Education, Faculty of
Educational Studies (EDST), Department of
DSpace
UBCV
Atkinson, Wendy
Master of Arts - MA
University of British Columbia
Programmers in the performing arts, particularly settler programmers, can use the concepts of curating and the curatorial as mechanisms to take steps towards decolonization, beyond inclusion and representation and particularly beyond the performance on stage. In this thesis I have taken a theoretical approach to argue that the concepts of curating and the curatorial can be used by performing arts programmers to support activities aimed at decolonization. I discuss three cases of university programmers booking Indigenous artists that serve as examples to support and illustrate my claims about the usefulness of the concept of curating. First, I outline how the concept of curating has been theorized in the visual arts literature and examine the role of curating to further social justice and decolonization in the visual arts. Second, using examples from the literature, my professional experience as a performing arts programmer and two examples of performances booked by programmers in university venues, I examine how social justice and decolonization goals have been taken up in the performing arts. I also review how performing arts scholars have written about the benefits and drawbacks of using the concept of curating in the performing arts. My study considers the limitations of programming by itself to further decolonization goals and I outline how the concepts of curating, and even more so the concept of the curatorial, offer programmers practical and theoretical direction to address decolonization in their practice. In the final chapter I explore the educative potential of the concept of the curatorial, in particular as characterized by Rogoff as an event of knowledge, and how the educational theories of Dewey, Rancière and Biesta connect with ideas of the curatorial. I argue that the concept of the curatorial offers opportunities for knowledge production and action in the pursuit of decolonization in the performing arts and that a curatorial approach opens up opportunities to take steps to decolonization that programming and curating do not offer.
“UNCONFINABLE KNOWLEDGE”: CURATING, THE CURATORIAL AND DECOLONIZATION IN THE PERFORMING ARTS by Wendy Atkinson B.A., The University of Victoria, 1987 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Educational Studies) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) December, 2023 © Wendy Atkinson, 2023 ii The following individuals certify that they have read, and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance, the thesis entitled: “Unconfinable Knowledge”: Curating, the Curatorial and Decolonization in the Performing Arts submitted by W Wendy Atkinson in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts in Educational Studies Examining Committee: Dr. Claudia Ruitenberg, Professor, Educational Studies, UBC Supervisor Dr. Olivia Michiko Gagnon, Assistant Professor, Department of Theatre and Film, UBC Supervisory Committee Member Dr. Erin Silver, Assistant Professor, Department of Art History, Visual Art and Theory, UBC Supervisory Committee Member Dr. George Belliveau, Professor, Department of Language and Literacy Education, UBC Additional Examiner iii Abstract Programmers in the performing arts, particularly settler programmers, can use the concepts of curating and the curatorial as mechanisms to take steps towards decolonization, beyond inclusion and representation and particularly beyond the performance on stage. In this thesis I have taken a theoretical approach to argue that the concepts of curating and the curatorial can be used by performing arts programmers to support activities aimed at decolonization. I discuss three cases of university programmers booking Indigenous artists that serve as examples to support and illustrate my claims about the usefulness of the concept of curating. First, I outline how the concept of curating has been theorized in the visual arts literature and examine the role of curating to further social justice and decolonization in the visual arts. Second, using examples from the literature, my professional experience as a performing arts programmer and two examples of performances booked by programmers in university venues, I examine how social justice and decolonization goals have been taken up in the performing arts. I also review how performing arts scholars have written about the benefits and drawbacks of using the concept of curating in the performing arts. My study considers the limitations of programming by itself to further decolonization goals and I outline how the concepts of curating, and even more so the concept of the curatorial, offer programmers practical and theoretical direction to address decolonization in their practice. In the final chapter I explore the educative potential of the concept of the curatorial, in particular as characterized by Rogoff as an event of knowledge, and how the educational theories of Dewey, Rancière and Biesta connect with ideas of the curatorial. I argue that the concept of the iv curatorial offers opportunities for knowledge production and action in the pursuit of decolonization in the performing arts and that a curatorial approach opens up opportunities to take steps to decolonization that programming and curating do not offer. v Lay Summary In this thesis I claim that programmers in the performing arts, particularly settler programmers, can use the concepts of curating and the curatorial as ways to take steps towards decolonization, beyond just booking Indigenous artists and beyond the performance itself. I explore the concept of the curatorial, as characterized by Rogoff, and consider how the educational perspectives of Dewey, Rancière and Biesta illuminate some aspects of the curatorial which are relevant for programmers and curators who are interested in working towards decolonization in their practice. I argue that the concept of the curatorial offers opportunities for knowledge production and action in the pursuit of decolonization in the performing arts and that a curatorial approach opens up opportunities to take steps to decolonization that programming and curating do not offer. vi Preface This thesis is an original intellectual product of the author, Wendy Atkinson. No new data was collected for this study, nor did the thesis make use of data collected for another purpose, and no research ethics approval was required. vii Table of Contents Abstract ......................................................................................................................................... iii Lay Summary .................................................................................................................................v Preface ........................................................................................................................................... vi Table of Contents ........................................................................................................................ vii Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................... xiii Chapter 1: Introduction ................................................................................................................1 1.1 My Background and Interest in this Subject ................................................................... 1 1.2 My Positionality .............................................................................................................. 3 1.3 Curators and Programmers ............................................................................................. 6 1.4 Curating and the Curatorial ............................................................................................. 7 1.5 Curating, Social Justice and Decolonization .................................................................. 7 1.6 Overview of the Argument ............................................................................................. 8 1.7 Key Terms: Indigenous Identity and Settler identity, Colonization, Indigenization .... 11 1.8 Methodology ................................................................................................................. 13 1.8.1 Case Selection ....................................................................................................... 15 1.9 Significance of this Study ............................................................................................. 17 Chapter 2: The Visual Arts: Curating, Social Justice and Decolonization ............................19 2.1 The Evolution of Concept of Curating in the Visual Arts ............................................ 19 2.2 The “Turns” in Curating ............................................................................................... 21 2.3 The Role of Curating in the Visual Arts to Further Social Justice ............................... 24 2.3.1 Curator Positionality ............................................................................................. 24 2.4 Typical Approaches for Pursuing Social Justice in Visual Arts ................................... 25 viii 2.4.1 Artist Diversity ...................................................................................................... 26 2.4.2 Artists and Social Justice Themes ......................................................................... 27 2.4.3 Audience Diversity ............................................................................................... 27 2.4.4 Education and Outreach ........................................................................................ 28 2.5 Other Approaches: Organizational Structure and Repatriation .................................... 29 2.6 Considerations for Working with Indigenous Artists ................................................... 30 2.6.1 Dominance of Western European Perspectives .................................................... 31 2.6.2 Structures that Reinforce Power ........................................................................... 33 2.6.3 Scholarship ............................................................................................................ 34 2.6.4 Alternatives to Western European Models of Curating ........................................ 35 Chapter 3: The Performing Arts: Social Justice and Decolonization .....................................38 3.1 Positionality .................................................................................................................. 38 3.2 How Social Justice Goals Have Been Taken Up in the Performing Arts ..................... 38 3.2.1 Increase Diversity in Artist Selection ................................................................... 39 3.2.2 Artists and Social Justice Content ......................................................................... 42 3.2.3 Increase Audience Diversity ................................................................................. 43 3.2.4 Community Involvement / Socially Engaged Art ................................................. 45 3.2.5 Education and Outreach ........................................................................................ 47 3.2.6 Organizational Structure and Staff Diversity ........................................................ 49 3.3 Considerations for Decolonization in the Performing Arts .......................................... 50 3.3.1 From Theory to Action ......................................................................................... 50 3.3.2 Extraction vs Building Relationships .................................................................... 51 3.3.3 Enacting Sovereignty ............................................................................................ 52 ix 3.3.4 Cultural Work ....................................................................................................... 53 3.3.5 Repatriation ........................................................................................................... 55 3.3.6 Limitations of Inclusion and Representation ........................................................ 56 3.3.7 Victim Narratives .................................................................................................. 57 3.3.8 Dominance of Western European Perspectives .................................................... 58 3.3.9 Challenging Power Structures ............................................................................... 61 3.3.9.1 Collaboration ..................................................................................................... 62 3.3.9.2 Community Involvement, Education and Outreach .......................................... 64 3.3.9.3 Refusal .............................................................................................................. 67 3.3.10 Issues specific to Decolonization in Universities ................................................. 68 3.3.10.1 The Canon and Disciplinary Divisions ......................................................... 70 3.3.10.2 Limitations of Inclusion and Recognition in Universities ............................ 72 Chapter 4: Cases ..........................................................................................................................75 4.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................... 75 4.2 US/Canadian Contexts for the Cases ............................................................................ 75 4.3 Case One ....................................................................................................................... 77 4.3.1 The Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape People and their connection to MSU .................... 77 4.3.2 Wheeler’s Commission of Johnson ...................................................................... 78 4.3.3 The Breakdown of Negotiations ........................................................................... 79 4.4 Case Two ...................................................................................................................... 82 4.4.1 The Musqueam People and their Relationship with UBC .................................... 82 4.4.2 The Artists and their Art Forms ............................................................................ 83 4.4.2.1 Katajjaq: Inuit Throat Singing .......................................................................... 83 x 4.4.2.2 Uaajeerneq: Greenlandic Mask Dancing ......................................................... 84 4.4.3 Booking Process.................................................................................................... 85 4.4.4 The Performance ................................................................................................... 89 4.5 Case Three .................................................................................................................... 93 4.5.1 The O’odham (Pima) and Piipaash (Maricopa) Tribes’ Connection with ASU ... 93 4.5.2 Creation Process for Native Nation ....................................................................... 94 4.5.3 Venue .................................................................................................................... 96 4.5.4 The Performance ................................................................................................... 97 Chapter 5: Analysis of Decolonization in the Cases .................................................................99 5.1 Key Themes .................................................................................................................. 99 5.2 Curator Positionality ................................................................................................... 100 5.3 Institutional Goals and Values .................................................................................... 101 5.3.1 Montclair State University/Arts and Cultural Programing ................................. 102 5.3.2 UBC/Chan Centre ............................................................................................... 105 5.3.3 ASU/Gammage ................................................................................................... 106 5.4 Programmers’ Goals ................................................................................................... 108 5.4.1 Wheeler/PEAK Performances ............................................................................ 109 5.4.2 Atkinson/Beyond Words ..................................................................................... 109 5.4.3 Reed/Beyond Series ............................................................................................ 110 5.5 Institutional Structures ................................................................................................ 112 5.6 Presenting Models ....................................................................................................... 113 5.7 Limitations of Inclusive Programming ....................................................................... 115 5.8 Influence of Location .................................................................................................. 116 xi 5.9 Audience ..................................................................................................................... 118 5.9.1 Presenter/Programmer Framing .......................................................................... 118 5.9.2 Artist Audience Separation ................................................................................. 123 5.10 Community ................................................................................................................. 124 5.10.1 Community Involvement in the Production ........................................................ 124 5.10.2 Cultural Work ..................................................................................................... 125 5.10.3 Serving the Community ...................................................................................... 127 5.11 Education and Outreach .............................................................................................. 127 5.12 Challenges of Power Imbalances ................................................................................ 130 Chapter 6: Curating and the Performing Arts .......................................................................133 6.1 How the Concept of Curating has been Developing in the Performing Arts .............. 133 6.2 The Difference Between Programming and Curating ................................................ 136 6.3 Programming vs Curating in my Cases ...................................................................... 138 6.4 Opportunities that Could Arise from Curating in the Performing Arts ...................... 140 6.5 Challenges to Curating in Performing Arts ................................................................ 142 Chapter 7: The Curatorial ........................................................................................................145 7.1 The Curatorial in the Visual Arts ................................................................................ 145 7.2 The Curatorial and Social Justice ............................................................................... 147 7.3 The Curatorial and the Performing Arts ..................................................................... 148 7.4 The Curatorial as Knowledge Production ................................................................... 150 7.4.1 John Dewey ......................................................................................................... 150 7.4.2 Biesta and Rancière ............................................................................................. 153 7.4.3 Limitations of Curator Framing and Assumptions about Audience Reception .. 155 xii 7.5 The Curatorial, Decolonization and the Cases ............................................................ 158 7.6 Drawbacks to the Curatorial ....................................................................................... 164 7.7 Suggestions for Further Exploration ........................................................................... 166 Chapter 8: Conclusion ...............................................................................................................169 8.1 Summary ..................................................................................................................... 169 8.2 Limitations of My Research ........................................................................................ 170 8.3 Opportunities for Future Research .............................................................................. 171 References ...................................................................................................................................174 Appendix .....................................................................................................................................194 Enrolment and Venue Information for Case Study Institutions .............................................. 194 xiii Acknowledgements As a mature student returning to university after many years, I want to thank Sandrine Han for making me feel welcome in my very first master’s course. It was a fun, non-intimidating and informative introduction to my studies. Thank you to Dr Olivia Michiko Gagnon for her extremely insightful feedback on my thesis and for bringing her performing arts perspective to my work, which has strengthened this thesis immensely. I want to thank Dr. Erin Silver for encouraging and welcoming a student focused on performing arts into her seminar for visual arts curators. That seminar was pivotal because it introduced me to key research and ideas in curating and Dr. Silver’s openness to a non-visual arts perspective helped me make new connections in my thinking about this project. The readings and work I did for that course were foundational for this thesis. And, from our very first meeting, when I was just starting to grapple with some very unformed ideas, Dr. Claudia Ruitenberg has given me invaluable encouragement and insight. She made me feel this project was worth pursuing and through all of the twists and turns in my thinking she offered perceptive feedback, warm support and concrete steps for completing this project. When I was vague or unclear in my thinking she always encouraged me to think deeper and with more nuance. I have enjoyed our conversations, which always led to further thinking, not only about this project, but many other aspects of programming and the performing arts. I would not have started, never mind finished, this program without her ongoing support. 1 Chapter 1: Introduction 1.1 My Background and Interest in this Subject For twenty years, I worked at the Chan Centre for the Performing Arts at UBC. I have believed in the power of the arts to contribute to social justice through changing attitudes, building awareness and empathy and highlighting alternate points of view. Many of my colleagues who work in programming also believe that the arts can be transformative and can be a powerful way to inspire progressive social change. I have attended numerous professional conferences where sessions on programming to promote social justice, diversity and inclusion are common and when I starting curating, I developed a curatorial vision based on these goals. At the Chan Centre I created and curated two series. “Roots and Shoots,” which I initiated in 2007, was a music series for elementary students from under-resourced Vancouver schools. I curated this series with the aim of introducing students to a variety of cultures through music. By design, the artists and their music often reflected cultures that are representative of students in the schools. Because of the age range of the students (K-7), this series addresses diversity and inclusion implicitly through the selection of artists and the power of seeing performers from a variety of backgrounds and cultures on the stage of a concert hall that is often associated with Western European classical music. Since its launch, over 10,000 students have experienced the “Roots and Shoots” program. In 2012, I initiated a series for adults called “Beyond Words.” In this series I programmed artists who addressed topical, often complex and challenging, social issues and represented progressive 2 points of view. Examples include writer Ivan Coyote grappling with ideas of gender identity, Indigenous writer/playwriter Cliff Cardinal’s wrenching play Huff about disenfranchised kids, and choreographer Jade Solomon Curtis’ exploration of racism in Black Like Me. At the International Society for Performing Arts (ISPA) congress in Montreal in 2017, I saw a choreographer pitch their work and then show a video clip of the work in progress. The introduction, describing how the art related to the Syrian refugee crisis, was given with such force and passion that I immediately wanted to do something concrete to help. However, the work itself did not seem connected to the crisis or the artist’s stated goals of wanting to help and, for me, it failed to ignite the same response that her introduction did. Even though the artist’s stated intention aligned with my programming goals, I ended up not booking this performance at the Chan Centre because I felt that the artist’s intention was not expressed in the work. As a programmer with an interest in the arts to further social justice, I was struck by the contrast between my response to the artist’s introduction and their work. I reflected on my response that the artwork was not enough in itself. This experience prompted me to question many of my assumptions regarding the pursuit of social justice through the performing arts. As a programmer, I had booked work with social justice themes because I hoped to make a positive difference by generating awareness and understanding of social justice issues, which I hoped would prompt action towards improving society. Through discussions with colleagues and many sessions at performing arts conferences, I heard similar perspectives from others working in the performing arts: that through empathy, 3 emotional connection and awareness the arts could prompt change in a way that news articles and data could not. However, I began to question this assumption and I started grappling with questions such as: Are programmers who are interested in pursuing social justice in their work trying to encourage a specific audience reaction and, if so, are they using the arts instrumentally rather than presenting a performance as enough in itself? How could a programmer possibly know what kind of effect a performance would have on the audience? Do programmer's ignore audience members’ agency by attempting to pre-determine their interpretation and reaction? Can (or should) a programmer try to influence the effect a performance may have? How should a programmer balance selection criteria based on social justice content versus artistic merit? This experience made me think about my idea that a performance fulfilled my programming goals only if I believed it would generate a specific reaction. If social justice programming did not, or might not, ignite a specific reaction, what was my goal as a programmer in booking this type of performance? These questions of my ideas about the role of the programmer, and the ability of the performing arts to influence social change were the source of my interest in this study. 1.2 My Positionality Throughout the writing of this thesis, I have reflected on my position as a white woman settler who wants to work towards decolonization while being aware that I am deeply embedded in colonial systems that have benefitted me professionally and personally. For example, I have the 4 relevant experience to bring to this topic because of my work experience in a colonial institution. Before starting this project, I believed that programming Indigenous artists was a step towards decolonization. I now have a much better understanding of what a very small step that is because of the colonial structures that are kept firmly in place and block decolonization. Thus, decolonization requires work from many people, especially those who have benefitted from it and continue to do so. I still struggle with the fact that I will benefit from writing a thesis on decolonization. But decolonization requires settlers to acknowledge and reflect on their positions and their privileges. I believe it is important for settlers to set examples by taking steps towards decolonization, talking about the decolonization work they are doing and revealing their reflections and challenges. Garneau (2016) states that “while decolonization and Indigenization is collective work, it sometimes requires occasions of separation – moments where Indigenous people take space and time to work things out among themselves, and parallel moments when allies ought to do the same” (p. 23). In that spirit, I have written this thesis not as a “how to” for programmers interested in decolonization but as an example of how I, as a white woman settler, am grappling with these issues through my programming work. I been inspired by the work of other programmers, of various backgrounds and experience, who have talked about the work they are doing and I hope some of the ideas in this thesis will inspire other settler programmers in their work towards decolonization. It can be easy for settlers to feel that decolonization is an Indigenous issue and to back away from engaging with it. Throughout this study I have often felt that I am not knowledgeable or 5 experienced enough to be doing this type of study; that I am not the “right person” to tackle this topic and that “others” should be doing it. However, I appreciate the perspective of Attas and Walker (2019) when they said that they “feel an obligation to take up the task of educating our peers in order to reduce the burden of education on those who do not wish it” (p. 8). They note that self-reflection, doubt, and honesty are important elements in this process. Similarly, xwélmexw (Stó:lō/Skwah) scholar Dylan Robinson (2020) asks how collaboration and conversation between settlers and diasporic, or immigrant subjects “might proceed without (or with reduced) demand on Indigenous people to expend the considerable emotional, intellectual, and physical labor required through leading such processes” (p. 254). Attas, a white settler woman, (2019) believes that decolonization is the responsibility of every settler and with that comes discomfort. Similarly, Smith (2020) believes settlers must pay attention to their discomfort. Additionally, it is important for settlers to question their motivations for doing this work (Attas & Walker, 2019; Garneau, 2016) and to explain why they want to do this work (Garneau, 2016). I acknowledge that there are limitations to the approach I have taken, especially related to my positionality. My research and perspective are filtered through my specific positionality and experience as a settler programmer and most of my programming experience is within a colonial institution. But in the spirit of reducing the burden on Indigenous people to educate settlers, I am offering my experience and reflections on trying to take steps towards decolonization in programming within a large institution. 