books full of ideas, but I’ve never had the time to take some of the best ones and ... really develop them,” Mr. Fox says at his riverside studio, where paintings of Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler now share space with a life-size Vietnam War scene. A pile of sketchbooks, filled up since the pandemic began, reveals what Vietnam veterans have been telling him lately.
Editor’s note: As a public service, all our coronavirus coverage is free. No paywall.
Why We Wrote This Can creativity actually increase during a lockdown? Artists are finding ways to invigorate their work by branching out and adapting to changed circumstances.
“I want to tell their story,” Mr. Fox says. “I asked the veterans, What do you want people to never forget? They said, ‘Never forget the ones who never came home.’ It’s all about that.”
Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff View caption Hide caption Artist Brian Fox's sketchbook is open to studies for a future painting on the Vietnam War.
From Mr. Fox’s studio in a converted textile mill in Fall River, Massachusetts, to dining rooms turned workshops during quarantine, creative people are seizing a moment oddly marked by both abundance and scarcity. With orders to stay home, they’re reveling in unexpected hours to finally finish, or at least advance, projects they’ve been keeping on the back burner. On a practical level, they’re also adapting to constraints, such as the need to make do with materials already at hand and to produce work that can be sold at lower price points.
“People are just going from one medium to another, doing whatever they have to do to survive,” says Gail Karr, chairwoman of the Northern New Mexico Fine Arts & Crafts Guild. “I don’t think anybody is expecting big bucks right away because nobody’s got them to spend” on artwork.
Artists are also pioneering works they hope will be valued by an anxious world – and will soothe their own souls in the process. Finding that sweet spot involves branching out beyond familiar creative processes.
“There is good study and good conversation that says, out of lament, out of crisis, out of grief – creativity flourishes,” says John Pfautz, who convenes the Center for Creativity committee at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois, and is co-chairman of the music department. “Creativity finds a foothold in times like these.”
That’s because artists embrace new perspectives, Professor Pfautz says, and they are currently investigating what the pandemic has upended. They’re also communicating losses that can’t easily be put into words, such as the regret felt by one tapestry-maker who can’t travel to see her grandchildren in Israel.
“Art speaks where casual conversation or typical letter writing doesn’t,” Professor Pfautz says. “The violin player who can’t perform. ... The tapestry-maker who can’t see her family. ... They all have a way of articulating that lament in a way that we can connect with.”
Embracing a pandemic rhythm in Santa Fe
Springtime normally means lots of packing, driving, and unpacking for Maria and Miro Kenarov, a married pair of Bulgarian-born artists who sell at regional art festivals from Houston, Texas, to Palm Springs, California. But when eight upcoming shows were canceled this year, they hunkered down in ways that are already shaping the arcs of their careers.
Courtesy of the Kenarovs View caption Hide caption Maria and Miro Kenarov, who before the pandemic traveled to art festivals to sell their work, are finding subjects – and inspiration – closer to home in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Ms. Kenarova, a ceramicist, has started working with a long-accumulated store of beads and stones to make necklaces. Another new collection combines clay, fused glass, and photos in mixed-media pieces for wall display. Constraint “is something that provokes my creativity: What can I add here to make it more interesting, or what can I experiment with?” she says.
Mr. Kenarov, a painter known for his desert scenes, sees a modified business model emerging around a greater online presence. For the first time, he’s begun selling his work at virtual art shows and exploring partnerships with online galleries. If he can replace some of his art-show income with online sales, he says, the couple won’t need to travel as much – and can spend more time in Santa Fe, New Mexico, actually making art. “We’ve been here 28 years, and I’ve never before had two months in the studio,” he says.
Dedication to routine, such as the Kenarovs’ 8 to 10 hours a day in the studio, enables creativity to flourish even in unnerving times, according to Jonathan Feinstein, a professor who teaches creativity and innovation at the Yale School of Management. He noticed in his course this spring that students who structured their days and maintained a discipline, such as practicing a musical instrument, were more relaxed and prolific. Others needed to establish habits to keep anxiety from interfering.
“With this pandemic, yes, we have more time, but how do we use the time?” Professor Feinstein asks. “Creativity does best when people have habits and routines.”
Goodbye melting glass, hello tiny beads
Janet Hayes of Oakland, California, has had to reinvent herself because what she did up until March – glass flameworking – isn’t available to her anymore. She teaches at The Crucible, a nonprofit industrial arts school in Oakland. In a studio there, she uses a torch to melt glass to become sculptures such as paperweights or animal figures – or at least she did. Gone, at least for now, is her access to various types of glass-working equipment, including a kiln where she’d make glass platters, bowls, and trays. Also gone is the sense of excitement and danger associated with molten glass.
Courtesy of Ash Bowie Photo View caption Hide caption Glass artist Janet Hayes has shifted to making jewelry while sheltering at home in Oakland, California, with her family.
“Once you melt the glass, you have to pretty much go with it,” Ms. Hayes says. “You have to allow it to flow the way it’s going to flow. The more complicated the pieces are ... the more opportunity for variations and chance to take over.”
Her impromptu replacement art form couldn’t be more different. She’s now making beaded necklaces and bracelets in the two-bedroom apartment where she lives with her husband and 10-year-old son.
Jewelry-making at a dining room table is just right for this moment, she says, because it meets the pandemic-season needs of her family. It allows her to stop and restart a project many times a day, which means she can manage at-home interruptions and tend to her son while he can’t go to school.
She’s confident students could learn how to make jewelry via videoconference, and hopes to offer online classes this summer if The Crucible remains closed.
And unlike hot glass, the materials are controllable – a good fit for disorienting times when almost everything else feels unpredictable. “It’s precise,” Ms. Hayes says. “It’s easy to control. And you can get incredibly detailed with it. It’s a very domestic art; it’s not a studio art. And we’re all kind of living these domestic lives now, where we’re cooking, organizing, writing, mending clothes – so it fits well with all of that.”
“Out of the man caves”
Even the most in-demand artists are balancing what’s fulfilling with what can pay the bills. Consider Mr. Fox, the Fall River painter whose commissioned work hangs in homes of clients like NFL star Tom Brady. His originals sell for $3,500 to $50,000, he says. But lately he’s been adding to a noncommissioned series of playful werewolf images that help broaden his appeal beyond his largely male clientele.
“That’s man cave material,” he says, pointing to his football paintings. “One guy who buys all this sports stuff bought four or five original werewolf paintings, big ones for $15,000 or $20,000 apiece, and he put them in his living room” where his wife and houseguests will see them.
“The werewolf broadens my commercial value because I’m now out of the man caves,” Mr. Fox says.
Yet even as they exploit new opportunities, artists say something bigger is also afoot. The pandemic has served up time to release a bit of what’s been waiting inside to come out. Now they’re glimpsing what they’re capable of creating – if only they had the time.
Get stories that
empower and uplift daily. By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy Already a subscriber? Log in to hide ads.
“We all have abilities, and we are not given those by mistake,” Mr. Fox says. “The original ideas I have, need to be explored. Otherwise I’d be wasting a God-given gift.”
Editor’s note: As a public service, all our coronavirus coverage is free. No paywall.