6 1.3 Curators and Programmers The term curator is most often used in the visual arts to refer to people who create exhibits and the associated activities around them. However, the term curator is increasingly being used in other art forms and beyond the art world. Programmers in the performing arts select and book performing artists to present. They do not usually refer to their work as curating but they may use similar methods in their work. Programmers may work for venues, presenting organizations, festivals or may be hired on contract to program a specific series. Following typical practice in the field, I use the term programmer when referring to people working in the performing arts and curator for those working in the visual arts but I acknowledge that there can be overlap in the roles because visual arts curators also book performing artists and the term curator is increasingly being used in performing arts. In this thesis, I use the term presenter to indicate a presenting organization (i.e., not a person) because, in my experience, the term presenter is often used in contracts with artists. In casual use the terms presenter and programmer are used interchangeably but, for precision, I will only use the word presenter to refer to an organization. Also, in this thesis I use the term performing arts to refer to dance, theatre, and music and the cases I focus on include performing arts venues and presenters who primarily work in these art forms. However, I recognize that not all artworks can be separated into specific disciplines and many artists combine art forms in their work, which makes a precise definition difficult. However, a detailed look at the differences between art forms, terminology and practices is outside the scope of this study. 7 1.4 Curating and the Curatorial The concept of curating has its roots in the visual arts and most literature on curating is focused on the visual arts because, within the arts, that is the discipline in which the concept originated.1 However, this concept has gradually infiltrated other fields and there is recent literature on curating in the performing arts, beginning with dance, then theatre and, quite recently, music. Through its evolution and various ‘turns,’ the current activities of curators extend far beyond exhibition-making. As the concept of curating has seeped into the performing arts scholars have grappled with the benefits and drawbacks. Current scholarship on curating has taken up the idea of “the curatorial.” This concept has been developing in the visual arts but it does not yet have an agreed upon definition, however it is separate from the practical work of exhibition-making. It has been characterized by some scholars as a form of knowledge production that operates beyond the exhibition and the visual arts and I will explore its educative potential. 1.5 Curating, Social Justice and Decolonization Many curators and programmers use “social justice” as an umbrella term for work that focuses on diversity, equity and inclusion; decolonization is often included under this umbrella. When I started my program, I focused on social justice programming in general because this reflects how many progressive programmers work. Over the course of a season, programmers will book different artists who may address a variety of social justice issues to reflect, include, and appeal to their community. For example, in one season I booked a dance work that addressed the internment of the choreographer’s Japanese-Canadian family and an evening of story- 1 The original meaning of curate from Latin (to take care of or to cure) is still in use. For example, we still refer to a curate in the church who cares for the souls of parishioners (Balzer, 2014) or “curatorship” as the protective supervision of adults not mentally capable of looking after their own affairs. 8 telling/music that grappled with questions of gender identity. Both of these performances offered unique opportunities and challenges for mediating, facilitating, and contextualizing. However, after reading and reflecting on Tuck (Unangax) and Yang’s “Decolonization is Not a Metaphor” (2012) I have come to understand their argument that decolonization is not the same as other social justice issues because it has different goals. Decolonization is about the repatriation of Indigenous land and life and it demands change to power structures and privilege. Because I believe that the arts are an integral part of life, the arts should be included in the concept of repatriation. Tuck and Yang argue that including decolonization with other social justice issues is a form of “settler appropriation.” Therefore, I have separated work that curators and programmers are doing in relation to social justice from work being done in connection to decolonization. My initial motivation was to explore curating and social justice programming but, through my readings, thinking of my cases, and considering the responsibilities of settler programmers I decided to focus on decolonization. Chávez and Skelchy (2019) note that decolonization should focus on practical knowledge that can create structural change rather than focusing on abstract principles. In that spirit, using my cases and my own experience, I have tried to note how programmers’ work could create change. 1.6 Overview of the Argument Because performing arts programming can focus on inclusion and representation by presenting Indigenous artists, what do the concepts of curating and the curatorial offer that is different? 9 How might these concepts be helpful for settler programmers who are interested in decolonization work? In this thesis, I will argue that settler programmers can use the concepts of curating and the curatorial as mechanisms to take steps towards decolonization in performing arts practices and scholarship. In particular, I will argue that the concepts of curating and the curatorial enable professionals and organizations in the performing arts to attend to decolonization aspects beyond the content of the performance on stage. I will explore how curating offers ways to take steps towards decolonization but I believe the concept of the curatorial offers additional opportunities to work towards decolonization because of its educative potential. I argue that the concept of the curatorial offers opportunities for knowledge production and action in the pursuit of decolonization in the performing arts and that a curatorial approach opens up opportunities to take steps to decolonization that programming and curating do not offer. I do not make claims about how Indigenous programmers and curators would take steps towards decolonization because they may approach the process quite differently from a settler. In this thesis I have referenced the writing and work of Indigenous curators and programmers but because my argument is rooted in my own experience it is based on the perspective of a settler programmer. However, the concepts and practice of curating and the curatorial may be of interest to Indigenous curators. In order to support my claims, I will build my argument in seven moves: 1. I will examine what curating is and how this concept has been theorized in the visual arts literature (Chapter 2, sections 2.1 and 2.2). 10 2. I will discuss the role of curating in furthering social justice and decolonization in the visual arts (Chapter 2, sections 2.3 to 2.6). 3. Using examples from my professional experience as a performing arts programmer, other performing arts organizations and the literature, I will illustrate how social justice and decolonization goals have been taken up in the performing arts. I will consider the strengths, weaknesses and limitations of these practices (Chapters 3 to 5). 4. I will review how performing arts scholars have written about the benefits and drawbacks of using the concept of curating in the performing arts (Chapter 6). 5. I will argue that curating can be used as a method to address aspects of decolonization that exceed the performance itself on stage, and involve broader considerations of the organizational context, mediation between the artist/performance and stakeholders, contextualizing for audiences and facilitating the creation of work with artists. I will consider whether this argument falls prey to the concerns raised about using curatorial discourse in the performing arts (as outlined in section 6.1), and what would mitigate these concerns (Chapter 6, sections 6.2 to 6.5). 6. I will explore the concept of “the curatorial” (Rogoff, 2014; Lind, 2021) as knowledge production and the connections between the curatorial and the educational ideas of Dewey, Biesta and Rancière (Chapter 7, section 7.4). 7. I will argue that the concept of the curatorial offers opportunities for knowledge production and action in the pursuit of decolonization in the performing arts and outline possible further research directions in this field (Chapter 7, sections 7.5 to 7.7). 11 1.7 Key Terms: Indigenous Identity and Settler identity, Colonization, Indigenization The use of the word Indigenous has increased since it was used by the United Nations in their Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) (United Nations, 2007). However, in that declaration the UN has not adopted an official definition of the term Indigenous. The UN’s approach is to identify, rather than define, Indigenous peoples based on the primary principle of self-identification. The UN has developed an understanding of the term based on the following: • Self-identification as Indigenous peoples at the individual level and accepted by the community as their member. • Historical continuity with pre-colonial and/or pre-settler societies • Strong link to territories and surrounding natural resources • Distinct social, economic or political systems • Distinct language, culture and beliefs • Form non-dominant groups of society • Resolve to maintain and reproduce their ancestral environments and systems as distinctive peoples and communities. (United Nations, n.d.) One advantage of the term Indigenous is that it shows the links between colonized people all over the world (Smith, 2021). However, a significant drawback is that it generalizes Indigenous people (Attas, 2019) and may suggest that all Indigenous people have the same history, perspectives, and cultural experience (Smith, 2021). Metis scholar and artist David Garneau (2018) comments that the term Indigenous has become “untethered” from territory and land. Although I understand the limitations of the term, I use the word Indigenous when I am referring to groups of Indigenous people or when I do not know the specific Indigenous group a person 12 belongs to. Following Attas & Walker (2019), I capitalize it. In this thesis I have used some direct quotes from American sources that use terms such as tribe and native that are not often used in Canadian contexts. I have used the term settler to indicate non-Indigenous people who live in North America (Turtle Island). Tuck and Yang (2012) note that “settlers are diverse, not just of white European descent, and include people of color, even from other colonial contexts” (p. 7). But the term settler has limitations because, as Robinson (2020) acknowledges, it does not recognize gradations and subtleties of relationship, history and experience (e.g., refugees, immigrants, diaspora). Per Tuck and Yang (2012), there are two main forms of colonization. External colonization means expropriating Indigenous worlds, animals, plants, and people in order to build wealth for colonizers. Internal colonization is the management and control of Indigenous people, land, flora and fauna within the borders of an imperial nation. Decolonization is the dismantling of this entire colonial structure. Some scholars argue that colonialism is in the past because new systems of coloniality have superseded it. The logic and power of coloniality was created by the process of colonization and the terms coloniality and decoloniality emphasize the present and structural nature of it (Attas & Walker, 2019; Chávez & Skelchy, 2019; Maldonado-Torres, 2016). It is important to note that colonialism is not a moment in the past, it is on-going and it is the foundation for ongoing inequities (Attas & Walker, 2019). Decolonization is not a philosophy; it is a practice (Tuck & Yang, 2018) so it requires action. 13 While decolonization is dismantling colonial systems, Indigenization involves prioritizing Indigenous perspectives and experience. Indigenization can include activities such as including Indigenous knowledge, values and practices; including Indigenous groups in decision-making; creating partnerships and collaborating with Indigenous communities and organizations; creating space for Indigenous knowledge holders and supporting Indigenous peoples’ self-determination. 1.8 Methodology As I developed my research proposal, I considered a number of approaches to studying programming practices and social justice. I considered doing a qualitative study based on audience reactions to a specific performance to evaluate its educative impact. However, I rejected this idea because it narrowly focused on the reaction of individual audience members and did not address my key interest in how programmers could use their practice to further social justice goals. I then considered doing a case study that would involve interviewing progressive programmers on their practices. Although there is a lot of interesting social justice work being done and this approach would have been fruitful, I came to realize that I did not want to do a thesis that focused on what specific programmers had done, what they considered best practice or what they wanted to do in the future. Instead, my interest was in the concept of curating. Rather than focusing on activities that programmers had done, I decided to take a theoretical approach and build an argument that the concept of curating could be used by performing arts programmers to support activities aimed at decolonization. To support my claim for the usefulness of the concept of curating in performing arts, I have used three cases of university programmers booking 14 Indigenous artists. These cases, however, are not case studies in the sense in which this term is often used in social science research, including in qualitative and mixed methods educational research. Rather, consistent with the construction of a theoretical argument, they serve as examples that support and illustrate my claims about the usefulness of the concept of curating. In other words, when I refer to “cases,” therefore, this does not signal that I am carrying out case study research, in which qualitative and/or and quantitative data from cases are analyzed and the findings used to answer research questions. Rather, I refer to curatorial and programmatic decisions and events as examples that illustrate or challenge perspectives on curating in the performing arts put forward in the scholarly literature. For the cases from Montclair State University and Arizona State University I referred to publicly available documents such as statements on the universities’ websites, articles, and published statements from the artists. I do not know any of the participants and I did not interview them. For my own case, I downloaded university information from the website and a video of the performance of the work-in-progress that I saw, which refreshed my memory of the show. I read published interviews with the artists about this work and reviews of this show. Since I no longer work at the Chan Centre, I relied on memory and personal notes regarding other aspects of the performance. Because I am building an argument focused on the concepts of curating and the curatorial, rather than answering empirical research questions, I decided not to interview the programmers or the artists in the cases. My main interest is the potential of using the concepts of curating and the curatorial in the performing arts and the three cases allowed me to explore a range of practices. I 15 believe that interviews would have focused my study overly on the specific details of the cases and taken the focus away from using the cases as a basis for a theoretical exploration of the concepts of curating and the curatorial. Since I use my own experience, I do have additional information on one case, but my interest in using my own experience was to show a range of practices and I felt that the Chan Centre case demonstrated a middle ground between the other two cases and the way that programmers in universities approached working with Indigenous artists. 1.8.1 Case Selection The first case study involves a dispute between Jed Wheeler and Emily Johnson of the Yup’ik Nation. I heard about this dispute through an email sent by the Western Arts Alliance in support of Johnson. I was interested in this example because I could not help thinking of ways that it could have been handled differently by the programmer. It made me reflect on the pros and cons of my own practice and how I have tried to incorporate social justice in my work. What interested me about the Wheeler and Johnson dispute was how to make programing practice more just, how programmers translate their social justice goals into their practice and how to move from theory to practice. The two other cases were chosen because they included elements that linked them to the Johnson/Wheeler case: Indigenous artists and university venues. I chose three cases to demonstrate my thinking on this topic and what I believe is a continuum of practice from poor to 16 better, although all three examples have opportunity for future development for programmers who are interested in decolonization. In choosing the cases I was interested in university venues because that is my experience so I understand the pros and cons of presenting within an academic environment. Also, I chose university venues because universities are institutions based on knowledge production, which fit with exploring the idea of the curatorial as knowledge production. University presenters often have different mandates from commercial presenters, who are usually focused primarily on revenue-earning and I was interested in looking at venues with a mandate that included education. But universities are also hierarchical and bureaucratic environments, which can interfere with or support a programmer’s autonomy and I was interested in how programmers negotiate with university leadership. Although my argument is built upon cases situated in university contexts, I believe my argument is applicable to any venue that is part of a large institution because those programmers will grapple with similar issues of institutional structures, hierarchies, and bureaucracy. For example, many venues in Canada are owned by school districts and city governments and I believe my argument is applicable to venues within those governing structures. I also choose three examples of programmers working with Indigenous artists in order to explore decolonization specifically. All three programmers had a practice of booking diverse artists and I am interested in how institutional curators work with independent artists, especially Indigenous artists. How does this power imbalance influence their curating? What do they do or not do in 17 relation to this power imbalance? These three cases demonstrate how work beyond the stage, beyond just booking the artist, could influence outcomes and decolonization goals. I was interested in what opportunities were missed and what could be learned from analyzing and comparing these situations. The three universities are located in different parts of North America and in two different countries. American universities often have a different funding model from Canadian universities with much less financial support from the public sector and more reliance on donors. The universities are also different sizes, which is reflected in their enrolment (see appendix). Although the programmers and venues are situated in different institutions I think the university context, no matter what the size, brings up specific issues that are relevant to my study. As Chávez and Skelchy (2019) state, “decolonization demands fundamental changes in relations of power, worldviews, the role of scholars, and our relationships to the university system as an industry” (p. 119). 1.9 Significance of this Study This study addresses a lack of scholarship on curating in the performing arts; considers the limitations of programming by itself to further decolonization goals and offers practical and theoretical direction for performing arts programmers who want to take steps to further decolonization in their practice and explore the educative potential of the concept of the curatorial in the pursuit of decolonialization. 18 Although visual arts scholarship offers a starting point for developing a concept of curating in performing arts, there are significant differences between the art forms that limit the relevance and applicability of visual arts scholarship on curating. Some performance scholars suggest that a theory of curating in performing arts must take into account the unique aspects of live performance while others express concern about adopting the concept of curating at all. There is scholarship on social justice, decolonization and the visual arts addressing topics such as curators’ positionality, increasing diversity, education and outreach, repatriation and institutional structures. Because the concept of curating is just beginning to be used in performing arts, there is little scholarship that connects social justice, decolonization, performing arts, and the role of the curator. This study will look at ways that programmers in the performing arts have pursued social justice and decolonization in their work and I will argue that the concept of curating offers programmers additional methods to address decolonization in their practice beyond the stage. In addition, I will look at the concept of the curatorial in the visual arts and explore its educative potential and linkages to the educational ideas of Dewey, Biesta and Rancière. 19 Chapter 2: The Visual Arts: Curating, Social Justice and Decolonization 2.1 The Evolution of Concept of Curating in the Visual Arts The concept of curating has a long history starting with the Roman bureaucrats who were responsible for public works like roads and aqueducts. By the Middles Ages the term had been taken up by the Christian church to refer to parish priests who care for the souls of their parishioners (Balzer, 2014). In the 16th and 17th centuries the Western precursors to museums emerged. These vast private collections of objects from around the world were emblems of colonialism and imperialism (Balzer, 2014) and many of these objects were stolen (Colwell, 2015; Hicks, 2020; Hopkins, 2017; Moulton, 2018; Nave 2019). The curator cared for these items on behalf of their owners, usually royalty, aristocrats, wealthy merchants. One example of this type of collection is the Royal Society’s Repository in England. In the 18th and 19th centuries public museums appeared but the collections were cluttered, unlabeled and represented the spoils of war and imperialism to showcase the state’s wealth and power. Curators of these collections had a role similar to a librarian or academic (Balzer, 2014). In the mid-19th century “selection-based exhibits” such as salons and expositions chosen by a jury began to develop. In 1863, in reaction to this development, the first Salon des Refusés was held for artists rejected by the jury for the state-sanctioned salon. There was no curator because artists curated the exhibition themselves in opposition to academic and jury-related practices of the time. The early 20th century saw the rise of avant-garde, with its focus on new art and new ways of exhibiting it. Alfred Barr, the first director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York 20 City from 1929 to 1943, was influential in introducing new ideas for the display of artwork, like the white cube, which are so familiar today (Balzer, 2014). The 1960s and 1970s was a time of increased experimentation and pushing against the status quo. Two notable curators who emerged at this time were Harald Szeemann and Walter Hopps. In 1969 Harald Szeemann’s show, Live in Your Head: When Attitudes Become Form was controversial for many reasons but I will highlight two in particular. Szeeman was accused of using artists’ work as “raw material” for his own artistic expression (Balzer, 2014). He was also criticized by artists because they wanted a say in how their work was exhibited. O’Neill (2012) describes Szeeman’s “balancing act” between the curator’s concept and autonomy of the artwork. Increasingly an artwork was not separate from the mediation and display of it, giving the curator more influence. By the 1980s exhibits were seen as individual curatorial statements or narratives, which resulted in the curator being prominent in the discourse on exhibiting art. Criticism emerged that the curator was imposing meaning on the work and ignoring the context of the individual artwork, which implied that curating was a kind of artistic production. The idea that a curator should be an invisible hand behind the scenes was no longer regular practice (O’Neill, 2012). O’Neill (2012) describes the increasing professionalization and institutionalization of curating, which he dates from 1987, the launch of the first two academic programs for curating, which made curating an area of academic study and a career choice. The 1990s brought the emergence of publications on history, innovation, and models of curating practice signaling an increasing focus on the methods 21 of displaying work over the work itself. Now, meaning came from the exhibit and the discourse centred on the curators, which lead to the rise of the “star” curator. 2.2 The “Turns” in Curating O’Neill (2012) gives a good overview of the various themes and “turns” in the evolution of the concept of curating since the 1970s. These include the shift in focus from the curator to curating (i.e., noun to verb), new institutionalism, and the blurring of roles between artists, curators and critics. However, there are four developments that are especially relevant for my study: the “social turn,” the “educational turn,” the “discursive turn” and the “Indigenous turn.” Bishop (2012) discusses the social turn as a shift in curating from focusing on art objects to participatory art of action. This shift led to an interest in including performing arts in gallery spaces and curators beginning to grapple with issues related to performing arts, which has informed some of the scholarship on curating. O’Neill (2012) describes how talks and educational programs have moved from a secondary role in support of an exhibit to being the main event. This educational turn has resulted in the increased use of pedagogical models where the educative process becomes the object of curatorial production. He also argues that discourse is now essential to the role of curator through publications on history, innovation, and models of curating practice. Discourse can be privileged over the experience of art and as curating becomes less about exhibiting art objects and more about discourse, the discursive turn creates a framework for interacting with other disciplines and moving beyond the boundaries of visual arts (O’Neill, 2012). 22 In Indigenous art, an important shift happened in the 1990s when Indigenous artists started entering art museums on their own terms (Myers, 2020). Previously, Indigenous art was typically collected in ethnographic museums and was often not considered art at all by the dominant culture art world. This shift was followed by the so-called “Global Turn” around 2000, which meant a new focus on Indigenous artwork, discourses and practices (García-Antón, 2018). However, García-Antón suggests that this “turn” was a response to the Modernist tendency to be universal and encyclopedic rather than a true search for new knowledge. She suggests that the “Indigenous Turn” that followed is seen by many Indigenous people as a non-Indigenous project. She cautions that there are risks of misunderstanding and misappropriation when non-Indigenous thinkers reach out for Indigenous knowledge. She optimistically believes that current criticism, artistic and curatorial processes are created with an awareness of the entanglement of Indigenous and non-Indigenous perspectives and an understanding that there is a wide diversity of Indigenous discourses, as varied as the histories, colonial experiences and daily realities of the many different communities. More recently, galleries have been hiring Indigenous guest curators and permanent, full-time curatorial staff. Borell (2020), looking at Indigenous curating from the perspective of presenting Maori art in New Zealand, comments that historically galleries hired guest curators or had no Maori input at all on their exhibits. Hiring guest curators faces the same problems and limitations as booking diverse artists (see sections 3.3.6 and 3.3.10.2). Borell (Pirirākau, Ngāi Te Rangi, Ngāti Ranginui, Te Whakatōhea) gives an example of an exhibit where the guest curator could not get buy-in from the institution so they had to add a non-Maori curator. Borell defines curatorial authority as the curator’s power and mandate to shape the exhibition from concept to 23 exhibition display and to create the interpretation on behalf of the institution and its stakeholders. He proposes approaches such as hiring a permanent Maori curator, creating an advisory group, creating a Maori curatorial team and co-curating with community members. He states that institutional Maori curatorial roles have been pivotal to allowing for more informed types of authority and agency to be privileged in art museums. He sees this as one of the most significant developments of past 30 years – specialist Maori curatorial roles for those of Maori descent in presenting contemporary Maori art within art institutions. In a Canadian context, the Winnipeg Art Gallery has hired full-time Indigenous staff (Greyeyes et al., 2020) and in February 2022, the National Gallery of Canada (National Gallery, 2022) announced the formation of a Department of Indigenous Ways and Decolonization along with the creation of two senior positions to oversee the department. These positions were filled by Indigenous people. (However, the gallery’s on-going commitment is unclear. In late 2022 senior staff were let go, including the senior curator of Indigenous art (CBC, 2022)). In the 2010s the concept of curating started to become a marketing tool and the word is now used in many contexts outside of art. In popular culture it is used to mean selection, particularly of consumer goods (Balzer, 2014; Cohen, 2018). However, I believe that Cohen (2018) makes an important distinction. Although “curating” in popular culture has resulted in a dilution and lack of precision in the meaning, she argues that there is still a lot to gain by expanding how it is used in the art world because broadening the definition of curating offers an opportunity to include a greater range of perspectives about what art can mean and who it is intended for. 24 2.3 The Role of Curating in the Visual Arts to Further Social Justice 2.3.1 Curator Positionality Curator Massimiliano Gioni (Thea, 2009) believes that curators are diplomats and should help create exhibits without their own politics getting in the way. In contrast Milevska (2013) describes the concept of “curatorial agency” where a curator is not a passive programmer but rather an active social agent who contributes to the understanding of art between groups towards an improvement of society in general. I think it is important that curators do not hide behind a cloak of neutrality as Gioni suggests. By selecting specific artwork curators are choosing to use their institutions’ resources to bring attention to an artist. This can be problematic when an artist has controversial viewpoints professionally and/or personally, whether their views are expressed in their artwork or not. This issue can come up when exhibiting older work where an artist may have had views that were acceptable in their lifetime but are now considered outdated or offensive. For example, I attended the exhibit, Uninvited: Canadian Women Artists in the Modern Moment at the Vancouver Art Gallery in the fall of 2022. In the exhibit they displayed a painting by Prudence Heward called Dark Girl. The didactic panel questioned the artist’s possible motivations for painting the young Black girl, suggesting positive and negative ones, and mentioned that there were racist criticisms of the painting at the time it was painted. I appreciated this direct approach to the problematic nature of this painting. Garneau (2016) notes that “exhibitions of Indigenous art shown within a dominant culture space are always in-formed by the worldviews of the managers of those spaces” (p. 35). Curator Candice Hopkins (2017), a citizen of Carcross/Tagish First Nation, gives an example of the 2013 25 exhibit at the National Gallery in Ottawa called Sakahàn: International Indigenous Art. Indigenous artist Nadia Myre incorporated a political statement in her artwork that demanded that the government honour the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. The gallery decided to post a disclaimer with a statement that the views of the artist did not necessarily reflect the views of the gallery. This statement was later applied to the exhibit as a whole and not just Myre’s artwork. Although further exploration of this issue is beyond the scope of this study, I believe it is important challenge the idea that a curator’s politics do not “get in the way.” A first step towards furthering social justice through curating is for curators to question their assumptions and biases (Reilly, 2018) and acknowledge their position of influence and power within the field and within their organization (Joachim, 2018; Reilly, 2018). Curators need to question the idea of curator as expert and create space that “shifts the location of curatorial thought from the tower to the ground” (Lawrence & Jacques, 2021, p. 56) by collaborating with community and giving value to knowledge and methodologies that have not previously been seen as relevant to art history and curating. 2.4 Typical Approaches for Pursuing Social Justice in Visual Arts Curators typically use four methods to pursue social justice in their practice: increase diversity in the artists they select, exhibit artists who address social justice themes, increase diversity in audiences, and create education and outreach activities to explore social justice topics and to connect with diverse communities. I will discuss each of these in turn. 26 2.4.1 Artist Diversity Artist selection is a powerful form of gatekeeping because it is based on ideas of quality, excellence and relevance, for discovering the ‘new’ and presenting the ‘best.’ Curators’ criteria for selecting artists are based on their education (formal and informal), the type of art they are exposed to (or choose to expose themselves to) and their positionality, biases and assumptions. All of these elements serve as the basis for their artistic choices. So, like Reilly (2018) and Buurman (2017), I believe it is crucial that curators question the basis for their decisions, especially when it comes to concepts such as “greatness” and “genius.” Curators need to consider how to redefine the idea of greatness in relation to the legacy of past exclusions (Reilly, 2018). Anderson (2020) notes that who is exhibited in the gallery “valorizes” some artists and Ünsal (2019) urges curators to “demonumentalize” certain knowledges while acknowledging and incorporating knowledges that have been ignored/excluded. Inclusion alone, however, is not enough. Reilly (2018) cautions that attempting to increase diversity by just adding a few artists to an exhibit maintains the “canons” of Western male foundations and hierarchies. Similarly, Rogoff (2014) says that inclusion only causes expansion but does not promise any change. Some scholars propose that curating that is focused on relationships or collective work is a way to address social justice through inclusion (Crawshay-Hall, 2020; Marstine & Ho Hing Kay, 2021; O’Neill, 2009/10). Connecting with community through power-sharing and collaboration can challenge assumptions and create lasting change (Joachim, 2018). 27 2.4.2 Artists and Social Justice Themes Another typical method for curators who are interested in furthering social justice is to select artists who address social justice themes in their work. In this way, curators can facilitate colonized, racialized and/or otherwise marginalized communities to represent their experiences on their own terms and according to their own truths and values (Ünsal, 2019). Some curators pursue social justice by creating exhibits that confront “difficult knowledge” (Anderson, 2018; Simon, 2014), such as genocide and war. But even when it is the artist who is addressing social justice themes, Simon (2014) and Rogoff (2014) acknowledge the curator’s influence. Simon (2014) advises curators to consider the ways that they can change the context, which changes the contact with the audience and their response. Rogoff (2014) suggests that curating must “enter contemporary urgencies” rather than just commenting on them or using them as subject matter. I am intrigued by her use of the word “enter,” which suggests to me that a curator, through their curating work, can actively participate in contemporary challenges. In Chapter 4 I will explore how the programmers in my cases approached, and to what extent they “entered,” the contemporary urgency of decolonization. 2.4.3 Audience Diversity Endeavoring to increase diversity in audiences is another method curators use to pursue social justice. Kinsley (2016) argues that attendance is a matter of social justice so more work needs to be done to include diverse audiences. Blackwood and Purcell (2014) make the salient point that organizations need to look at the role of curators and how their actions may reduce attendance and participation by some audiences when they focus on narratives of whiteness, white artists, and structures that benefit white people. Without building relationships with communities it can 28 seem opportunistic or instrumentalizing to market particular exhibitions to specific communities that the organization does not usually engage with. 2.4.4 Education and Outreach Villeneuve and Love (2017) argue for a closer relationship between curators and education departments in museums. In contrast, O’Neill (2002) argues that education and outreach are a “welfare model” that offers “crumbs” to people who are less well off as a way to get them to museums. Although O’Neill’s article is a little dated and looks at a British context, I think his concerns are still relevant in Canada today. Some presenters see education and outreach programs as ways to connect with diverse audiences in order to increase ticket sales. Outreach programs that instrumentalize communities in this way may be seen as cynical ploys rather than sincere efforts to connect. Some efforts at education, for example by making exhibits accessible, are criticized for being “dumbed down.” O’Neill (2002) addresses this criticism by arguing that museums need to treat all visitors with the same respect regardless of their experience or background. It is necessary, but challenging, to balance the expectations of audience members who are experienced with an art form with attracting people who are new to it. Jackson (2019), in discussing the curating work of Candice Hopkins, points out another pitfall of education and outreach programs. She acknowledges that education and public programs can start conversations but often do not sustain them. Hopkins proposes that these conversations can be sustained through the bodies and minds that circulate beyond the original encounter or experience, which extends the role of curator beyond the exhibit. For curators who are interested in social justice the idea of the 29 conversation continuing beyond the initial experience may be an interesting one and this is an idea I will be exploring further in my study through the concept of the curatorial. 2.5 Other Approaches: Organizational Structure and Repatriation Social justice goals can also be reflected within an organization’s structure. Black feminist art historian, Joana Joachim (2018), remarks that it is about inclusion not just in the art but also in the infrastructure (e.g., board of directors). She suggests that the status quo is maintained not only by not including Black artists in collections but by not hiring curators who know this art. Havránek (2017) acknowledges that curators have critiqued their institutions but this critique did not result in real change because it did not address the horizontal and vertical structures within institutions. I believe that institutional hierarchies, polices, and staffing are an important reflection of an institution’s social justice commitments. In the three cases in Chapter 4, I explore how the institutional structures and policies influenced the outcomes. Also, in section 5.3, I look at the publicly stated social justice commitments of each institution and whether the actions of the programmer and the institution matched those commitments. Some curators who work in collecting institutions have encountered the social justice issue of how their collections were obtained and demands for repatriation of objects (for example, objects looted from Africa by the British (Hicks, 2020; Nave 2019) or stolen from Indigenous communities (Colwell, 2015; Hopkins, 2017; Moulton, 2018). Robinson (2020) notes that the “salvage paradigm” was often used to justify this theft: the idea that Indigenous people were dying out so salvaging their art was the way to preserve it. 30 Stolen objects have often ended up far from the communities that made them and some objects may be displayed that were not intended to be seen. Objects that are “hoarded” by institutions can result in Indigenous people being unable to engage with their own objects (Moulton, 2018). Although programmers in the performing arts do not deal with objects, they may face issues of appropriation and repatriation of intellectual property, which I will touch on in the performing arts section 3.3.5. These issues are extremely important but they are complex and require their own research and study, so they will not be central to my project. 2.6 Considerations for Working with Indigenous Artists Although decolonization has similarities to other social justice issues such as Black liberation and LGBTQ+ and disability rights, and shared histories of harm, fighting for rights and combatting violence, like those other topics decolonization also has its own unique history, interests, struggles and complex and troubled relationships with institutions such as police, government and universities. However, as I discussed briefly in the previous chapter, decolonization has different goals from other social justice issues because it is about “the repatriation of Indigenous land and life” (Tuck & Yang, 2012, p. 21). They acknowledge that it is to settlers’ advantage to lump decolonization together with other issues by overlooking the specificity of it and the distinct concerns of decolonization. Subsuming decolonization under other social justice issues is a form of “settler appropriation” (p. 3) and Tuck and Yang comment that often when discussing decolonization there is little acknowledgment of the immediate context of settler colonialism. 31 Tuck and Yang (2018) also call out practices that use the concerns of different groups, such as Indigenous or Black people, as counterpoints to separate and divide people who are fighting for justice, which reduces the power of people with different concerns to work together. They reference Erevelles who “critiques the way in which disability studies have traditionally centered the figure of a normative disabled citizen who is not Black, female, queer, ill, or otherwise intersectionally Othered” (p. 13). It is crucial to acknowledge what is similar between different social justice struggles as well as what makes them unique and, in the case of decolonization, what is unique is the repatriation of land and its resources. 2.6.1 Dominance of Western European Perspectives The social order and structures imposed on Indigenous people reverberate in the art world today. For example, the idea of a curator as an expert can block opportunities to explore horizontal and co-learning methods that give value to the knowledge of all participants regardless of position, title or discipline (Lawrence & Jacques, 2021). The concept of curator, as it is understood in the European sense, is often a “fashionable” curator working in ways that are not accountable to Indigenous communities and sites (Eshraghi, 2018). Also, the Western canon and Western European perspectives on art are privileged over Indigenous ones (Chitham 2020; Garcia-Antón, 2018). This bias can lead to a hierarchy where certain Indigenous arts, art forms and practices are favoured over others because they fulfil Western tastes and connect with the Western art aesthetic (Chitham, 2020). Although there is an increased push for museums to look for Indigenous artists, art institutions still struggle to engage meaningfully with Indigenous thinking (Ismahasan, 2018). Too often 32 Indigenous art is contextualized within Western art history rather than with a consideration of Indigenous theory and practice (Garneau, 2018). A Eurocentric reading cannot give deep understanding or engagement with Indigenous practice and knowledge. The Indigenous context of cultural practice and history must be considered in order to get a full understanding of Indigenous art (Eshraghi, 2018). Museums often perpetuate the lie that the Western lens is the “right” one and white people still determine the “value” of art, for example, by deeming some art more “authentic,” thus more valuable (Moulton, 2018). This distinction between traditional (authentic) art and contemporary art can influence curatorial decisions. But the concept of “authenticity” is a Western measure of validity (Chitham, 2020), which can limit innovation in Indigenous art because it denies the maker use of new techniques, which can be incorporated into a developing cultural practice (Moulton, 2018). When Indigenous artists use traditional forms, their work may not be considered contemporary art, which affects their inclusion in contemporary galleries, criticism and scholarship. Traditional art is often seen in terms of craft, not art, so it is relegated to ethnographic museums instead of being shown in art galleries. Freja Carmichael (2020), a Ngugi woman speaking from an Australian context, says there is no distinction between art and craft in Aboriginal art because creative practice, whether aesthetic or functional, is vital to their culture and identity. Indigenous artists who learn from family or community members may be seen as less artistically sophisticated because they did not attend art school (Myers, 2020). 33 Chitham (Ngā Puhi) (2020) states that artists who use methods that are considered traditional should not be discounted from being considered in a contemporary context, because their work can still “embrace the present” by responding to issues and themes that are relevant to themselves and their communities. Borell (2020) cites an example of “customary” (traditional) and contemporary art being presented as “connected conversations.” Inuk scholar Igloliorte (2020) makes a related point that Inuit art does not need to take the form of “traditional” Inuit art or craft in order to be a part of the continuation of their traditions, because it is the presence of Inuit knowledge, values and teachings that demonstrate continuity. Traditional art is not static; it has developed over centuries and is continually innovating, absorbing variations, and evolving (Chitham, 2020; Myers, 2020). Curator, artist and scholar Lisa Myers (2020), from Beausoleil First Nation, references artist Deborah Doxtator’s idea of the “ever-changing dynamics of tradition” and notes that Doxtator explained how variation and change are fundamental to “what one might consider traditional.” (p. 196) These Indigenous ideas of tradition challenge the Western European concept of tradition as static. 2.6.2 Structures that Reinforce Power In addition to decentring Western European thought, we need to critically look at the power structures built into Western European models of curating. Inclusion and representation in existing structures may be limited in their power to make change (Lawrence & Jacques, 2021; Williamson Bathory et al., 2021). The question is who is telling the story (Borell, 2020) and who has the power to include and exclude (Williamson Bathory et al., 2021). For example, when non-Indigenous curators look to Indigenous artists who tackle social justice themes, they often focus on the tropes of Indigenous suffering and injustice (Garneau, 2018), which limits how 34 Indigenous artists and communities are seen and centres the perspective of white people. As mentioned in section 2.2, galleries may address reconciliation by hiring Indigenous guest curators. This approach has the same problems and limitations related to increasing artist diversity through representation and inclusion (see section 2.4.1), especially because these positions are temporary and short-term so the curator is not in a position to influence or change power structures in the institution. Curators must consider where the discourse is situated, who is defining the problems, and who is deciding who is involved (Todd, 2015). Warren (Mattes & Warren, 2020) acknowledges that reconciliation is guiding change but it is fraught because it often falls on Indigenous people to do the work. Warren suggests that settlers need to ask who is responsible for reconciliation. 2.6.3 Scholarship Igloliorte (2020) notes that almost all Inuit art (past and contemporary) has been interpreted by Qallunaat2 This lack of Inuit scholars has led to a lack of Inuit perspectives and knowledge in the research and writing on Inuit art. She points out the “deep imbalance” between who is being written about and who is doing the writing. Yorta Yorta curator Kimberley Moulton (2018) points out that “dislocation” is strengthened by non-Indigenous people researching Indigenous people. Garneau (2018) makes an important observation that when the scholar is not Indigenous and the Indigenous art is only visible because of its proximity to white witnessing, the result is a settler 2 The Inuktitut term for non-Inuit (Igloliorte, 2020; Lavers et al., 2022) or used more specifically to refer to white people (Schwan & Lightman, 2015). 35 text. I believe that a similar argument could be made that exhibits of Indigenous artwork without input from Indigenous communities are settler exhibits, created for settler audiences and centring settler interests and perspectives. As Metis scholar Zoe Todd (2015) points out, white public spaces that are filled with white people minimize the experience of racism and we need to dismantle structures that perpetuate this in order to change the conversation. 2.6.4 Alternatives to Western European Models of Curating In my readings a number of approaches to working with Indigenous artists appeared consistently: collaboration; collectivity; relationship-building, reciprocity, respect and responsibility (Borell, 2020; Cumpston, 2020; Garneau, 2018; Greyeyes et al., 2020; Hopkins, 2017; Ismahasan, 2018; Lawrence & Jacques, 2021; Moulton, 2018; Willard, 2021; Williamson Bathory et al., 2021). All of these methods challenge the power structures of institutions and their curators. Museums usually focus on the curator, the collector, not on the “collected” (Moulton, 2018). In working with Indigenous artists, museums and galleries need to move away from the star curator model so that they can value different knowledge systems and decentre Western European thought (Todd, 2015). Instead of being the expert a curator can act as “conduit” for the cultural experts and elders in the community and the wisdom they hold whether they have a Western education or not (Moulton, 2018). Greyeyes et al., (2020) offer an example from the Winnipeg Art Gallery where, after consultation with the community, the gallery created a multi-generational advisory council and an Elders Council and these councils were then included in discussions on governance, outreach, partnerships and programming. 36 Collaboration builds capacity, which helps push back against Eurocentric/masculine models (Greyeyes et al., 2020). Collaboration also builds trust and lasting relationships, which can be transformative for artists and their communities (Cumpston, 2020). Borell (2020) goes as far as to say that collaborative ways of working are essential and ethical. Creating opportunity for agency with the community can break barriers that have been created by white institutions and create lasting legacy (Moulton, 2018). But working with Indigenous artists and communities is not just about including them in existing structures (i.e., increasing representation). It is also about valuing different organizational structures and re-thinking and challenging existing structures and institutional norms (Lawrence & Jacques, 2021; Williamson Bathory et al., 2021) and in some cases dismantling existing structures in order to break the barriers that have been created by white institutions (Moulton, 2018). Ismahasan (2018), referring to the Indigenous people of Taiwan, states that cultural sovereignty and cultural self-determination are not about including another cultural group in the broader arts/cultural landscape. Instead, it is about carving out a space where traditional and contemporary Indigenous artists and scholars can be a creative and intellectual force for their entire country to examine and develop its understanding of its cultural meaning. Thus, cultural sovereignty is not just about embracing a counter narrative to the dominant culture. Eshraghi (2018) notes that a key barrier for the non-Indigenous understanding of the variety of Indigenous practices and histories is a continuing lack of engagement with Indigenous languages, aesthetics, knowledges and ceremonial-political structures. Eshraghi (2018) believes that the viewer has a responsibility “to engage in order to centre Indigenous ways of knowing 37 and being” (p. 248). Thus, it is not just the curator or the institution that has a responsibility to engage but also the audience. I believe that curators and institutions can create opportunities for engagement through dialogue. The power of dialogue is echoed in Todd’s (2015) idea of “reciprocal discourse” between colonizer and colonized and Greyeyes et al.’s (2020) interest in “dialogic aesthetics,” which is based on an understanding of “arts as a mode for witnessing, thinking about, and interpreting the dilemmas facing Indigenous communities” (p. 128). Tania Willard (2021), a mixed Secwépemc and settler artist, uses a “constellation” of collaborative practices to engage different publics and describes listening as a way of social justice and labels this work as collaborative and dialogic. Williamson Bathory et al. (2021) describe a similar idea of the transmission of knowledge through relationships. These ideas of engagement through dialogue are particularly relevant for my thesis because I will be exploring the concept of the curatorial as knowledge production, which can occur through discourse facilitated by curators. 38 Chapter 3: The Performing Arts: Social Justice and Decolonization 3.1 Positionality As I discussed in Chapter 2, visual arts curators with a commitment to social justice goals are being asked to acknowledge and reflect on their positionality. In the performing arts, similarly, it is crucial for programmers who are interested in social justice to reflect on their positionality, both personally and professionally. A programmer’s personal identity (race, gender, sexuality, class, etc.) and their position in their organization and the art world more generally, shape their perspective, power, and influence. Especially when programmers work for large, well-funded institutions, they need to reflect on their positionality within their community. A programmer’s positionality may make them unaware of the politics in their choices. For example, a white male curator may highlight the politics in their choice to book non-dominant culture artists but not see the politics in booking a season of only male artists. A political stance may only be “seen” in the work of women or marginalized artists. 3.2 How Social Justice Goals Have Been Taken Up in the Performing Arts In both the performing arts and the visual arts programmers and curators use similar methods to pursue social justice goals and I will briefly outline the typical ones. However, I acknowledge that the ways a programmer or curator might approach these typical methods will vary depending on their positionality. For example, settler and Indigenous curators would likely approach and implement the goal of increasing artist diversity in different ways. 39 3.2.1 Increase Diversity in Artist Selection One of the most common method programmers use to address social justice is to increase diversity in their artist selection. Although increasing representation seems straightforward, it has a number of pitfalls. The assumptions and biases around the nature of “greatness” and “genius” that exist in the visual arts also arise in the performing arts, especially in the classical forms of music, theatre and dance. Programmers with a background in these classical forms may have a bias towards certain criteria of what makes an artist worthy of booking. For example, the musical scale used in Western European classical music is not universal and music using other scales may seem “out of tune” or the skill that is required in certain types of music may be overlooked by programmers who are only familiar with Western European traditions. As Robinson (2020) notes, our listening is guided by our positionality, which is an intersection of habit, ability and bias. He states that there is a responsibility in listening and that we should be self-reflexively aware of our positions. The performing arts are often included in cultural festivals that celebrate multiculturalism and diversity, which can be problematic if programmers do not question these concepts (Chalmers, 2002; Gorski, 2019) or, worse, reinforce cultural stereotypes (Pyper, 2016). Programmers need to ask themselves what they are doing when they present non-Western music (Chávez & Skelchy, 2019). For example, are they programming diverse artists merely to entertain or educate white audiences without engaging with diverse communities? DeFrantz (2017), an African American scholar and artist, states that: 40 None of us want to be implicated in using black people as “props” to make art for white people. And yet, crassly, this is what seems to happen far too often when curators commission or present artists of color as part of their series. (p. 9) Ferdman and Eckersall (2021) ask how we can move away from what they call “Noah’s Ark” programming that “takes two of everything and rapidly consumes art from diverse places, often appropriating others’ cultures and traditions” (p. 11). South African scholar Brett Pyper (2016) makes an important point that, if transformative agendas are going to influence curating, then attention needs to be paid to issues of cultural display. He believes that without a curatorial strategy, cultural musical performances can become a visual spectacle rather than “culturally informed music showcases” (p. 32). He notes that creatively and sensitively curated shows would be “historically informed yet framed as living traditions” (p. 39). This aspect of living traditions is important to note regarding all artists working in traditional art forms, including Indigenous artists. Traditional art forms are not static and they evolve as artists perform and adapt them. Inclusion can also be mere tokenism that does not actually create change or challenge structures. “When diversity is used to perpetuate privilege, power inequalities and status quo, it stands for nothing” (Madrid, 2017, p. 126). Madrid’s pointed criticism can be applied to high-priced performance series held in traditional performance venues. One example, is the Chan Centre’s mainstage series, “Chan Presents.” This series included many diverse artists but it had high ticket prices and was held in a venue associated with colonial, European values on a university campus. The series attracted an affluent, mainly white, audience who likely felt comfortable and welcome 41 in that type of venue. Thus, these types of presentations can perpetuate privilege and power imbalances and exclude people because of their substantial ticket prices and location and by “presenting to” diverse communities without engaging with them. Another potential pitfall when attempting to increase artist diversity is the issue of cultural appropriation, which occurs when an art form or other elements of another culture are used without due acknowledgment of its/their origins or in inappropriate ways (e.g., sacred imagery used in logos), especially when members of the dominant culture use elements from a minority culture. Cultural appropriation is an issue that affects curatorial decisions and can be especially problematic in collaborative art forms that may include people of different backgrounds. Programmers who are members of the dominant cultural group must be sensitive to and aware of who has decision-making power and who is influencing and controlling the narrative. Pyper (2016) suggests questioning who shaped the terms for the collaboration and whose standards are being used to judge it. Robinson (2020) notes the example of Indigenous songs being treated as if they are aesthetic material and resources rather than cultural practice. He points out that: Composers who make works that represent Indigenous history, culture, and people have consistently failed to enter into a long-term practice of relation with the very people they create work about, as well as with the larger political history and present-day contexts of the communities they represent through their music. (p. 152) A high-profile controversy regarding cultural appropriation was playwright and director Robert Lepage’s production Kanata (Hotte, 2019; Vaïs, 2019). His production included sensitive topics such as residential schools and missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls but was 42 criticized because it did not include input from Indigenous people or any Indigenous performers. The extensive criticism resulted in the Canadian performances being cancelled when a major funder pulled out. A performance example that stands in contrast to Lepage’s Kanata is the chamber opera Missing, which included a libretto by Métis artist Marie Clements and was sung in both English and Gitxsan. 3.2.2 Artists and Social Justice Content Another typical method for programmers who are interested in furthering social justice is to select artists who address social justice themes in their work. In this way, the artist can communicate their concerns and perspective directly to the audience through the performance. Even if the programmer does not share or support the artist’s point of view, I would argue that by choosing the work and putting their organization’s resources toward the production, they may be seen as implicitly supporting the artist’s point of view and, at least, they are showing that they, and therefore their institution, believe this is an artist worth hearing, thinking about and discussing. As mentioned above, a curator’s positionality may influence what they think of as “political.” Art that reflects and reinforces the dominant culture’s perspective may not be seen as “political” whereas art that reflects the point-of-view of marginalized groups may be seen that way. I believe Black artist and educator Marc Bamuthi Joseph (2021) captures an interesting related point of this connection between curator/institution and artist: I think we historically have thought that the curator or the institution expresses a sociopolitical point of view vis-à-vis the artist that they bring into the space. But we are 43 thinking, living, organic kind of citizen institutions as well. As a citizen, then, what’s your responsibility? (p. 55) I find his idea of the responsibility of the institution very interesting and I will explore that idea in relation to institutional statements in my examples in section 5.3. Additionally, institutional support can be an issue in large organizations, such as universities, when a programmer wants to book a work that needs the backing of the university’s administration. For example, if additional resources are required, buy-in is needed from other departments or a programmer might need support if there is controversy. I dealt with this challenge for a Chan Centre performance when an artist used a controversial and derogatory word in the title of her show. Although it was directly related to the political point of the performance, the programming and marketing team felt that we could not include the word at times when we could not contextualize it, such as in marketing materials, advertising and on our outdoor marquee. The Chan Centre’s managing director eventually received approval from the dean to go ahead with the show, with its original title, but we could not have taken that risk without approval from the university leadership. The importance of university leadership is another topic I will explore in my cases in section 5.5. 3.2.3 Increase Audience Diversity Programmers often assume that, if they present work by a specific cultural group, members of that community will attend the performance. Anecdotally I have often heard programmers express surprise and frustration when that does not happen. However, the danger is that communities are instrumentalized as new audiences for ticket sales, without there being any 44 attempt on the part of the presenting organization to create an on-going relationship or connection with the community. As Defrantz (2017) states, “it seems so easy to get to the by and about portions of minoritarian art and its presenting, but the for portion of the equitation calls for the development of trust and communication that arrive rarely among professional curators” (p. 13, italics in original). He adds that curators “imagine the series, and then we try to figure out how to get an audience in the room. But what if we started with the people who might want to be in the room?” (p. 14). Also, programmers who work in venues need to consider how their venue may not be welcoming to diverse communities. For example, at a workshop at the Western Arts Alliance conference in 2019 I heard a humorous, but pointed, description by playwright and choreographer Larissa FastHorse (Sicangu Lakota) of the challenges of attending a show at a traditional venue. In her Indigenous community, the whole family typically attends a performance together, from elders to children, no one is left out. This poses a challenge regarding ticket prices in formal venues, arriving at a specific time and shows that assume that all audience members will sit in silence for over an hour. At the Chan Centre, two series (“Chan Presents” and “Beyond Words”) regularly included artists from diverse communities. For some performances we would see increased ticket sales from communities that did not usually come to the Chan Centre. (This could be determined by methods such as analyzing location demographics indicating that ticket buyers were coming from different neighbourhoods, comments in post-show audience surveys and anecdotal evidence from hearing different languages spoken in the lobby.) But Chan Centre subscribers 45 (i.e., regular attendees) were typically middle-aged and older, white, and middle class to affluent as determined by demographic information gathered through subscriber and audience surveys and ability and willingness to buy high-priced series tickets. 3.2.4 Community Involvement / Socially Engaged Art A fourth approach to pursuing social justice goals in the performing arts is through community theatre, where education is the main goal of the production. Community theatre is often based on techniques from Boal’s Theatre of the Oppressed (1974/2008), which he based on Freire’s work Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1968/1989). Two examples of this model (McDonnell, 2020; Montei, 2011) used testimony from community members to create a play. McDonnell (2020) describes work done in 1980s Britain to educate and initiate resistance to Margaret Thatcher’s policies; Montei (2011) describes a play created to initiate conversations around reconciliation after the genocide in Rwanda to allow for political conversation and collective mourning, which she believes are important ways to incite political action. This type of theatre production is not typically curated because it is usually presented by the theatre group itself, and is often performed in non-professional venues with a small or no entrance fee in order to be accessible to the community. Rennie (2020) uses examples of artist/community sound projects to illustrate that socially engaged art can be non-hierarchical because the artist cedes power to the participants, but I believe these types of productions can exhibit similar issues around power imbalances that research does. For example, an artist (like a researcher) creates the format and structure of the engagement with the community and guides the process. The artist is usually being paid, adding 46 to their resume, and, on occasion, using someone else’s pain or experiences as fodder for the project. If the artist is not a part of the community, once the project ends the artist moves on to other projects. Rennie (2020) acknowledges that there can be issues around an outsider coming into a community, the nature of collaboration, expectations of funders and “personal conflict over the aesthetic validity of resulting work” (p. 111). I believe this quote is a significant comment. If the purpose of the production is to fulfil the artist’s goals (i.e., to have aesthetic validity), then the danger is that the community is being instrumentalized by the artist to fulfil their goals. A similar issue can exist with community theatre. Who is deciding what the community needs to be educated about? Who decides what they need to learn about that particular topic? Is the basis of the production coming from community members or being imposed by the artist? DeFrantz, (2017) asks: I wonder, what if we were to put our faith in the allowance for relationship in community and direct our energy toward what people in that community actually value as engaged art practice; we might come up with models that service and inspire communities of color in unexpected ways. (p. 10) Productions that primarily use non-professional performers can be a challenge for professional presenters. I encountered this challenge in my work at the Chan Centre when our marketing department rejected a performance I proposed because the performers were non-professionals. For this performance, a UBC professor collaborated with veterans to create a theatre piece performed by the veterans that addressed their experiences. The Chan Centre marketing staff 47 were concerned that a performance with non-professional performers would not meet the standards that our audiences expected so it would be difficult to sell tickets to the production. I will address the topic of community involvement in performing arts productions in more detail in connection with my cases in Chapter 5. 3.2.5 Education and Outreach Education and outreach often overlap but I will define educational activities as those with the primary goal to educate. Educational activities include pre-show talks by experts, workshops and masterclasses. People who attend the educational activities may or may not attend the performance. I define outreach activities as those that encourage engagement with the venue or artistic organization, often with the goal of encouraging ticket purchase, but also to raise awareness of the group, raise money and/or enhance its reputation the community. For example, a Chan Centre activity that we counted as outreach was a series of films at the Pacific Cinematheque that linked to our performances. For some arts groups, education and outreach may form part of their artistic process but for programmers in venues, education and outreach activities may or may not involve the artist. University venues may include education as one of their goals in addition to their presenting goals. Education and outreach activities require funding and staff resources in addition to the resources required for the performance. Performing arts scholarship includes many examples of outreach programs. Just two Canadian examples of this type of work are a theatre program for Rohingya refugee youth (Zine, 2018) and circus training for Inuit youth (Lavers et al., 2022; Schwan & Lightman, 2015). The circus program is a particularly interesting example. Schwan and Lightman (2015) critique the 48 shortcomings of the program, which involved artists from outside the community flying in to lead it. Lavers et al. (2022) describe how the program was re-instituted using goals to decolonize the program and included robust partnering with the community which resulted in creating a successful outreach program the second time around. Performances that are created from these programs are similar to community theatre and other non-professional work in that they are not usually curated. However, curators can pursue social justice goals by linking outreach and education programs and events to a professional performance. These activities can involve the professional artist (e.g., master classes, workshops) or they can be created without input from the artist (e.g., pre-show talks, panel discussions). These types of ancillary activities mirror the “educational turn” in visual arts as described by O’Neill (2012) where discursive activities are increasingly part of a curator’s responsibilities. At the Chan Centre, we had varying degrees of success with these types of ancillary activities but we generally booked at least one for each performance to fulfill our educational goals as a university presenter. A particularly successful example was a panel on obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) that included the artist, experts on the disorder and people with OCD. The event was held in a community centre in Olympic Village, which is near transit. The event was packed and we heard how meaningful it was to the community. However, not all of our ancillary events were as successful. A talk by Anouska Shankar the day before her performance was very lightly attended despite the performance being sold out. In evaluating this event we considered the location of the talk. The talk was held at Pyatt Hall, a 49 downtown venue operated by the Vancouver Symphony, which does not have a prominent street-front presence. It was held at that venue because it was easy for our staff to get to, we were familiar with the venue and we had a relationship with the symphony, but our conclusion was that the location played a significant part in the low attendance because it was not located in a venue that had links to the South Asian community, a significant audience for the performance. In contrast, an ancillary event held at The Cultch’s VanCity Culture Lab was sold out. This event was held in conjunction with a concert by Diego el Cigala to connect with the local Romani community. We worked with a local Romani group to co-present this event and it was held in a venue on the eastside close to restaurants and bars where local Romani musicians perform. Contractually, el Cigala had agreed to appear at the event for only a specified length of time. In the end he felt so welcomed by the audience that he left with a group of Romani musicians to continue the evening at a local restaurant. These three events, with very different outcomes, gave us the opportunity to evaluate our successes and failures and the possibilities for new outreach events. 3.2.6 Organizational Structure and Staff Diversity Performing arts organizations, like visual arts institutions, can exhibit social justice goals within their organizational structures. Although institutional critique has been less familiar in performing arts than visual arts (Jackson, 2011) and its theoretical reflection has been less developed (Husemann, 2012), recent studies on racial equity in performing arts organizations (Cuyler, 2021; Stein, 2020) demonstrate that research is developing in this area. However, Chávez and Skelchy (2019) caution that adding diversity through hiring staff, faculty, and 50 students will not change things if white supremacist values are not decentred. They note that it is possible to envision a music department staffed completely of people of diverse backgrounds, even in power positions, that still uses the political and cultural order of white supremacy. Staff diversity can be increased by hiring “guest” curators but these positions are temporary so they do not address on-going inequities in staffing and, more cynically, can be used to highlight diversity in the organization’s marketing materials without making any structural or lasting changes. I believe that social justice within organizations is a worthwhile topic to pursue in relation to performing arts and I will touch on it. However, since it is a large topic in its own right it will not be the central focus of my study. In the sections above I have discussed some of the typical methods used to pursue social justice goals in their programming along with some of the drawbacks and limitations of these methods. There is still much work that can be done to explore ways to integrate social justice goals into performing arts programming but I will now turn my focus to programming and decolonization in the performing arts. 3.3 Considerations for Decolonization in the Performing Arts 3.3.1 From Theory to Action The literature on decolonization speaks to the need to move from theory and policy to action and practice in order to create change (Attas, 2022; Bopp et al., 2017; Carter, 2020; Gaudry & Lorenz, 2018; Maldonado-Torres, 2016; Mohler et al., 2020; Pete, 2016; Robinson, 2020; Spatz, 2019; Smith, 2021). Puerto Rican scholar Maldonado-Torres (2016) argues that liberal societies 51 perpetuate colonialism by limiting equality to a formality. This type of equality is then used against groups that advocate for change by treating their demands for empowerment and co-participation as calls for tolerance and inclusion. Maldonado-Torres uses the example of formal desegregation in South Africa where Black youth could technically be admitted to university but many did not have the financial means to attend. In this way inclusion was a substitute for real change in the institution. In a similar way, curators assume that their venues are accessible to everyone and, formally, they are. However, that assumption ignores factors that may make some venues inaccessible such as high-ticket prices, lack of transit or the timing of the performances. It is important to recognize that reconciliation is shared work and not just the work of Indigenous people (Attas, 2019; Moyan, 2020; Ngcobo, 2021; Pearse et al., 2019; Pete, 2016). The work of decolonization is often seen as being for Indigenous people to deal with but, as Tanya Tagaq (Inuk) stated in an artist talk, “What we’re carrying, it’s unbelievable. It’s staggering.…Enough of it being on our shoulders. Each and every one of you; help us carry this” (Chan Centre for the Performing Arts, n.d.). 3.3.2 Extraction vs Building Relationships Scholars emphasize that colonization is not an event (Garneau, 2016; Grande, 2018); it is an on-going legacy (Garneau, 2016) and a structure (Grande, 2018). In relation to research, Maori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2021) states that settlers want to extract and own Indigenous ways of knowing, imagery, art etc. but reject the people who created them. In a similar vein, settler programmers may use Indigenous art for their own purposes such as increased funding and praise for the diversification of their programming. The fact that they program Indigenous art 52 does not mean programmers are willing to share power, collaborate with Indigenous artists, acknowledge and include Indigenous knowledge, world views and practice or pay for the cultural work of Indigenous community members or knowledge keepers. Jill Carter (Anishinaabe/Ashkenazi) (2020) cautions that Indigenous people must resist being made into fodder to titillate audiences such as private traumas put onstage, ceremonial items displayed in museums, or sacred sites used as tourist attractions. Decolonization is about rebalancing power relations of all kinds (Attas, 2019) and as part of this Attas suggests we must ask who is doing the work and who is benefiting. Mohler et al. (2020) state that decolonization requires reciprocal and sustainable relationships with Indigenous communities. The need for reciprocal and collaborative relationships is an idea that appeared consistently in my readings (Darby et al., 2020; Gaudry & Lorenz, 2018; Knowles, 2017; Lavers et al., 2022; Pearse et al., 2019) and I will explore this in my cases. 3.3.3 Enacting Sovereignty The importance of the arts to Indigenous sovereignty and agency appears in many of my readings (Darby et al., 2020; Garneau, 2016; Pearse et al., 2019; Robinson, 2020). Darby et al. (2020) state that culture is vital to sovereignty and ideas of sovereignty permeate Indigenous creative processes. They believe that Indigenous performing arts, especially theatre, can heal the damage of colonizers’ practices by enacting sovereign presence and that Indigenous theatre and performance are embodied manifestations of human rights. However, they caution that producing Indigenous theatre can either uphold or undermine Indigenous sovereignty. For example, artistic choices that disregard communities, governance structures and world views can 53 undermine Indigenous sovereignty. In contrast, communal theatre-making is important to producing Indigenous sovereignty because an egalitarian production philosophy means the community of “playmakers” can mirror the structures of Indigenous self-government. Garneau (2016) states that Indigenous artists should be supported as sovereign creative people not always defined by colonialism. Robinson (2020) discusses how Indigenous songs can be related to healing, law and history, not just music, so controlling them is part of Indigenous sovereignty. He notes that, Indigenous practices of sovereignty operate through Indigenous legal logics embedded within song and cultural practice. To date, scholarship on Indigenous artistic sovereignty has tended to treat Indigenous artworks as representations of sovereignty rather than to assess how such works express legal orders that hold equivalence to Western markers of sovereignty. (pp. 63-4) He states that in some cases for non-Indigenous people to quote these songs in their work could be an abuse of power through the theft of someone’s history or medicine or violation of law or protocol. Without understanding Indigenous ontologies of song, song appropriation exists only in the Western ideas of copyright, compensation and credit rather than human and moral rights. 3.3.4 Cultural Work Decolonization often includes cultural work such as recognizing and respecting elders and knowledge holders and identifying and practicing local protocol norms (Pete, 2016). Annie Smith (2020) describes an example of including cultural work in a performance that combined Western theatre models with Indigenous traditions. The cultural work was part of developing the 54 play (e.g., feasting, gifts of respect, ceremony, working with community elders). The performances were created in a way that the cultural work and the dramaturgical process for the play changed depending on the territory where the play was performed. She comments that these practices are outside of standard Canadian theatre practice and that industry language and structures are resistant to Indigenous creative and performance processes. But she views this cultural work as part of the process of bridging professional theatre expectations and community needs. Darby et al. (2020) describe an example of cultural work in a production where they made sure everyone involved (cast, crew and staff) understood the ways that the play manifested Indigenous philosophy and worldviews (i.e., transmission of Indigenous knowledge). For example, they invited an elder to join the production and rehearsal space and they would pause rehearsals to discuss with university staff and contractors how scenes conveyed Indigenous concepts and to make sure that Indigenous worldviews were the foundation for all the choices made by the artists, director etc. These moments of reflection are essential practice for fostering performative sovereignty. The authors describe an example when the process broke down because the university staff in the costume department, used to working in a hierarchical structure and pushing for timelines, created costumes that were not culturally appropriate and had to be re-done. Smith (2020) notes that the performers doing cultural work are often not being compensated for it. She advocates for a new approach to compensation when performance, cultural work, 55 creation, and rehearsal are combined because developing relationships for cultural work takes time and strategies that are different from regular theatre rehearsals. In my work at the Chan Centre, I have heard of occasions where Indigenous artists were booked for performances and expected to do cultural work that was not contracted or compensated. The issue of cultural work is relevant to my cases and I will address it in more detail in Chapters 4 and 5. 3.3.5 Repatriation Repatriation in the arts is most often associated with the return of art objects to the communities that created them, but it does not apply only to objects. Robinson (2020) notes that songs that are filed away in museums are disconnected from communities and their protocols and the information in museums is often incomplete so the protocols for when and how to sing the songs is lost. Chávez and Skelchy (2019) advocate for the repatriation of music: there are songs that are stored in archives in institutions and handing over this intellectual property to the communities that perform them makes researchers responsible for taking them. For the purposes of decolonization, repatriation goes beyond the return of art objects or intellectual property. Although they do not specifically talk about visual or performing arts, Tuck and Yang (2012) do define decolonization as repatriation of land and life and for Indigenous artists art and life are intertwined. For example, Darby et. al (2020) state, “Native worldviews do not always adhere to boundaries between art and life” (p. 179), which echoes Laakkuluk 56 Williamson Bathory’s quote that “I don’t have an end goal as an artist. It’s a process; it’s life” (Chan Centre for the Performing Arts, 2018). 3.3.6 Limitations of Inclusion and Representation In efforts to decolonize the arts, curators and programmers may focus primarily on programming Indigenous artists. While this is an important first step, it is not, in itself, decolonization. Diversifying artists could be seen as what Tuck and Yang (2012) call “settler moves to innocence” (p. 9) that do not make true change or repatriate Indigenous life and art through changes to power structures. Inclusion of Indigenous artists and content does not necessarily challenge colonial dominance (Pete, 2016) or create structural change (Gaudry & Lorenz, 2018) and it does not require political action (Chávez & Skelchy, 2019). As Robinson (2020) notes: While Indigenous singers, instrumentalists, and other performers are increasingly offered space within a composition or on a stage, they are infrequently offered the opportunity to define what venue for performance might be used, the design of the space and audience–performer relationship, and the parameters and protocol for gathering at the site of performance. Inclusionary music, which on the surface sounds like a socially progressive act, performs the very opposite of its enunciation. (p. 6) Inclusion is the minimum level of commitment, not the end goal (Gaudry & Lorenz, 2018). Although some believe inclusion is a bare minimum, others point out how it can cause harm. Maldonado-Torres (2016) argues that liberal initiatives on inclusion are a form of political and social control. Smith (2021) cautions that representation can give the impression of “the truth” (p. 6) and representation can cause problems when Indigenous people are represented in ways 57 they do not recognize. For example, curators may book Indigenous artists but focus on performances about Indigenous trauma over performances that celebrate resiliency or the importance of Indigenous knowledge. The focus on trauma can reinforce the impression of Indigenous people as victims. Similarly, artist and writer Lisa Ravensbergen (Ojibwe/Swampy Cree) believes that it is a political act not just to be seen, but to self-determine how she is seen and what is done with the knowledge (Robinson, 2016). The limits of inclusion also apply to repertoire. As Attas and Walker (2019) state, in relation to music education, diversity of repertoire does not equal decolonization because it does not necessarily question the epistemology behind the repertoire. One may have a diverse repertoire and accept Eurocentric ways of doing things without questioning them. 3.3.7 Victim Narratives Smith (2021) cautions that research has often been useless to Indigenous people and useful to settlers, who used it as a weapon. I believe the arts can fall prey to the same problem when settler programmers focus on booking performances that can be framed as educating non-Indigenous audiences and that “rehash” the victim narrative, which is a trap created by colonization for Indigenous artists (Knowles, 2017). Similarly, Carter (2020) criticizes using private tragedies as “titillation” and notes that Indigenous theatre artists continue to develop strategies to thwart extraction, occupation, erasure, and the “consumption of Indigenous suffering” (p. 17). Garneau (2016) states that the trope of Indigenous people in distress is designed to humiliate and contain Indigenous people. Ravensbergen emphasizes that Indigenous people need to be seen as 58 more than victims, burdens on society, terrorists, or mere survivors for the relationship to mainstream audiences to change to one where they are equally vital and aspiring in their art and humanity (Robinson, 2016). She cautions that the accepted national narrative seems to be that Indigenous people are only interested in their collective trauma, which perpetuates the larger myth that their worth lies only in the story that includes settlers. Smith (2021) notes that Indigenous people want to tell their own stories, write their own versions, in their own ways and for their own purposes. Telling stories, testimony, and reclaiming the past is a way to work for justice. Williamson Bathory (as quoted in Zerehi, 2016) echoes Smith’s ideas: I think it's so important for Canadians, especially Indigenous peoples, to understand that there are so many stories about our cultures, our languages and our histories. And the stories only become ours if we tell them ourselves and it's a powerful moment for everyone Indigenous and non-Indigenous. 3.3.8 Dominance of Western European Perspectives People of the dominant culture (in Canada, of European descent) may not think they have a culture because they may think of their culture as “reality” based on “science” while “other” people have culture such as food and clothes (Bopp et al., 2017). We need to challenge the dominant narratives of our collective history and the neutrality of whiteness (Pete, 2016). One method is to include and centre Indigenous knowledge and world views (Mohler et al., 2020; Pete, 2016; Smith, 2021). Referencing Gunn Allen, Darby et al. (2020) add that using Western criticism to understand Indigenous art is a form of “aesthetic colonization.” I believe that settler 59 programmers who use Western European criteria to evaluate art for the purpose of booking are doing the same thing. Indigenous performing arts cover all genres and styles in traditional and contemporary forms, and practices vary between Indigenous nations. Gantner states “You can’t say, ‘This is what Indigenous work looks like.’ That’s like saying, ‘What does European work look like?’” (as cited in Burke, 2019). In the same article, Donnelly states that “The people making it are Indigenous, but Indigenous is not a genre.” Darby et al. (2020) make the point that the process of revitalizing culture is not about re-enactment of a lost, stagnant identity but is rooted in intellectual and spiritual traditions that allow the community to grow and thrive. When programming Indigenous artists who are working in traditional forms of music and dance, there is an opportunity to give context to the performances that can challenge Western European ideas of tradition and illuminate the innovations of Indigenous artists working in traditional forms, as discussed in relation to visual art in section 2.6.1. Darby et al. (2020) also state the need to respect the fluidity of Indigenous performances that often defy the Western compulsions to delineate genres. For example, in the Tagaq/Williamson Bathory performance I booked, they not only combined disciplines (music and dance) but Tagaq’s band used electronics, commonly associated with rock music, while her experimental singing is based on Inuit throat-singing: a combination of rock music, new music and a traditional Inuit practice. Another example is Vancouver-based duo, PIQSIQ that combines Inuit throat-singing with electronics. Darby et al. (2020) state that the artistic goal of bringing artist and audience into a community through a shared experience of creation is drastically different from most Western art forms, 60 especially classical forms, which evaluate the virtuosity of the artist by their ability to represent a specific time/place or elicit emotional or intellectual reactions from individual audience members. Spatz (2019) notes that the common divide between spectators and artists is a Eurocentric assumption. In contrast, Carter (2016) says there is no divide between story-teller and auditor. Carter (2020) makes an interesting distinction between witnesses and voyeurs. She states that witnessing is an intentionally generous act because the witness embodies communal (hi)story. In contrast, voyeurism is an intentionally capricious act that accepts no responsibility. It does not require somatic engagement and is performed without generosity. A voyeur stands apart from the story, consuming what they want and rejecting what is unsettling. Voyeurs refuse to acknowledge their complicity in the tragedies they consume. Carter (2020) asks how artists can confront the audience with their complicity in oppression, their accountability and their responsibility to respond as witnesses not voyeurs. Similarly, Smith (2020) suggests that we can re-frame what we mean by audience – to be witnesses. Ravensbergen comments that many people are uncomfortable bearing witness and Indigenous people who are removed from ceremony and ritual communal gathering may underestimate the power in bearing witness (Robinson, 2016). She notes that Indigenous artists have been conditioned to placate the ignorance of their audiences. However, in Ravensbergen’s view, witnessing is key to reconciliation because it empowers change, enabling Aboriginal theatre, by its very nature, to become a tool for decolonizing the performer-audience relationship. I am interested in what a different relationship between artist and audience would look like. As Robinson (2020) notes “the program note, the darkened auditorium with singular focus on the stage, the pre- concert talk—all of these concert rituals can effectively be challenged in ways that 61 open up new layers of listening” (p. 61). Both Ravensbergen (Robinson, 2016) and Darby et al. (2020) describe the artist/audience relationship as a conversation. Ravensbergen, as the artist, brings what she knows of the story and the audience, as witness, brings their knowledge and they have a conversation. Darby et al. (2020) describe the audience as an important collaborator and this newly formed community participates in a new ritual which invites everyone in the audience to co-create with the theatre artists. “Who and what we put on stage is always in conversation with whatever the audience brings into the room” (p. 208). But what happens once the conversation ends? Ravensbergen (Robinson, 2016) believes that theatre has the potential to alter life outside the theatre because the audience has the opportunity to ask themselves: what do I do with the knowledge I now possess? What do I do with how I am being affected intellectually, emotionally, physically, spiritually? I will explore ideas around the relationship between artist and audience in more depth in connection with my cases in section 5.9. 3.3.9 Challenging Power Structures Émilie Monnet (2017) addresses some of the challenges that face Indigenous artists working within colonial power structures: Because of the colonial structures in place, there is always a great deal of negotiations that will happen, with funding bodies, institutions, audiences. For example having to measure the success of the project by the number of attendees for final reports or negotiating with theatres the right to smudge before performances. Just the creation of a non-profit, with a compulsory Board of Directors and board meetings is a colonial structure. So it’s a huge task at hand to have to dismantle these systems, to decolonize our way of making, producing and presenting works. (p. 157) 62 I believe that settler curators can work with Indigenous artists to address some of these challenges to take the burden away from Indigenous artists. For example, negotiating with funders or working with venue staff to facilitate smudging. This issue will emerge when I discuss my cases in Chapter 5. 3.3.9.1 Collaboration Work should be not be ‘about’ Indigenous people but ‘with’ them (Garneau, 2016). In Darby et al. (2020) director Madeline Sayet discusses her artistic process, which starts with asking concept questions instead of a conceptual statement. Her questions including asking who is working on the project, what do they value, are they Indigenous and, if so, what nation are they from and who is the authorial voice. These questions are intended to get the people who are working on the project on the same page from the beginning of the process. Darby et al. (2020) suggest that the responsibility that comes with staging Indigenous plays contributes to the reluctance of general commercial, regional, and academic theatre to produce Indigenous work. However, as theatres re-think ways to meaningfully engage in contemporary issues and diversify audiences, collaborations are emerging between Indigenous artists and theatres that are not typically rooted in Indigenous communities. Monnet (2017) sums up her goals for collaboration that are led by Indigenous artists : With Onishka, I want to reflect more on how to implement traditional teachings, ways of being together and working together that have proven to be effective in the past for our ancestors. In a way to Indigenize rather than decolonize, when it is possible. These are the things I am interested in embodying and creating with others. (p. 157) 63 Nonetheless, collaboration by itself, just like inclusion by itself, is not enough for decolonization because collaboration can reflect power imbalances and settlers can maintain their power by creating the structure for the collaboration (Pearse et al., 2019). The authors state that it is important to re-think the structures for collaboration. Who is setting the parameters, deciding the protocols, and how does the collaborative structure ensure one tradition is not dominating another? Pearse et al. (2019) and Robinson (2020) note that in some collaborations the Indigenous artists and their work are required to “fit” into the European musical structure, while the European musicians and music do not have to adapt. Also, Pearse et al. (2019) caution that the collaborations may be influenced by what the institution and the settler artists want from the collaboration. Robinson (2020) notes that inclusionary efforts often focus on using Indigenous content but not Indigenous structures of performance and collaboration because Western forms and parameters for collaborations are privileged. In the circus training program for Inuit youth, mentioned above, Lavers et al. (2022) describe how they pursued decolonization goals through collaboration with the community leading to the success of a previously abandoned program by including Inuk culture, building real relationships and addressing the previously asymmetrical power structures in order to build trust and to learn from each other. In contrast, a number of years ago I initiated a collaboration between Tanya Tagaq and Severn Cullis-Suzuki. The concept was to have them work together to create a performance that combined Tagaq’s music and Cullis-Suzuki’s climate change research. For many reasons, some 64 logistical (they lived in different locations, scheduling), and differences in working styles, much of the collaboration did not happen until the rehearsal scheduled in the two days before the performance. The result was, as might be expected with such a short time to collaborate, a performance with two parts, which they performed individually, and a short collaborative section as a closer. In reflecting on this experience, I realized it was an example of a settler programmer creating the parameters for a collaboration to meet the goals of the university presenter. The artists were not included in creating the structure for the collaboration and they did not choose who they would be collaborating with. They could choose to participate or not but they did not have influence over the structure of the collaboration. In hindsight, if I had reflected on questions such as: who is in control? who has agency? who is it for? I believe I would have approached this project in a different way, such as involving the artists earlier in the decision-making process or by having them create and guide the artistic process from the beginning. A few years later, when I reached out to book Tagaq again, her agent told me that she wanted to do another collaboration but that she would choose the artist to collaborate with. Tagaq’s ideas for this collaboration eventually resulted in the collaborative performance of her and Williamson Bathory that I have included in my cases. 3.3.9.2 Community Involvement, Education and Outreach Darby et al. (2020) believe that community is core to Indigenous theatre because it is intended to transcend entertainment and to generate material effects: ceremony, healing and community-making. They elaborate that the true worth of a production is not in ticket sales or reviews but in the relationships the production creates and the interconnectedness that branches out among artists to audience and ancestors. The purpose of Indigenous theatre practice is community 65 making by honoring ways of knowing and being in the world which then advances sovereignty of Indigenous people. I will address the importance and challenges of community involvement more fully in my cases and section 5.10.1. Colonialism is embedded in who has access to education and what epistemologies are privileged (Attas and Walker, 2019), which can influence the types of outreach and education activities that are created by programmers who work in settler institutions. However, Smith (2020) identifies the tension between honouring Indigenous ways of knowing and appropriation when using protocols like talking circles. Even as a witness she has felt like she was trespassing. She acknowledges that it is her responsibility, as a white settler, to honour Indigenous ways of knowing without appropriating them as a non-Indigenous learner, educator, and artist. This tension highlights the importance of collaborating with Indigenous people and not just extracting and using their ideas, culture, worldviews for settler purposes. Ravensbergen (Robinson, 2016) comments that, in theatre, stories from Indigenous experience are often categorized as “issues” plays or “educational” plays so that they are reduced to political rhetoric and are only embraced by people who already support that cause or want to be educated about it. A related assumption is that Indigenous people write plays to educate settlers. Writer and producer Trina Moyan (2020), Plains Cree, describes a post-performance talkback for Encounters at the Edge of the Wood that was attended mostly by non-Indigenous people who represented the University of Toronto community (faculty and students). She comments that no one asked her what it was like for her, as an Indigenous person, to play a privileged, racist, white character. She questioned whether people saw her, an Indigenous woman, behind the character or 66 saw themselves in the character she played, which led her to question the impact of her performance. Was it mere entertainment in a space not intended for Indigenous stories? Pearse et al. (2019) give an example where they felt that the development workshops for the artists were more meaningful acts of decolonization than the performance was for the audience and they suggest that educational aspects (program notes or discussion) would have helped. Darby et al. (2020) describe an example when the complex content of a play, Burning Vision, required audience engagement and education so they created an interdisciplinary symposium, extended program, lobby display and talkbacks. The authors acknowledge that because the play and the playwright as well as Indigenous aesthetics, culture and politics were virtually unknown to the community that was the audience for this play, they knew it would be a challenge to sell tickets. To promote the show, the director, Courtney Mohler, contacted professors in departments related to themes of the production asking them to include attendance at the show and the symposium on their course syllabi and she applied for funding from existing university initiatives, which allowed her to bring the playwright into town. The playwright visited classes, did the post-show talkback and was a panelist at the symposium. All of these activities generated a “campus-wide buzz” (Darby et al., 2020, p. 175) and the performance had a “relatively high attendance” (p. 176). I believe this is one of the challenges with education and outreach programs. If some audience members are not familiar with the art form or context, how can that information be conveyed ahead of time or incorporated in a robust and meaningful way into the performance without taking away from the performance experience itself? Mohler’s work on Burning Vision 67 demonstrates how much extra work may be required to connect with people so that they know enough about the production to make the decision to attend. In addition, education does not just apply to the audience but also to the people who are working on the production. Part of Mohler’s work was to make sure the cast and crew understood topics related to the themes of the play, including an introduction to Indigenous worldviews. This is a key issue in my Chan Centre case study that I will address in more detail in Chapter 5. 3.3.9.3 Refusal Tuck and Yang (2018) address the idea of refusal, for example, in refusing justice projects that require Indigenous people to gather an audience of white settlers who are presumed to have agency or that require Indigenous people to appeal to those that abuse them. For programmers, I think refusal is an interesting concept to consider. Whose responsibility is it to educate white audience members about an Indigenous performance, particularly for venues where their audiences tend to be white? What if the artist refuses that work, for example by refusing to participate in a post-show talkback primarily for a white audience? What is the talkback supposed to do? What is its purpose? Who created it? These are important questions when it comes to Indigenous artists creating or participating in ancillary activities related to their performance. Tuck (2018) states that the basis for refusal is that there are some types of knowledge that the academy does not deserve. She elaborates that a university is a “colonial collector of knowledge as another form of territory” (p. 95). She bases the need for refusal on the idea of investigation as 68 invasion and she believes that placing Indigenous stories and experiences in the academy is a form of removal and not respect. Refusal can also take the form of refusing to perform stories of trauma and to develop artistic strategies that “combat extraction, obstruct penetration and thwart satiation” (Carter 2020, p. 17). Another form of refusal is not making a performance accessible to a non-Indigenous audience. This can happen, for example, when a singer does not translate their between-song talk into English or performances that include “inside” jokes that may not be understood by people who are not members of that community. Indigenous scholar Sandy Grande (2018) clarifies that refusal should not be confused with retreat because refusal is a radical instantiation of a different mode of being and doing. Refusal rejects promises of inclusion, and asserts Indigenous sovereignty. Similarly, Robinson (2020) suggests that Indigenous people could refuse dialogue that is based on unidirectional knowledge sharing and instead emphasise forums that provide sovereign space for Indigenous people to define and enact resurgence. 3.3.10 Issues specific to Decolonization in Universities Since all three of the cases I discuss involve Indigenous artists programmed in university performance venues, literature on decolonization in universities is of particular relevance. Universities are powerful and influential organizations because they are sites of knowledge production, confer credentials and legitimacy, and often receive significant funding from governments and private donors. Most North American universities were founded on European and colonial values and structures, their administrative structures and values are based on Eurocentric views and they are administered, controlled and attended predominantly by settlers 69 (Pearse et al., 2019). As Todd (2015) states, “there is no way to get around the fact that the business of making knowledge and making art in the European and North American academies is still very much a Eurocentric endeavour” (p. 248). She identifies a “white public space” as one where Indigenous ideas and experiences are used or obscured by non-Indigenous people. Grande (2018) states that the university is an apparatus of colonization because it is an arm of the settler state with its logic of elimination, dispossession, and capital accumulation. Writing from a Canadian context, Bopp et al. (2017) state that many universities continue to be dominant culture institutions run by people from the dominant culture who often have an unconscious culture of superiority. Liberal institutions advance modernity without recognizing it as a continuance of colonialism and the struggle to decolonize society is more difficult if institutions of higher learning continue to define excellence by Western European standards (Maldonado-Torres, 2016). Darby et al. (2020) state that settler colonialism, and the institutions upon which it relies and empowers, obscure historical and contemporary Indigenous lives and issues. World views are sustained not just by power but also by agreement and consent (e.g., what constitutes valid knowledge), which is why the means of producing knowledge is key to colonial societies and makes universities key to decolonial struggle (Maldonado-Torres, 2016). But Canadian universities are still struggling with ethical ways to connect with Indigenous knowledges and typically focus on including Indigenous people in the existing university structures (Gaudry & Lorenz, 2018). However, Todd (2015) suggests that decolonization requires dismantling “the heteropatriarchy, racism, and whiteness that continue to permeate 70 political and intellectual systems in North America and Europe” (p. 251). Garneau (2016) states that “the government’s frantic race to a post-historical space of reconciliation, rather than submission to a permanent state of negotiation, of treaty, is short-sighted” (p. 37). I believe this is also true of universities and that this attitude trickles down to university programmers who work to fulfil university goals through programming. There is pressure to “do” decolonization, often through booking Indigenous artists, without engaging with communities or enacting meaningful structural change. 3.3.10.1 The Canon and Disciplinary Divisions A canon is usually considered a list of works that scholars in a discipline or field, and sometimes university departments, agree are the foundation for studying that discipline or field. In the performing and visual arts, a canon is made up of artists and artworks that are deemed foundational. But no canon is neutral. The traditional canon is based on European views of art and it often is heavily focused (if not exclusively) on white, usually male, European artists. It may be assumed to be a universal standard of excellence but it is crucial to recognize, as Madrid (2017) points out, that the canon privileges certain aesthetic criteria and builds a narrative of history and music around those criteria and that understanding of the world. While it is important to consider the ideas that underpin the canon and to expand it to include other knowledge systems and criteria, Gaudry and Lorenz (2018) note that it is essential not to just absorb Indigenous knowledge into the canon in a way that undermines the community’s control to interpret and evaluate that knowledge. 71 The performing arts as taught in universities based on Western European structures are often divided into disciplines such as music, theatre and dance. However, it is increasingly recognized that the divisions between these disciplines are limited and related to specific developments in Europe and their on-going influence through colonial structures. As artists who perform in Western European art forms experiment and increasingly blur the lines between disciplines, often the main difference is the canons they engage with (Spatz, 2019). There are Indigenous artists who excel within Western European performance disciplines, for example Canadian opera singer Marion Newman, but many more work outside of these traditions and create art that does not fit into a single discipline. However, it is important to note that many venues are built specifically for one discipline and may not be suitable for performances in another discipline. For example, the Chan Centre’s main hall was built as a concert hall, with a focus on acoustic treatments that enhance unamplified sound. Since it does not have curtains, a fly system or wings, which are typically found in theatres, it is not an ideal venue for certain types of theatre productions. Also, it does not have a sprung floor so it is not ideal for certain kinds of dance performances. Making the venue suitable for those types of theatre or dance productions often requires expensive, temporary adjustments. In my own programming, I have made the assumption about the separation of disciplines. For example, my colleague Valerie Dare, formerly at Britannia Secondary School, and I initiated the series “Roots and Shoots” for elementary students from under-resourced schools. It was intended 72 to be a “world music” series.3 However, when booking artists from non-European cultures, we very quickly learned that in many cultures there is no separation between dance and music so the series evolved to include dance (with its associated technical challenges and costs in the concert hall). 3.3.10.2 Limitations of Inclusion and Recognition in Universities Todd (2015) notes that “decolonization requires that we change not only who is spoken about and how, but also who is present in intellectual and artistic ‘buildings’” (p. 251). However, in an effort to decolonize, universities often focus on increasing the presence of Indigenous people (students, faculty and staff) in their existing colonial structures without changing those structures (Bopp et al., 2017; Gaudry & Lorenz, 2018). Universities often focus on helping Indigenous people deal with the barriers rather than removing the barriers (Gaudry & Lorenz, 2018). The result is that Indigenous people bear the brunt of the responsibility to adapt and change to fit the institution while the institution stays the same (Bopp et al., 2017; Gaudry & Lorenz, 2018). Supporting the success of Indigenous people within the existing system naturalizes the existing system. Bopp et al. (2017) call this the “Indigenous liaison fallacy” where a token number of Indigenous people are hired and given the responsibility for the decolonization process rather than building capacity across the whole organization. Also, often decolonization projects are done through initiatives that have short-term funding and are outside permanent structures and regular decision-making processes rather than being integrated into the organization. 3 The phrase “world music” is problematic and while that is acknowledged by scholars and in the industry (Nissen, 2022), I am not aware of any widely used alternative. 73 Grande (2018), referencing Kelley, notes that recognition efforts often focus on making the institution friendlier for those who have suffered personal trauma, which perpetuates thinking of the self as victim while others have agency. Grande (2018) cautions that recognition-based changes (e.g., naming buildings, greater diversity of students and curriculum) can be used to placate students while avoiding any effort to change the power structure. The demand for inclusion is created through the politics of recognition, which mistakes the creation of a new elite for radical change. Similarly, Maldonado-Torres (2016) acknowledges that while youth can make change, universities often strive to socialize youth to think and act within the standards of the middle class within modern, colonial, capitalist, and neoliberal arrangements. Attas (2022) asks the difficult question of whether a colonial institution can ever be decolonized and Tuck (2018) states that “there are parts of the higher-education project that are too invested in settler colonialism to be rescued” (p. 90). In contrast, Gaudry and Lorenz (2018) suggest that universities could be a part of resurgence-based Indigenization by rebuilding Indigenous culture, knowledge, and politics. Despite being colonial institutions, universities could pursue Indigenization by centring Indigenous knowledge or at least, as Attas (2022) suggests, putting it on an equal footing. Similarly, scholar Shauneen Pete (2016), from Little Pine First Nation, suggests that Indigenization can transform the existing academy by including Indigenous knowledge, voices, scholars, students and establish places so that these knowledges can be an essential element of the university with the goal to create dramatically different structures, relationships and outcomes. Pete (2016) also suggests broadening the process related to performance evaluation 74 and challenging notions of meritocracy. Although Pete is referring to faculty, this issue also applies to artists. For example, are programmers evaluating Indigenous artists using white European criteria regarding professionalism? Are productions that include the community seen as of lesser quality and less professional? 75 Chapter 4: Cases 4.1 Introduction To further explore how decolonization goals have been pursued in the performing arts, I will look at three examples of programmers, working from settler perspectives and in colonial institutions, booking Indigenous artists. As outlined in my introduction, I chose these particular examples because all three involve programmers working in university venues and they show a range of practices that demonstrate different approaches to issues that I have identified in the previous section on decolonization and the performing arts, such as power imbalances, decision-making, collaboration, building relationships, cultural work and respecting Indigenous autonomy, practices, world views and epistemology. The three cases are: • Emily Johnson (of the Yup’ik Nation) programmed by Jed Wheeler at Montclair University • Tanya Tagaq (Inuk) and Laakkuluk Williamson Bathory (Kalaaleq, Greenlandic Inuk) programmed by Wendy Atkinson at the University of British Columbia • Larissa FastHorse (Sicangu Lakota) programmed by Michael Reed at Arizona State University 4.2 US/Canadian Contexts for the Cases Although both Canada and the US have been shaped by colonization and coloniality, the details and specific impacts vary depending on the location and the individual Indigenous nations and tribes who occupied the land. Each nation and tribe has its own unique history, which is inextricably tied to their historic lands and their current location. In this thesis I do not have the 76 space to address the complex histories of Indigenous peoples and their relationship to the Canadian and US governments. However, I want to point out just two, of many, key issues that continue to impact Indigenous sovereignty in North America: that the Canadian and US governments determine who is legally an “Indian”4 and the concept of “reserved” lands5, which limits Indigenous peoples’ access to and control of their territories and its resources. The fact that the Canadian and US governments control Indigenous legal identity and lands is deeply problematic for Indigenous sovereignty. For each of the cases in this chapter, I briefly acknowledge the nation or tribe who still live in the area where each university is located and their formal relationship with that institution. However, Indigenous people have historically occupied much larger areas, often overlapping with other Indigenous groups and crossing state, provincial and national borders. Also, currently many Indigenous people do not live on the lands of their ancestors for reasons such as forced migration 4 In Canada, legally the term “Indian” means people who are entitled to “registration.” Eligibility to register is based on “degree of descent,” meaning having relatives who are registered or entitled to be registered. Registration allows Indigenous people to access certain benefits and services. The “Indian Register,” kept by Indigenous Services Canada, is the official record of people registered under the Indian Act. The register does not include Metis and Inuit because they are not allowed to register (Indigenous Services Canada, 2023). In the US, “citizenship” is determined by “blood quantum,” which is based on a concept created by white settlers to calculate how much “Indian blood” a person has as a way to limit their rights and access to benefits and to separate them from their lands, resources, culture and languages. The concept is based on eugenics and is without any scientific basis. Currently, approximately 70% of federally-recognized Native nations in the US use blood quantum to determine citizenship in their nation. (However, many tribes are not federally recognized, which means they are not eligible for certain benefits and services.) But many nations are reassessing blood quantum requirements and considering lineal descent to determine membership, as they did before colonization (Bureau of Indian Affairs, n.d; Native Governance Center, 2022). 5 In both countries land was set aside for Indigenous people. As educator Bob Joseph (2018), Gwawaenuk First Nation, explains, in Canada reserves are officially a tract of land set aside for exclusive use of Indigenous people but in practice they were used to control Indigenous people while allowing European settlers to control the resources. Reserves are either a portion of Indigenous peoples’ traditional territory or in an area far away from their traditional lands because there was no consistent formula for creating reserves. Similarly, in the US reservations may be a small part of a tribe’s traditional territory or it may be an area far from their traditional lands created by the federal government after a tribe was forcibly relocated. Not every federally recognized tribe has a reservation (Federal Register: The Daily Journal of the United States Government, 2021; U.S. Department of the Interior: Indian Affairs, 2017). 77 and displacement because of residential schools. So the Indigenous group that currently lives in proximity to each school in my cases is based on the location of their reserve or reservation, which was determined by the government. 4.3 Case One Choreographer Emily Johnson (of the Yup’ik Nation), director of Catalyst, was commissioned by Jed Wheeler, executive director of the Office of Arts and Cultural Programing (ACP) at Montclair State University (MSU), Montclair, New Jersey. MSU is located on the lands of the Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape people. 4.3.1 The Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape People and their connection to MSU The Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape People are a tribal confederation of the core families of the Nanticoke and Lenni-Lenape whose traditional homelands are in southern New Jersey and the Delmarva Peninsula. The Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape tribe is the largest American Indian tribe in New Jersey. When settlers arrived the Lenape and Nanticoke people intermingled and intermarried in order to survive the devastation of colonialism. Most of their citizens still live in southern New Jersey but many were dispersed due to removals and forced migrations so Lenape people now live in Oklahoma, Kansas, Indiana, Texas, and Ontario. Their members are enrolled tribal citizens who meet the requirements of documented descent and blood quantum from the historic core tribal families as set by their tribal law. The member tribes are state-recognized but not federally recognized (The Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape: An American Indian Tribe, n.d.). 78 MSU does not seem to have a formal relationship with the Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape people, however, in October 2022 they announced the creation of an Indigenous minor program at an event where they booked the Red Blanket Singers of the Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape Tribe to perform and in January of 2022 the university senate approved a formal land acknowledgement (Montclair, 2022, January 26). 4.3.2 Wheeler’s Commission of Johnson Jed Wheeler founded PEAK Performances series in 2004, which gained attention producing and presenting work by avant-garde and diverse artists. Emily Johnson is an award-winning dancer and choreographer who works for land and water protection and social justice. Wheeler became aware of Johnson’s work in 2018 when she wrote an essay for the organization’s publication, the PEAK Journal. “She asked a question that to my ears was profound and brave, he said, which is, ‘Whose land did you steal?’ (What she actually wrote was ‘Do you know whose land you are on?’). ‘Could that force be captured in a performance?’ he said he asked himself” (Seibert, 2021). In 2018, Wheeler offered (Johnson’s version) or was considering offering (Montclair’s version) Johnson a $100,000 commission to produce a dance work for PEAK Performances. Johnson and Wheeler started discussions of the commission in October 2018 and contract negotiations started later that year. Johnson (2021) states that, from the beginning, their discussions included how her activism around decolonization was an integral part of her artwork. 79 4.3.3 The Breakdown of Negotiations On January 22, 2021, Johnson released details of their failed contract negotiation in an online post. Her post included the text of her letter to the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) and a letter she had sent to Wheeler the previous February, 2020. On February 4, 2021, in response to Johnson’s post, MSU published a defense of Wheeler on their website. In order to explain the dispute, I have referred to some details that only appear in Johnson’s letter because MSU’s statement did not address or refute most of Johnson’s details. Although no contract had been signed, Wheeler announced the commission publicly at arts conferences in early 2019. Throughout 2019 both sides worked to raise funds for the commission and Johnson agreed to ACP’s exclusivity clauses. Exclusivity means that an artist will not perform within a specific geographic area for a specified period of time before the performance. In this case Johnson could not perform in New Jersey or New York (her hometown) for over a year leading up to the performance. Contract negotiations continued throughout 2019. One of the sticking points in the contract was the requirement that the presenter consult with the local Indigenous community and include a land acknowledgment in all publicity materials. In January 2020, Wheeler again announced the commission at the Association of Performing Arts Professionals conference and called himself “the luckiest person in the room” to be commissioning Johnson to make work (Seibert, 2021). Johnson, still without a contract, organized a residency at Montclair to start work on the commission. In a public letter, Johnson described a phone conversation in late January between herself, her producer and three ACP staff members, including Wheeler, in which they discussed land 80 acknowledgements. Wheeler said that ACP did what the university modelled and told them to do. Johnson acknowledged that this top-down approach was typical but she suggested a bottom-up approach where an action-oriented land acknowledgement could be a first step to real change and that she could work with ACP to create an example that the institution could follow (Johnson, 2021). Things became heated when Johnson asked Wheeler to make a personal commitment to a decolonization process because she said she could not do it alone. Johnson describes Wheeler yelling that he “calls the shots” and that they were going to have a “problem” if she continued to make “demands.” He ended by saying “I don’t even know what this word, ‘decolonisation’ means” and he hung up (Johnson, 2021). On February 12, 2020, Johnson wrote a follow-up letter to Wheeler (included in her post) where she acknowledged that decolonization is challenging work and that the two of them had discussed, from the beginning, that her artistic work included this type of activism. She acknowledged that she does not know what decolonization looks like because it is a process and a partnership that depends on people working together. She noted that “nothing I spoke of yesterday in terms of decolonisation has a specific timeline. Nor is it something I need outlined in a contract” (Johnson, 2021). However, her rider, which would typically form part of the contract, does include two requirements: to acknowledge the host Indigenous nation in announcements about the commission and that the presenter must engage directly with the Indigenous community and their leadership (Johnson, 2021). 81 Wheeler did not respond to her letter and on March 31, 2020 Johnson was told that the $100,000 commission, including the $10,000 she was owed for the January residency was postponed because of COVID-19. In June 2020 she was told the entire commission was revoked, including payment for the January residency. She requested documentation so that she could apply for COVID relief but ACP did not respond (Johnson, 2021). Johnson made the dispute public in January 2021 when she learned that the ACP had received funding from the National Endowment for the Arts for her project. Montclair released an online statement in response to her post defending Wheeler’s actions. The statement said that Peak Performances “intentionally seeks out emerging artists, artists from underrepresented backgrounds, and artists whose work challenges established norms and practices.” It stated that Wheeler, as the leader of “only one of many hundreds of units and programs” at the university, lacked the authority to agree to Johnson’s proposals and that the university’s “robust” social justice and diversity policies were established at the institutional level. “The University does not formulate and adopt important policy decisions by means of a contract with a particular performing artist” (Montclair State University, 2021).6 On Feb 9, 2021, an article by Carly Sitrin (2021) quoted previous ACP employees who worked with Wheeler who stated that they had experiences similar to Johnson. The article also states that several current university employees as well as a few members of the university senate had signed a petition that was circulated in support of Johnson and encouraged the university to 6 I originally accessed Montclair’s statement on February 26, 2021 on the Montclair State University website. However, the university has since taken it off their website so my citation refers to a website maintained by Emily Johnson that has a link to a screenshot of the original webpage. 82 investigate her allegations. On June 30, 2022, the university released a press release (Montclair State University, 2022, June 30) stating that Wheeler was “stepping down” from his role as executive director and that the executive director role was being eliminated and replaced with two different positions (a programming position and an operations position). Wheeler continued as artistic director until December 2022. 4.4 Case Two Experimental sound artist Tanya Tagaq (Inuk) and Greenlandic mask dancer Laakkuluk Williamson Bathory (Kalaaleq, Greenlandic Inuk) were booked by Wendy Atkinson, programming manager at the Chan Centre for the Performing Arts at the University of British Columbia (UBC). There were three performances: March 16 - 18, 2018. UBC is located on the traditional territory of Musqueam. 4.4.1 The Musqueam People and their Relationship with UBC Musqueam traditionally moved throughout their lands to fish, hunt, trap and gather. The 1976 Musqueam Declaration (Musqueam, n.d.-a) outlines the extent of their traditional territory and affirms that they never gave up their rights to the land and that they do not consider “the bits of land called ‘Indian Reserves’” as compensation for their lost rights. Today, many members of Musqueam live on the Musqueam Indian Reserve, which is located near the mouth of the Fraser River. Despite the destructiveness of residential schools, colonial laws banning their ceremonies, and attempts to assimilate them their cultural practices are still strong and they are a growing community of 1300 people (Musqueam, n.d.-b). 83 In 2006, Musqueam and UBC signed a Memorandum of Affiliation to formalize and expand a working relationship between them. Other connections include language classes, the installation of a Musqueam housepost, bilingual street signs and art on UBC’s Vancouver campus. Faculty, staff and students are encouraged to begin university events with a land acknowledgement (University of British Columbia, 2020, June 8). 4.4.2 The Artists and their Art Forms 4.4.2.1 Katajjaq: Inuit Throat Singing Katajjaq, throating singing that is specific to Inuit, goes back over millennia. It is sung only by women and is thought to have been created to entertain women while men were out hunting. Traditionally it is a game between two women, who stand close, face-to-face and hold arms or hands. They alternate quick breaths and high and low tones to create sonic layers and repeating patterns and modifying them until one starts to laugh or runs out of breath. It requires significant breath control and endurance. Katajjaq was banned in the eighteenth century by Christian missionaries when they arrived in the north as an attempt to repress Inuit culture. It was revived in the 1980s (Binggeli, 2023). Tanya Tagaq taught herself throat-singing from a recording given to her by her mother so she learned to perform it solo, instead of in the traditional format as one of a pair of singers. As her career has evolved Tagaq has pushed the boundaries of the art form. As Tagaq states: I have never, ever said that what I’m doing is traditional throat singing. This is not traditional. This is contemporary . . . Our show is contemporary and I just do whatever I 84 feel like and it can get really freaky. If you don’t like it, see that sign right there (reading) ‘Exit’? Feel free to leave. (Tagaq as quoted in Rayner, 2017) Tagaq combines improvisation and composition to create her music and she has collaborated with many other artists including Bjork, Kronos Quartet and violinist/composer/producer Jesse Zubot. Andrea Warner (2016) in Pitchfork Magazine states: The sounds she cultivates from her disciplined practice are often described as wild and primal, sometimes frightening or ugly. These sometimes seem like euphemisms for something more overtly sexist or racist, like what critics really want to say is that Tagaq sounds “savage” or “unladylike” because she subverts expectations of how the female voice or just music in general should sound. 4.4.2.2 Uaajeerneq: Greenlandic Mask Dancing Uaajeerneq existed before colonization but was banned by missionaries and then re-emerged in the 1970s as part of a student movement in Greenland that was pushing for self-governance (She Does the City, 2018). Williamson Bathory describes it as an “artistic tool of decolonization” (Ghosal, 2019). Each dancer creates a mask of their own design using red, black and white paint. The dancer then puts balls in their cheeks to suggest male sex organs. “Sometimes male performers will exaggerate having gigantic breasts, or a female performer will have a gigantic phallus to play with,” she explains. “It’s gender-bending; appreciative of all genders, all sexualities and all 85 sexual organs. I really sink into what it means to see human beings as souls and appreciating their womanhood, their manhood, their gender fluidity” (She Does the City, 2018). Williamson Bathory describes her dance and the audience interaction as: an in-your-face, base, surreal creature performance that literally crawls between seats and enters personal space. I take care to keep eye contact with everyone in my path, pushing and retreating as dictated by audience body language. If you are too uncomfortable with my presence, you can hold out your hand before I come too close, but if you are curious, you can let me come as close as you dare. (Ghosal, 2019) Williamson Bathory calls her performance “an idiosyncratic act that challenges audiences to confront their own fears, play with the boundaries of comfort, take delight in clowning and celebrate everyone’s sexualities as intersecting, fluid, individual things of beauty” (Ghosal, 2019). But it is also a political act. As Williamson Bathory states: “Because it’s impossible to find reconciliation in this world at this time, uaajeerneq is a very defiant insertion of my body–of Inuit bodies–that is challenging, that is funny, that is sexualized, that is very tangible” (She Does the City, 2018). 4.4.3 Booking Process I created the Beyond Words series in 2012 to showcase words in performance. I had booked Tagaq previously in a collaboration with Severn Cullis-Suzuki and she had performed in the Chan Centre’s mainstage series with Kronos Quartet. When I approached Tagaq’s agent to book her again, she told me about a new collaboration with Williamson Bathory. 86 I booked this show after seeing their work-in-progress on October 28, 2016. This free performance was the opening of a grunt gallery exhibition called #callresponse. It was held at the Native Education College in Vancouver. I saw this performance a number of years ago and as I started to write this section of my thesis I wondered about the accuracy of my memory. However, I found a recording of the event online (Grunt Gallery, 2016) so I was able to confirm my memory of the performance and the audience reaction. The performance was held in an open space gathering area, not a performance venue. It had limited sound equipment and no real stage. The space was full to capacity. Tagaq did vocal improvisations while Williamson Bathory applied dramatic paint to her face to create a mask as detailed in the description of uaajeerneq. She then moved through the audience and interacted with audience members by putting her face close to theirs and moving closely around them. This interaction prompted much laughter. When I started negotiating the contract with Tagaq’s agent, the Chan Centre was preparing an application to the Department of Canadian Heritage to fund events coinciding with Canada 150 celebrations (the celebration of the 150th anniversary of confederation). These funds were important for this performance because of the extra cost of flying the artists from the north. However, just before we submitted our application, Tagaq’s agent informed us that she would not perform in any show that was supported by this grant. (Many Indigenous people protested Canada 150 celebrations because they were a celebration of 150 years of colonization that ignored Indigenous presence for millennia before confederation. Many felt that the money could be better spent on support for Indigenous communities.). Within days of my discussion with her 87 agent, Tagaq expressed her views on Canada 150 publicly through her Twitter (now X) account (Clark, 2019). The Chan Centre’s programming team had to decide whether to go ahead with the performance without the possible funding or to choose another artist for the series. My initial knee-jerk reaction was frustration that the agent had not informed us earlier and I thought that we should look for another artist. But upon reflection, I re-considered. Tagaq is a compelling artist who is outspoken about her political beliefs, especially on issues that affect Indigenous people and I believed she was a good fit for the artistic vision I had for the series. I also respected her position politically and her willingness to stand by that position even if it meant losing a show, which I communicated to the agent. My understanding of these issues was still preliminary at that time (and continues to evolve) and in hindsight I am surprised that I was not quicker to realize and appreciate the issues. I decided that presenting Tagaq was more important than the possibility of funding. Rather than withdraw our application, we decided that we would turn down the funding if the application was successful and tell the funding agency why we were turning it down (the funding application was unsuccessful). In booking this performance there were logistical issues that can arise with booking Indigenous performance. In this case, the artists wanted to use a seal oil lamp in the performance and Williamson Bathory wanted to bring her own lamp from the north. Bringing the lamp required extra baggage fees because it was quite heavy. Using the lamp in the performance also required negotiation with our technical staff because it meant using an open flame on our theatre floor, 88 something we did not normally allow, and if the lamp created smoke we would have to take the fire alarm system offline, which was an extra cost. Although logistical issues are not unique to Indigenous performances, the challenges may be related to important protocols (e.g., smudging) rather than artist preference, which may require the programmer to take a different approach to negotiating with technical staff. For example, the Chan Centre does not allow beverages that might stain the light-coloured wood floor on main stage venue. However, we made exceptions for high-profile artists (i.e., ones who had the clout and assertive agents to push for an exception) who insisted on drinking cola or red wine as long as they used a container with a spill-proof lid. In contrast, an emerging Indigenous artist without the same clout who requested to smudge would create a different challenge. Smudging can create smoke that may set off the fire alarm. At the Chan Centre activities that create smoke may require meeting with the fire marshal and turning off the fire alarm, which is an extra cost to hire a person to monitor the fire alarm system. In this case, the programmer would have to be a champion willing to push the technical staff to accommodate these changes and have the budget for the extra costs. Our marketing staff needed to know the content of the show in order to describe it in marketing materials. I told them about the work-in-progress I had seen and the reaction of the audience. Because of Tagaq’s name recognition, we were not worried about attracting audience members. As we did for almost all performances, we arranged an ancillary activity. For this show we worked with the staff at First Nations House of Learning (FNHL) at UBC to book a talk with the 89 artists on March 16, the day of the first performance. The talk was held at lunchtime to coincide with a weekly lunch for Indigenous students on campus and the topic for the talk was decided in consultation with the artists. The FNHL staff were concerned that Indigenous students should have access to the talk and none should be turned away. In contrast, our marketing staff wanted to make sure that all of our subscribers had access as well. Ensuring access for both groups would have exceeded the capacity of the Great Hall. In the end, we reserved seats for the Indigenous students and limited access for our subscribers. However, the talk was lightly attended by Indigenous UBC students so there would have been room for more subscribers. Despite a debrief with FNHL, it was unclear why the talk was not better attended. Chan Centre marketing staff wrote a summary of the talk, which was available on the Chan Centre’s website (Chan Centre for the Performing Arts, n.d.). This summary extended the reach of the talk beyond the people who attended but it was not available until after the performance. 4.4.4 The Performance After the performance at the Native Education College, Tagaq and Williamson Bathory continued to develop their piece and the performance at the Chan Centre was somewhat different from the version I had seen. In addition, the venue at the Chan Centre created a dramatically different environment from the open space at the college. The performance was held in the Chan Centre’s Telus Studio Theatre, which is a type of venue known as a “black-box theatre” because it has black walls, ceiling, and floor and no windows. The lighting was kept low, following the lighting design from the artist, which increased the dramatic effect. Where the Native Education 90 College show was free and a work-in-progress, the Chan Centre performance involved paid admission for a professional performance, which creates different expectations from the audience. The audience sat in three levels in towers that form a horseshoe around the performance space. Williamson Bathory danced in the open performance space and Tagaq, this time with two musicians, performed at the open end of the horseshoe. A Musqueam elder gave a welcome before the performance. Inviting an elder to give a welcome and attend the performance was regular practice at the Chan Centre when we presented Indigenous artists. The show began dramatically in total darkness with just a tiny light from the seal oil lamp in the centre of the floor. In her opening monologue Williamson Bathory described the long polar night and the games they would play where people’s identities were obscured and anything could happen, a time of spirits and otherworldly beings. During this opening monologue Williamson Bathory slowly applied thick paint over her entire face, put balls the size of ping-pong balls in her cheeks and mussed her hair to transform herself from a human woman to a creature of the polar night. The lights brightened slightly during her monologue but were still kept quite low. Williamson Bathory started her dance on the floor but she soon started to move through the audience on the main level. In the darkness of the space, she would often appear as if out of nowhere so her sudden appearance was often a surprise to audience members. She interacted with the audience in similar ways as at the Native Education College performance by coming close to them and moving around them but in addition she sometimes climbed over people and took items of clothing, such as scarves. She went to all three levels of the venue as Tagaq sang 91 with her band on the main-floor stage. But the audience reacted quite differently from the audience at the Native Education College. I do not recall any laughter; the audience was quiet during the performance although there was an enthusiastic reaction at the end (there were standing ovations after two of the three performances). Because the Chan Centre did not create programs to hand out at Beyond Words performances, audience members who were not already familiar with uaajeerneq may have been unaware of its mixture of sexuality, humour, and fear. All three performances were sold out. Immediately following the first performance I had a spirited conversation with our marketing manager and our front-of-house manager about what and how we should communicate to audiences for the next two performances. Although we had not received complaints or other feedback from the audience, our marketing manager was concerned that we had not fully prepared audience members for the interaction they might encounter. Our front of house manager was concerned that audience members might not feel comfortable or safe or know how to refuse to interact. She was also, as supervisor for our unionized ushers, concerned because the staff could not choose to leave the venue and we had not prepared them beforehand for the content of the performance. Suggestions included different types of signage, verbal warnings by ushers as people entered or creating a “safe space” in the audience seating where Williamson Bathory would agree not go. There were discussions with the artist regarding audience consent to interact. Williamson Bathory told us that, in the moment, she “knew” that someone did not want to interact and that she always judged whether someone was comfortable with the interaction and avoided those that 92 she believed did not want to interact. This point was also articulated in her interview with the Georgia Straight that was published before the performance: ‘I make sure I move through an audience in a way that they accept and consent. It’s very much not a verbal thing, but it happens once we make eye contact.’ (Williamson Bathory as quoted in Smith, 2018) In the end we posted signs about possible interaction with the artist during the performance and ushers gave verbal warnings but we did not create a “safe space” or limit where Williamson Bathory could perform. (I explore the idea of a “safe space” in more detail in section 5.9.1). Also, in consultation with the artist, we turned the house lights brighter so that Williamson Bathory’s movements would be more visible as she moved through the audience. After each performance, as was our usual practice, the Chan Centre sent out an email feedback form to all attendees. We only had one complaint about artist/audience interaction. The interesting aspect of the feedback was that a number of people commented that although they were fine with the interaction, they expressed concern that “other people” might have been bothered. In a review of the performance, the writers commented on the audience interaction but did not mention whether they thought the audience was comfortable with the interaction: She crawls over chairs, slinks through our ranks, and jumps into the laps of her prey. We are her playthings. We are implicated. Just as much her entertainment as she is ours. Boundaries blur between audience and performance. Face to face, eye to eye, she flips the gaze of the show and the observers become the observed. (Haberl et al., 2018) 93 The authors of this review are members of The Indigenous Collective, who produce the radio show “Unceded Airwaves” for the University of B.C.’s radio station CiTR. In earlier parts of the review, they describe the performance in a way that makes it seem that they were familiar with uaajeerneq before the performance and appreciated and understood the audience interaction. I think an understanding of the art form before attending the performance would influence audience members expectations and result in different reactions. 4.5 Case Three Playwright Larissa FastHorse (Sicangu Lakota) was commissioned by Michael Reed, senior director of programs and organizational initiatives for Gammage at Arizona State University (ASU). Gammage is located on the Tempe campus on the lands of the O’odham (Pima) and Piipaash (Maricopa). The performance took place on April 27-28, 2019. 4.5.1 The O’odham (Pima) and Piipaash (Maricopa) Tribes’ Connection with ASU Although the O’odham (Pima) and Piipaash (Maricopa) are two distinct tribes with their own culture and identity, they are federally recognized as one tribe because historically they have operated as one political unit when dealing with other groups. The O’odham of Arizona live on four major reserves. Maricopa are part of a larger Yuman culture that extends across Arizona, Southern California and Baja California. They have lived on their lands since time immemorial and they have no history of migration from another location and, unlike other tribes in the eastern US, they were not relocated (Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community, n.d.). 94 ASU has an O’odham Meal Box Program that educates people about O’odham ways of life through sharing food (Arizona State University, 2023, May 15). In 2015, ASU published a statement from its president, Michael Crow, regarding its commitment to American Indian Tribes, including the O’odham and Piipaash (Crow, 2015). ASU also offers an American Indian Studies program with undergraduate and graduate degrees. 4.5.2 Creation Process for Native Nation The play Native Nation was commissioned by ASU Gammage and presented by Cornerstone Theater Company. The play was written by Larissa FastHorse and directed by Michael John Garcés, artistic director of Cornerstone Theatre Company. Cornerstone is a professional theatre company, based in Los Angeles, that uses a mix of professional and non-professional actors, and creates plays based on the stories and concerns of a specific community (Garcés, n.d.). Michael Reed met Garcés when they sat on a panel together at the Western Arts Alliance conference in 2016. During the panel, Garcés described Cornerstone’s production of FastHorse’s play Urban Rez, which was created in Los Angeles from discussions with Indigenous people who live in Los Angeles County. Reed asked Garcés if they could create something similar in Arizona using a comparable community process. Although Garcés and FastHorse originally thought they could revise Urban Rez for the Arizona production, they realized that, because of the vast differences between urban Indigenous Los Angeles communities and the Indigenous communities in Arizona, with the latter having stronger ties to their reservations, there needed to be substantial changes to the work. 95 Throughout 2018, FastHorse and Garcés visited Indigenous communities both on and off ASU campus and throughout Arizona and organized talking circles to hear from community members and organizations. Native Nation is a completely different play from Urban Rez because of the community members who shaped it, their concerns and the political situation they live in. FastHorse says these dialogues helped her to see common issues that were affecting indigenous people in the Southwest and that building connections was an essential part of developing Native Nation (Latzko, 2019). From these visits, FastHorse reviewed over 90 pages of single-spaced notes and created the first draft of the script, which included fictional stories incorporating themes from the community input. By late 2018, Cornerstone shared the first draft of the script in order to get feedback from the community (Dance, 2019). Nothing made it into the final script, she says, without the express approval of the people she was writing about. “We always went back to our community,” FastHorse recalls. “We always went back to the ways of presenting performance in a manner natural to the space and land. It’s on the land where you discover the moments of collective storytelling, the moments of individual storytelling, the call and response.” (Garcia, 2020) Many of the actors in the play were non-professionals. Garcés said that “nonprofessionals bring things to the table that are so true and authentic to their experience and really help us to create something that has authenticity. I’m always surprised with their amazing instincts” (Latzko, 2019). 96 Both Urban Rez and Native Nation challenge stereotypes and misrepresentations of Indigenous people but are also an opportunity to fight erasure from mainstream culture (Garcia, 2020). “This is so much more than the end product, as it moves far beyond standards and definitions of Indigenous peoples and stories that outside communities impose” (Dance, 2019). As community actor Kenneth Ramos stated: “I don’t see myself on Netflix. I don’t see myself on Hulu. I saw myself in Native Nation” (Garcia, 2020). 4.5.3 Venue The play was performed not at Arizona State University but at a venue called Steele Indian School Park in Phoenix. The site first opened as Phoenix Indian Industrial School in 1891 and was closed by the federal government in 1990. In 1996, the city of Phoenix obtained the land through a three-way land exchange. The 72-acre park, in its current arrangement, opened in 2001. It is named for Horace C. Steele because his foundation donated $2.5 million dollars (City of Phoenix, n.d.). The website does not mention whether he has any connection to the school or the Indigenous community. While the website does say that the park's design pays homage to the site's Native American history because many of the design elements reflect Native American concepts of life, earth and the universe, it does not indicate if Indigenous people were involved or consulted on the design. Although Phoenix Indian Industrial School was not exactly a residential school, as we understand the term in Canada, it was a boarding school with the mission to assimilate Indigenous children by cutting their cultural ties with their community and forcing them to adopt a military lifestyle. Because of its history, the park is a significant site of colonization. However, 97 through efforts such creating the Phoenix Indian School Visitor Center, the history of the site is being acknowledged (Native American Connections, n.d.). Native Nation was performed outdoors in an area of the park near the Circle of Life, which encircles the three remaining historic buildings of the school. However, FastHorse and Cornerstone rarely mentioned the school itself in their descriptions of the performance. In a video excerpt of the play (Davis, n.d.) one of the historic buildings can be seen in the background but the former school buildings were not used as venues for the production. 4.5.4 The Performance Native Nation was described as an immersive theatre experience (Dance, 2019; Latzko, 2019). The production included an artisan marketplace, a fashion show and cultural performances. Because the production was set in an actual park, audiences participated the way they would in other types of cultural fairs. FastHorse describes it further: You can buy things from the vendors, eat food, talk to booth participants, participate in activities, etc. Out of that experience, scripted scenes erupt and fun group performances happen. In fact, the cultural fair is robust enough that is open and free to the public three hours before the scripted experience starts. (Yu, 2019) The play offered an interactive theater experience because audience members were encouraged to take part in different activities and it incorporated different types of storytelling, including music and dance (Latzko, 2019). Community activist, Rosetta Walker lead a discussion with audience members about missing and murdered Indigenous women (Garcia, 2020). 98 Native Nation blurred the line between artists and spectators because it allowed audience members to engage with the actors. Garcés stated: We’re hoping that we can change the audience/performer dynamic, so that we are not dictating to the audience what they have to experience, but they have freedom in what they experience. And at the same time, not put the characters onstage to be viewed by the audience, but really they’re interacting, changing our relationship to the story and immersing folks in the story. (Latzko, 2019) Garcés said the productions helped generate a sense of community and empowerment among the cast, crew, and the shows’ largely Indigenous audiences. FastHorse said “My job is to change the face of American theatre but also to change audiences” (Garcia, 2020). When FastHorse writes for white theatregoers, her goal is to “get in your head and make you think differently.” Both Urban Rez and Native Nation are designed to be what FastHorse calls “intentionally incompatible experiences” for non-Indigenous people. Although she is not deliberately trying to alienate white audiences, the plays do not strive for the approval of white audiences. Instead, FastHorse says these works are created by and for Indigenous people as a way for them to tell their stories the way they want them told (Garcia, 2020). 99 Chapter 5: Analysis of Decolonization in the Cases 5.1 Key Themes In her letter, Johnson (2021) states that no one knows what decolonization looks like “but there are initiatives that nurture decolonization.” In Chapter 3 I reviewed decolonization work in the performing arts and some key themes emerged that I believe can nurture decolonization: • Importance of respecting Indigenous autonomy and self-determination • Centring and respecting Indigenous practices, world views and epistemology • Rebalancing power relations by sharing power and decision-making • Collaboration as equals (both sides setting parameters for the collaboration) • Building relationships based on trust that are reciprocal and sustainable, not extractive or instrumentalizing. I will examine the cases with these key themes in mind as I look at different aspects of each project and compare and contrast how each programmer addressed decolonization. Briefly, at Montclair the relationship broke down over the ancillary activities, beyond the performance. For the Chan Centre performance I believe there were missed opportunities for contextualizing the performance, discourse and learning. In contrast, Gammage demonstrated the most collaborative project where the artists had the most autonomy; however, it is a question whether this led to lasting change. 100 5.2 Curator Positionality Because I do not have access to the other curators’ private reflections on their positionality, I have used information from published sources. Also, elements of their professional positionality are clear from the structure of programming within a university. Jed Wheeler, who is described as white (Sitrin, 2021), was hired by Montclair in 2005 where he founded Peak Performances (Peterson, 2016). Before that he was president of an arts management company, International Production Associates, and he booked the Serious Fun Festival at the Lincoln Centre from 1987 to 1993. In the dispute with Johnson, he is quoted as saying “But ‘white rage?’ … It’s so inaccurate. Look at the artists I’ve supported” (Seibert, 2021). He used inclusion of diverse artists in his programming to support his claim that he did not have white rage. Also, Montclair, in its published defense of Wheeler, noted that Peak Performances “intentionally seeks out emerging artists, artists from underrepresented backgrounds, and artists whose work challenges established norms and practices” (Seibert, 2021). Again, inclusion of diverse artists is used to support his position and actions. When Wheeler stated that he “calls the shots” he is, crudely, stating the truth of the university’s structure, the programmer’s power within it and the typical relationship between programmer and artist. As the programmer for a university venue, he decides what is booked, how much the artist is paid and, in this case, whether the performance happens at all. In my Chan Centre example, I had the same power. I could have decided not to book Tagaq based on her political stance regarding the Heritage Canada funding and I could have tried to interfere in the artistic choices for the performance such as preventing Williamson Bathory from interacting with the audience or increasing the lighting without consultation. 101 Reed, who does not claim Indigenous heritage in any public statement I found, was a dancer for 12 years until he started at Gammage in 1996. On his LinkedIn profile he describes himself as having “an aesthetic vision that encompasses global cultures and perspectives along side community heritage and forward facing creative initiatives. Continually and thoughtfully incorporates EDI values and policies within all operations” (Reed, n.d.). Reed was in a similar position in his venue but, as a faculty member, he has a different standing in the university hierarchy than staff members like Wheeler and me. Faculty often have tenure, more influence over policy, may be able to access more resources than staff members and may be taken more seriously by university leadership. Reed chose the artist and initially dictated the content by saying he wanted something “like they did before.” As far as I can tell, Reed did not ask the Indigenous community around the university what they wanted. His decision came from his encounter with Garcés at a conference, not through community consultation. By controlling access to the venue and the resources, such as money for artist fees, technical staff and equipment, a university programmer wields a lot of power over the production. Also, programmers have the reputational clout that goes with their position, the venue and their institution. 5.3 Institutional Goals and Values In this section I examine the stated goals of the institutions and the university presenters for each case study. As I addressed in section 3.3.1, a main theme when working with Indigenous people is the need to move from theory and policy to action and practice. Institutions often publicly state 102 aspirational goals so I want to consider how those goals were fulfilled in each of these cases. My first step is to look at what these institutions say publicly about their mission, goals and values. 5.3.1 Montclair State University/Arts and Cultural Programing Montclair’s mission statement, as posted on their website and approved by the Montclair State University Board of Trustees on October 31, 2002, states that they are committed to reflecting the diverse population of New Jersey. This statement suggests that this includes a commitment to reflecting the Indigenous people of New Jersey. But “reflecting” is not defined so it is unclear whether this commitment goes beyond mere inclusion. In addition, Montclair’s statement says that it “will serve as a center for the creation of new knowledge and for the development of innovative applications of existing knowledge and as a center for pedagogical and artistic excellence and creativity” (Montclair State University, 2002). This statement does not suggest that their hierarchical structure would prevent Wheeler from instituting a land acknowledgement. However, in Montclair’s statement in support of Wheeler, they express a very hierarchical structure: these important matters are established at an institutional level. The University does not formulate and adopt important policy decisions by means of a contract with a particular performing artist. Rather, it follows a thoughtful, consultative process that involves all of the institution’s many stakeholders and culminates in the formal approval of new programs and policies. (Montclair State University, 2021) Nonetheless, I would suggest that if Wheeler had worked with Johnson to find a way to institute a land acknowledgment that he would have been fulfilling Montclair’s stated mission of 103 developing innovative ways to apply existing knowledge. More recently, on January 26, 2022, the senate of Montclair State University approved a resolution “recommending” that the university adopt a land acknowledgement (Montclair State University, 2022, January 26).7 Also, Montclair’s mission statement says that “the University will play a role beyond the campus community, partnering and collaborating at the local, state, national and international levels to make positive contributions to addressing issues of importance to society” (Montclair State University, 2002). This statement sounds like going beyond the border of the university is something they encourage. However, Montclair’s defense of Wheeler states that “if Ms. Johnson felt that making a Land Acknowledgment was important, she had complete freedom to do so within the context of her work” (Montclair State University, 2021, emphasis added), which firmly keeps Johnson’s activism on stage. Johnson offered the university a prime opportunity to fulfill one of its missions by partnering and collaborating with the local Indigenous community, and their programmer chose to turn this opportunity down. More specifically, the mission statement for Arts and Cultural Programming (ACP) and PEAK Performances includes these points: • to provide important performing artists the unconditional opportunity to take risks and to create work across multiple disciplines. • to integrate fully that work into the academic life of the university in multiple ways to foster learning, participation, and creativity. 7 Interestingly in their document they note five other universities that have adopted land acknowledgements and one of them is the University of British Columba. 104 • To maximize the value to the University of having its public arts programming positioned as innovative and daring (Montclair State University, n.d.). However, in the dispute between Wheeler and Johnson, her innovation was clearly meant to stay on the stage and to not be integrated into the academic life of the university. Johnson took a risk in pushing Wheeler to work with the local community and to show leadership by instituting a land acknowledgement. Wheeler, as the person who was in a position to institute the ACP’s mission, did not pursue or facilitate this opportunity. Further, ACP’s mission statement says that, “integral to this mission is the need to encourage audiences to become more adventurous and open to new artistic experiences.” The statement also says that they want to change presenting models: “Since its inception, the PEAK Performances series has set out to challenge and rethink the way independent theaters operate and to create a bold new model for presenters in the Garden State.” Their statement further declares that “Under the ACP umbrella, PEAK Performances is a leading model nationally for innovative producing and presenting” (Montclair State University, n.d.). I think it is significant that this last sentence begins “under the ACP umbrella” clearly indicating where the PEAK Performances series fits in their hierarchal structure. Johnson pushed for a new model of presenting that included change off the stage by including work with the local Indigenous community. I would argue that Montclair and PEAK performances’ mission statements do not align with Wheeler’s actions in regards to Johnson. When it came to this dispute, the university did not follow through on its stated goals but instead supported their 105 hierarchy (i.e., a staff member and one unit of the university could not institute change). This stance prevented dialogue, collaboration and, ultimately, any change that would align with their mission. I would like to note that since the Johnson/Wheeler incident, Montclair has instituted a land acknowledgement and announced their new Native American and Indigenous Studies minor (Montclair, 2022, October 11). If these initiatives had been in place when Wheeler booked Johnson, perhaps the outcome would have been different. 5.3.2 UBC/Chan Centre On their website, UBC’s mission is fairly brief with a general focus on inspiring, excellence, integrity, respect, academic freedom and justice. Notably, Montclair and Arizona State University’s mission statements include references to diversity, creativity, and the arts. UBC’s statement of vision, purpose and values does not reference diversity, creativity or the arts (University of British Columbia, n.d.-a). However, UBC’s strategic plan (University of British Columbia, n.d.-c) includes references to deepening commitments to Indigenous people and engagement with Indigenous partners. UBC also has an Indigenous strategic plan (University of British Columbia, 2020), which outlines its vision and goals for reconciliation in more detail and, as mentioned earlier, a Memorandum of Affiliation with Musqueam. At UBC the Faculty of Arts oversees the Arts and Culture District (as they did at the time of the Tagaq/Williamson Bathory performance), which includes a museum, an art gallery and the Chan Centre for the Performing Arts. There is no mission statement for the Arts and Culture District 106 on the website but a brief description notes that “We hold the creative and performing arts as core to deep disciplinary knowledge and applied research and as the key to a fulfilled and connected life” (University of British Columbia, n.d.-b). The Chan Centre does not post its mission, values or goals on its website so there is no public statement of its position with which to compare its activities. The Chan Centre website described Beyond Words as a series that “explores the transformative power of storytelling through multidisciplinary works.” The vagueness and brevity of the faculty and Chan Centre’s statements make it difficult to judge if the Chan Centre is fulfilling the university’s goals through its programming. 5.3.3 ASU/Gammage ASU’s mission and goals are heavily focused on innovation, inclusion and economic impact. Under a section about enhancing their local impact and social connections they include the following: “Co-develop solutions to the critical social, technical, cultural and environmental issues facing 21st-century Arizona, ensuring sustainability and resilience” (Arizona State University, n.d.-a). Notably their statement also includes specific measurable goals such as ensuring that more than 90% of students continue their studies beyond first year. More specifically, Gammage includes these items in its “core values:” • We embrace change by evaluating and challenging our norms. • Engage in open, productive dialogues as active participants • Foster creativity to spark new ideas • Encourage informed risk taking, allowing growth from the occasional failure • Value diversity and individuality 107 • Respectful of all others and mindful of biases • Embrace all voices and strive to make everyone feel heard • Nurture Community • Collaborate with clear expectations and shared goals (Arizona State University, n.d.-b) The Gammage website includes a statement by Colleen Jennings-Roggensack, ASU’s vice president for Cultural Affairs and the executive director of Gammage. Her statement includes the following points: • As a leader in the arts world, ASU Gammage also produces new works, artist residencies and education programs that foster the great artists of today and empower the artists of tomorrow. • These programs allow ASU Gammage to go beyond a classroom, stage, workshop or performance to change lives for the better. • These programs are vital to ASU Gammage making a difference in our community and connecting with people through shared experiences. • Our goal is to entertain and challenge our audience by presenting new, diverse and thought-provoking performance opportunities. • If we have inspired community conversation about a topic relevant to one of our productions, then we know we are on track with our mission of Connecting CommunitiesTM (Jennings-Roggensack, n.d.). It is relevant to note that these statements make going beyond the stage and into the community a part of their core values and activities. Reed, in commissioning FastHorse, fulfilled a number of 108 these goals. Her work went into the community; she connected people with shared experiences; she challenged audiences by presenting thought-provoking work and inspired community conversations relevant to the play. Although this is a robust example of a university presenter demonstrating commitment to their stated aspirational goals, the missing element is the Indigenous community’s input. Themes for decolonization that appear in my readings include building reciprocal collaborative relationships. Although FastHorse did build this type of relationship with the community through her work, it is unclear what relationship Gammage has built with the Indigenous community and the Indigenous audience members. It is also unclear if Gammage’s community goals were developed in consultation with the community who attended the performance. One of their goals is to make a difference in their community but who decides what kind of change and how to pursue it? Gammage may fulfill its goals but are they supporting change that the community wants most? Did they ask? 5.4 Programmers’ Goals A programmer working in a university venue usually books performances to fulfill the institution’s goals. Part of the programmer’s role is to implement the university’s vision and mission through their programming decisions. In this section I will look at the publicly stated goals of each programmer, to be able to assess to what extent they did what they said they would do. 109 5.4.1 Wheeler/PEAK Performances Although Montclair did not publish a statement from Wheeler regarding the dispute, he did make some public statements that indicate his vision and goals. For example, Wheeler stated he was the “luckiest person in the room” when he booked Johnson, and that he wanted to capture her “force” in a performance (Seibert, 2021). From these statements he seemed supportive of a performance that might be provocative and that he was willing to do the off-the-stage work that Johnson requested. But in an article about the dispute, when Wheeler says “my idea of social justice is onstage” (Seibert, 2021) he is showing the limits of his support for Johnson. He will support her art but not her activism. I think it is significant, and typical, that Montclair released an official statement regarding the dispute but Wheeler did not. The university publicly supported his handling of the dispute, which reflects a hierarchical structure of the university writing a statement on behalf of a staff member. The staff member is shielded, but also silenced, by this structure. Montclair’s statement in support of Wheeler echoes the National Gallery’s disclaimer distancing themselves from Indigenous artist Nadia Myre’s political stance (see section 2.3.1). 5.4.2 Atkinson/Beyond Words Although the Chan Centre did not have a public programmer’s statement, I had thought a lot about the vision for the Beyond Words series and I booked artists who incorporated social justice goals in their work. The Chan Centre example was a typical model of programming where I booked the performance but I was not involved in its creation. I worked with the artist’s agent, not directly with the artist, so the communication regarding the funding was relayed to me as a contractual requirement and there was no opportunity for conversation with the artist about their 110 concerns. Upon reflection, I realized that although I strongly support decolonization goals, when it came to a situation where my decisions were challenged, my initial reaction was to re-consider booking the artist. I think my reaction reflected the reality that, as a programmer in a university venue with its resources, it would be easier to book another artist rather than compromise or adapt to the requirements of the artist. The booking process is often one-sided and not a collaborative shared process. It also reflects the hierarchical, institutional environment I worked in. My programming choices had to be approved by others and had to be made on a strict timeline to fit within marketing deadlines. In a hierarchical environment, making firm, quick decisions is often prized over slower collaborative decision-making. 5.4.3 Reed/Beyond Series I could not find a programmer or curator statement and very little information about the Beyond series on the ASU website. There are two mentions of the series on the ASU website: a promotion of the 2022/23 Beyond season (Arizona State University, n.d.-c) and an ASU crowd funding campaign to raise money for a specific performance (Arizona State University, 2023, April 1). Otherwise, all of the information I could find about the series came from non-ASU websites. One site mentions that the series started in 1991 and “calls itself a ‘carefully curated boutique arts series (that) brings world-class performing artists who immerse themselves into (the) community by presenting evocative and compelling work along with connecting to Valley residents through engaging Cultural Participation programs’” (Lawson, n.d.). More recently the programmer, Michael Reed, has been quoted as characterizing the series with a focus on diversity. For example, in announcing the 2017/18 series he stated “Beyond is an 111 amazing array of performing artists that truly speak to the global, diverse face of America today.” He also mentions that ASU Gammage will fulfill its mission by “presenting and embedding these brilliant artists on ASU’s campuses as well as the entire Valley of the Sun with workshops, master classes and discussions” (PHXStages.com, 2017). In announcing the 2022/23 season on the Gammage website he commented that “the uniqueness of the 2022–2023 Beyond series is at its core about human resilience, inspirational women and celebrating the untold stories of richly diverse communities” (Arizona State University, n.d.-c) and in the recent crowd funding campaign on the ASU website Reed is quoted that donations will be used to “continue to grow our Beyond Series which brings us well renowned BIPOC artists to the ASU Gammage Stage” (Arizona State University, 2023). It is surprising, however, that a series that has been in existence for so long does not have more of a presence on the Gammage site, especially as an archive to highlight what they done to support their mission. Although the series does not have a published mission statement, I think it is safe to assume that it is intended to follow the mission of Gammage, as noted above. Native Nation demonstrated Gammage’s values of nurturing community and collaborating with clear expectations and shared goals. The collaborative element was expressed when Reed states that “I tried not to have any preconceived notions [about Native Nation], knowing how Cornerstone works” (Garcia, 2020). As the programmer he provided resources but did not impose his vision on the creation of the play because he trusted the artist’s process. However, I could not tell if he connected with the local Indigenous community to ask if this was the type of production they wanted or needed. From the information I have, it sounds like Reed booked the artist and afterwards connected with 112 the community, a very typical model of presenting, but which misses an opportunity for the university to build a deeper relationship with the community. 5.5 Institutional Structures University venues are embedded in the university’s hierarchical structure, which affects what a university presenter can do. Wheeler claimed that he could not do a land acknowledgement because it was not university practice and that he would need university approval. The requirement for university approval limited what he could accomplish with Johnson’s performance. Without the support of the university’s leadership to take steps towards decolonization, the entire project broke down. Although Johnson encouraged Wheeler to negotiate with the university leadership, his response was that he was “frustrated that there was no recognition of the limitations of my office” (Seibert, 2021). Similarly, I was dealing with hierarchy and structure for the Tagaq/Williamson Bathory performance. I needed the approval of the Chan Centre’s co-managing director to forego the Canada 150 funding because it would impact the Chan Centre’s overall budget. I had to negotiate with our technical staff so that they would approve the use of the seal oil lamp, with a live flame, by explaining the cultural significance it had to the performance. However, I did not prepare our front-of-house staff for the audience interaction. In hindsight, this was a missed opportunity for education and discourse. For example, I could have arranged for the artists to talk with our staff beforehand. This would have required changes to our regular practice; for example, the artist would have had to arrive earlier, which could be a challenge to schedule around their rehearsal 113 and we would have had to pay the artist for this additional activity. Also, we would have had to bring the casual staff (ushers) in earlier, which is an additional cost. At Gammage the performance was held off-site and in collaboration with Cornerstone Theatre, which I suspect gave the artist more control over the project and could likely result in less interaction and negotiation around institutional hierarchy and policies. 5.6 Presenting Models Each venue had a different presenting model that influenced the outcome. Wheeler intended to commission Johnson and then include the performance as part of his regular series. The advantage for Johnson, in addition to the substantial artist fee, was the reputational advantage of being offered a commission. This is a huge bonus to an artist to be paid to create work and a show of faith in their abilities. The commissioner typically has little say in the outcome because they trust the artist to create work of high quality based on their previous work. However, in this example, Johnson needed Wheeler’s commitment to collaborate on the activist part of her work and without his commitment the project broke down because in this presenting model the programmer has control of the resources and they can make the decision of whether the project goes ahead. At the Chan Centre, Tagaq and Williamson Bathory were booked as part of the Chan Centre’s Beyond Words series. This gave the performance profile through the Chan Centre’s marketing but it also meant the performance had to fit within the parameters for the series such as specific ticket prices, performance start times and length of performance. It also meant that the audience 114 had expectations based on the type of venue, for example not moving around or talking during the performance and limited interaction with the performers. This is a very typical presenting model where the artist fits into the presenter’s structural parameters. Gammage’s co-presenting model required more collaboration and shared decision-making because both groups brought resources to the project. This model also requires a lot of trust. Reed trusted Cornerstone to connect with the community and trusted that their interaction would be respectful and would fulfill Gammage’s goals for community work, since the artists were representing the university and the venue. Of my three cases, the Gammage model of the Native Nation performance gave the artist the most control and autonomy but presenting it in the Beyond series highlights that it is different from their regular programming. This separation from the regular programming can be an advantage (it highlights that this show is special) but it can also be a disadvantage if the series does not receive the same resources as other programming. Also, as I have mentioned section 3.3.6 above, presenting diverse artists (i.e., inclusion and representation) is a very limited way to address diversity. Inclusion does not change power structures or challenge colonial dominance. The diverse artists ASU is presenting in 2022/23 are presented under a series that takes you “beyond the normal arts experience” with artists with “powerful messages” in contrast to the traditional Broadway shows they typically present (Arizona State University (n.d.-c). The interesting aspect of the Native Nation show was not that Gammage booked an Indigenous artist, but how much autonomy they gave the artist to create the show. Nonetheless, Reed set the parameters for the collaboration. He selected the artist and typically he would decide on the 115 resources the university could supply. Like Wheeler, he was in a position to cancel the performance if problems arose. My cases show a fairly typical range of presenting models. But none of them demonstrate a reciprocal power relationship between the Indigenous artist and the programmer because the programmer made the decision of which artist to book, controlled the resources and could decide if the performance went ahead. 5.7 Limitations of Inclusive Programming As noted in section 3.3.6, booking Indigenous artists in colonial, Eurocentric institutions could be a “move to innocence” per Tuck and Yang (2012). They describe moves to innocence as “strategies or positionings that attempt to relieve the settler of feelings of guilt or responsibility without giving up land or power or privilege, without having to change much at all” (p. 10). Booking diverse artists (inclusion) may seem like making change without actually changing power structures, decision-making methods, relationships or other systems of colonial dominance. Inclusion should be seen as a minimum, not the end goal. When the conflict with Johnson became public Wheeler, in defending his actions, said, “look at the artists I’ve supported” (Seibert, 2021). He relied on his history of programming diverse artists (i.e., inclusion and representation) to defend his behavior. However, he did not address his positionality, his power within his organization or as a programmer of an influential series. He also did not challenge the power structure of Montclair by advocating for a land acknowledgement and he relied on the university leadership to defend his actions in a public statement of support that presented Johnson in a negative light. 116 I believe I used my presenting history as a “move to innocence” when I was challenged regarding the Canada 150 funding. My first reaction was to consider choosing another artist, knowing I would likely be able to substitute another diverse artist. Although, with reflection I changed my position, that did not change the fact that I was still in a position to reject the performance because of the artist’s stance. At Gammage, Reed not only included an Indigenous artist but he also gave the theatre company substantial freedom in creating the performance. While this autonomy is a step towards changing power relationships with the artist through a collaboration, it is unclear if this performance led to any lasting change between the university and the local Indigenous community. 5.8 Influence of Location In both the Montclair and UBC examples, the show was intended to be held in a university venue. Whether the local Indigenous community felt comfortable attending an event in these venues would depend on the existing relationship between the venue and the community. In the case of Montclair, because Johnson proposed working with the community, it seems that there was not likely already a robust relationship between the venue and the community. Johnson’s community work and her performance might have led to increased engagement between the two groups. At the Chan Centre, we would reach out to the First Nations House Learning and the local Musqueam band office whenever we presented an Indigenous artist. Nonetheless, we did not have a regular relationship with them and we did not track detailed demographic information that would tell us if the local Indigenous community was regularly attending our performances. Unlike Reed, we did not consider holding this performance off-site, for example at the First 117 Nations House of Learning, because our goal was always to bring attention to the Chan Centre. Although we did hold ancillary activities off-site, we rarely presented performances outside of the venue. I believe that Tagaq and Williamson Bathory created a temporary and fleeting “Indigenous space” with their performance. It was a space that could make white audience members uncomfortable but, similar to FastHorse, I do not believe making white audience members comfortable was their goal. Williamson Bathory describes uaajeerneq as challenging and shocking and it plays with the idea of fear. “Of course, when you’re dealing with themes of sexuality and fear and humour, you’re breaking boundaries,” (Williamson Bathory as quoted in Smith, 2018). Earlier I quoted her comment regarding interacting with the audience. She acknowledges that “It’s scary for everybody. A lot of mask dance is the reaction of the audience as I work with them” (Williamson Bathory as quoted in Smith, 2018). I have often wondered about the different audience reactions between the performance at the Native Education College, full of laughter at the interaction with Williamson Bathory, and the quiet, perhaps awkward, audience at the Chan Centre. I believe this performance played on the disconnect between what is expected in a colonial Eurocentric, university venue and an Indigenous created space. Native Nation was presented one year after the Tagaq/Williamson Bathory performance so I was not aware of it when I was booking their show but, in light of the Gammage experience, I believe that collaborating and sharing decision-making with an Indigenous-led group to hold the performance in an Indigenous-run venue would have been an interesting opportunity to put into action some of the themes I outlined in section 5.1. While 118 Tagaq and Williamson Bathory created an Indigenous space within the university venue, FastHorse took her project off campus and into the community, both in the development of the play and its performance. This move put more control in the hands of the artist to create a space where the local Indigenous community would feel welcome and comfortable. 5.9 Audience 5.9.1 Presenter/Programmer Framing The question of who a production is ‘for’ is a key one for presenters because it guides their marketing, outreach and education activities. Does the presenter want to diversify their existing audience? If so, they could reach out to new audiences, perhaps by translating marketing materials or contacting media outlets connected to a specific community or holding outreach activities in the community. Or is the presenter interested in deepening connections with their existing audience? Then they might market the show to their regular audience but include a pre-show talk about the history of the art form. The presenter, through their marketing, education and outreach activities, can give their perspective on a performance and encourage certain audience expectations. Often this framing represents the presenter’s goals for the performance, which may or may not mirror the artists’ goals for the performance. Works that are do not take into account the desires and expectations of the audience that the arts organization wants to reach (or keep) are less likely to be programmed (Robinson, 2020). Also, the presenter has the power, used intentionally or not, to misrepresent the performance. This framing can also fall prey to “aesthetic colonization” (Darby et al., 2020). The programmer may use Western European art criteria to evaluate and market 119 Indigenous art and they may use Indigenous art extractively to access funding for the institution (as Wheeler did with the NEA) or to generate admiration for the programmer (as Wheeler did in announcing booking Johnson at the APAP conference). In the Montclair example, Wheeler wanted Johnson’s performance to stay within the limits of the stage in contrast to Johnson’s goals to use her performance as a springboard for her activism in the community. This disconnect led to the project being cancelled. Wheeler did not seem to prioritize connecting with community. If the local Indigenous community had already been attending PEAK Performances, then he would likely have already built a relationship with the community. But since Johnson proposed doing that outreach, I can only assume that PEAK Performances did not have an existing relationship with the local Indigenous community. Before booking Johnson, Wheeler could have reflected on his goals for audience attendance and community engagement. If he was not interested in building the Indigenous audience or a relationship with the community, then Johnson’s outreach to the community would not seem like a good fit for the series. However, if he was interested in building those relationships, then he might have been more open to Johnson’s suggestions. As Johnson’s states “Jed wanted the effects of my work, but not to do the work” (Seibert, 2021). At the Chan Centre, I believe I missed an opportunity to frame the performance in a way that would have reflected the artists’ artwork more accurately. This occurred for a number of reasons. I was not working with the artist but through an agent so I did not discuss the performance directly with the artist. Also, when I saw the work in progress, I watched the audience laughing and cheering when Williamson Bathory interacted with them so I did not expect people to be 120 uncomfortable with the interaction. We marketed the show primarily to our existing subscribers through our email lists and mainstream media outlets. Tagaq is well known in certain musical circles and we had successfully presented her in the past so we geared our marketing efforts to a music audience and our marketing materials leaned heavily on Tagaq’s reputation and our subscribers’ familiarity with her work. We did not attempt to contextualize the work at all. After the first performance, when our staff became aware of the artist/audience interaction, we discussed ways to “prepare” the audience with signage, to make them “more comfortable” by making the lights brighter and potentially offering a “safe space” to sit. Our staff wanted to make these changes because of what they believed a typical Chan Centre audience member would expect at the venue. In other words, we discussed the comfort and expectations of our usual subscriber audience members but we never considered “preparing” Indigenous audience members for an encounter with Eurocentric art on unceded territory when we presented classical concerts. Williamson Bathory describes her work as “in part, a clown act” (Smith, 2018) and because the work-in-progress that I saw generated much laughter from the audience, I was not expecting the reaction of our front of house and marketing managers and their concerns about the audience. I had not considered contextualizing the performance for the audience or for our staff, which was a missed opportunity for education and discourse on Inuit and Greenlandic culture and artistic practice. We could have encouraged the audience to be witnesses instead of voyeurs, as Carter (2020) characterizes them. The artists used the elements of the venue (darkness, low lights, sitting in a semi-circle) to set the scene of a long polar night, to encourage the audience to 121 experience it with them. I believe they were encouraging the audience to be witnesses, to think of our shared experience of darkness and the fear and freedom it can generate. I believe the “solutions” our staff proposed encouraged the audience to remain voyeurs, as is typical of venues based on Western European conventions. A voyeur can stand apart from the story, consuming what they want and rejecting what is unsettling (Carter, 2020). For example, for the second and third performance, the ushers told audience members that there was audience interaction but we did not create a “safe space” (i.e., a designated seating area where the artist would not go) because this would have signaled to the audience that they were “unsafe” at a performance of Indigenous art. In a “safe space” the audience would be able to separate themselves from possible interaction with the artist but also from the shared experience of wondering if the artist would approach them and the excitement and perhaps unsettling feelings that would accompany that wondering. To encourage witnessing, we could have contextualized the performance for audience members on the website beforehand, in our regular pre-show emails to ticket buyers and in materials such as the program. This contextualization would not be a “warning” but background to the art form and the artists’ perspectives on working together, with an acknowledgement that audience interaction formed part of the performance. Chan Centre programming staff and operations staff could have discussed audience expectations and events that push the “norms” of performance beforehand. One typical method for contextualizing is a post-show talk back. However, in this case I think a post-performance talk-back would have ruined the very special magic and otherworldly atmosphere the artists created. 122 FastHorse, through her work in the community beforehand, was able to control the framing of the performance herself. As the programmer, Reed appeared to take a backseat and allowed the artist to take the lead in how the performance was presented to the community, which would affect their expectations of the performance. FastHorse made it clear this was a performance not only “for” the community but “with” the community. In referring to Urban Rez and Native Nation, FastHorse states that these works are created by and for Indigenous people as a way for them to tell their stories the way they want them told (Garcia, 2020). Assuming that Reed was aware of her artistic goals, he was likely expecting that the audience would be drawn to the production through FastHorse’s community work and not primarily through Gammage’s regular marketing activities. In booking this show and collaborating with the artist to create a new version based on the local Indigenous community, he presumably expected that the production would draw the audience primarily from the local Indigenous community and that the presenter’s framing would not be necessary. Without knowing the financial parameters of their co-presentation, we do not know how much pressure there was for Gammage to sell tickets. Did Gammage split the ticket revenue with Cornerstone or did it all go to the artists? Did Gammage budget to recoup production costs from ticket sales? If they did, then they might have felt some pressure to make sure they marketed to their existing audiences. Gammage primarily presents large Broadway shows. Would they have marketed this event differently because it is not an event “for” their typical audience? But if the ticket revenue went to the artist, did Gammage market it to their regular audience at all? Could this be a missed opportunity to encourage their typical audience to become witnesses to a 123 performance that was created by Indigenous people, about Indigenous concerns and “for” Indigenous people? 5.9.2 Artist Audience Separation As I addressed in 3.3.8, the separation of artists and spectators is a Eurocentric model. Art forms in other cultures do not necessarily maintain this divide. By physically interacting with the audience Williamson Bathory was blurring the divide between audience and artist. I believe she was encouraging the audience to become witnesses by being somatically involved in the performance, which made it more difficult for audience members to remain voyeurs, standing apart from the performance. I believe that the “solutions” that Chan Centre staff wanted to impose on the performance would re-establish the divide between artist/audience that the artists were trying to dissolve. Signage, bringing up the lights and safe spaces would re-establish the Eurocentric model of artist/audience separation, which is the model for a traditional venue like the Chan Centre. But by maintaining the divide, conversation and witnessing become difficult. In contrast, FastHorse created an “immersive” experience that included not only the play but a marketplace, fashion show and cultural performances. Because the play was created with the community and included non-professional performers from the community the divide between artist and spectator was further dissolved. FastHorse describes how the audience can become witnesses by experiencing the event with Indigenous people: Artistically it gives the ‘audience’ a chance to be in our world. As Native people it often feels like we are living parallel lives between our own rich, Indigenous cultures and the dominant culture. At Native Nation you get to experience our lives with us, next to us, 124 looking us in the eyes. This format also performs two functions: it give us the ability to tell many stories at once but it also limits the ability of the audience to have everything they want the way they want it. That is a new feeling for some people. (Yu, 2019) 5.10 Community There are three aspects to community involvement: involving community members in the actual production, cultural work, and the artist serving the community. I will look at these three aspects. 5.10.1 Community Involvement in the Production As I touched on in my anecdote in 3.2.4 about Chan Centre marketing staff not supporting the presentation of a show performed by military veterans, productions that include non-professional community members can be challenging for programmers to book because the audience may not attend (or pay regular ticket prices) if they perceive the performers as less professional. Just like non-Indigenous artists, not all Indigenous artists want community involvement in their productions; that decision depends on their art form and their artistic visions and goals. Tagaq did not involve community members in her performance and the musicians that accompanied her were professionals. Tagaq’s show was presented in one of the Chan Centre’s regular series and marketed through our regular channels. It had our regular level of technical support at standard ticket prices. In contrast, FastHorse changed the play in response to her work in the community and she included non-professional actors from the community in the production. The show was presented 125 off-site and in a series that does not appear to have a regular format. But the purpose of Native Nation was to connect with the community and community involvement underpinned everything about the production. As I noted in section 4.5, FastHorse created the work with the local Indigenous community so that they could tell their own stories in their own way and without focusing on white audiences. 5.10.2 Cultural Work Cultural work can include elements such as land acknowledgements, consulting elders and knowledge keepers, and following protocols of the local Indigenous community. When working with Indigenous artists, it is important that programmers first educate themselves on cultural work that may be required and to learn what types of questions to ask the artists they are booking. It can be helpful to research information specific to the Indigenous group the artist belongs to and how colonization impacted them. Artists’ agents can be helpful for answering questions in advance, especially ones that may make an artist feel more welcome such as food preferences. Settler programmers need to, as I noted in my introduction, “take up the task of educating our peers in order to reduce the burden of education on those who do not wish it” (Attas & Walker, 2019, p. 8) so that the burden to educate programmers does not necessarily fall to the artists. As Johnson states, “it needs as many of us individuals and organizations as possible, committed to it.” (Johnson, 2021). Programmers can educate themselves by talking to the artists’ agent, reading interviews and articles about the artist, talking to peers who have booked the artist before or accessing Indigenous resources. Robinson (2020) suggests that settlers need to engage with 126 the social and political history of Indigenous people and their current realities as well as building awareness of their art. As we saw with the example at Montclair, cultural work can be contentious. Wheeler rejected the idea of doing a land acknowledgement because he claimed that it had to be approved by the university hierarchy. But if that was the case, he still had other ways to support Johnson’s request. For example, he could have arranged a panel or workshop for students, faculty and staff on land acknowledgments, such as the one held in 2021 (Olivacce, 2021). For the Chan Centre performance, we contacted an elder from the Musqueam Nation to welcome the artists before each performance. Having an elder welcome Indigenous artists is a practice we had been following for a number of years so we had a good relationship with the elder and we followed the protocol of paying him for this cultural work and offering complimentary tickets to the performance. For this performance the only other cultural work we did was to facilitate the use of the seal oil lamp. Normally, we did not allow use of open flame on the stage floor but, when the artist explained the significance of using the seal oil lamp, I worked with our technical staff to get approval for it. Because Native Nation was an Indigenous-led production and they worked with the community in the development of the play, they would have worked with the local community to follow local protocols and to incorporate protocols into the performance. 127 5.10.3 Serving the Community The performance by Tagaq and Williamson Bathory followed a very typical schedule for musical performances. They arrived the day before and did the talk and a short rehearsal. They stayed three nights for the three performances and left the next day for a performance in Toronto. This typical schedule leaves little time for the artist to do work within the community. However, a theatre-model like Native Nation, requires the artist to be physically in the community much longer. During that time, FastHorse and her group worked in the community by helping to winterize elders’ homes (Latzko, 2019). This level of community involvement is not typical but shows her deep commitment to the model of community theatre making. 5.11 Education and Outreach Johnson offered Wheeler a prime opportunity for education to the university community and outreach to the local Indigenous community. By rejecting her model of connecting with the community as part of the commission, Wheeler lost this opportunity for the university. At the Chan Centre we booked outreach and education activities in conjunction with most performances and we had a separate budget for our educational and outreach activities. For the Tagaq/Williamson Bathory show, we booked an artist talk at the First Nations House of Learning (FNHL) on campus. However, it was not a collaboration in the sense that we did not work with FNHL on choosing the artist or how the talk would be presented because we had already contracted the artist to do the talk before we contacted FNHL. We chose to work with an Indigenous organization on campus because we had a relationship with them, we believed this 128 was a preference of the artist and we wanted to encourage attendance by Indigenous students, both to the talk and the performance. The talk was booked at a time when Indigenous students typically attended a weekly lunch at FNHL. However, a conflict occurred when the FNHL wanted to reserve the majority of seats for students but not ask them to pre-register because they wanted it to be open to any student who came to the weekly lunch. The Chan Centre’s marketing team wanted to reserve tickets for our subscribers to encourage them to purchase tickets to the performance or for those who had already purchased tickets. Including all possible attendees of both groups would have been over the capacity of the venue, and eventually a compromise was reached where the majority of seats would be reserved for students. However, the event was only lightly attended by students and many seats were not used. This was frustrating for the marketing team who felt that there was enough demand from our subscribers to fill the unused seats. In conversation with FNHL afterwards it was unclear why the attendance for the talk was lower than expected. Perhaps a more collaborative event, developed with the FNHL from the beginning and to meet their goals, might have increased attendance by Indigenous students. With Native Nation, education and outreach were fully integrated into the production from talking circles with local community in the creation of the play to the final production that included a facilitated discussion with audience members about missing and murdered Indigenous women. The creation model used for Native Nation highlights the wealth of knowledge in the community and acknowledges that the academy is not the only site of knowledge production and 129 dissemination. By co-presenting with Cornerstone, Reed facilitated Cornerstone’s framework for knowledge creation, dialogue and dissemination. My cases show a range of outcomes of educational and outreach activities. Wheeler’s rejection of land acknowledgments was the beginning of the breakdown in the relationship with Johnson. At the Chan Centre, the programming staff decided on the format for the outreach which may have reduced its effectiveness in connecting with the Indigenous students, whereas Cornerstone demonstrated an Indigenous-led and fully integrated model of education and outreach. Since education and outreach activities are often offered in addition to the performance, the artist can decide whether they want to participate. Often this is decided based on tour schedules but Indigenous artists might consider other elements such as who the outreach is for. Is it focused on educating white people? Does it focus on victim narratives? Do they have a say in creating it? As I will argue later, booking ancillary activities is where a programmer may start to take on a curatorial role. For example, a programmer might book an activity if an artist offered it (e.g., a master class) or if requested by a donor (e.g., a meet and greet). But a curator would go beyond this to create a new activity or discursive opportunity specifically for a particular artist or performance. For example, educational and outreach activities could be created in collaboration with Indigenous-led groups to create opportunities for knowledge production and discourse. 130 5.12 Challenges of Power Imbalances Recurring themes in my readings are the need to re-balance power relationships and share power, the importance of respecting Indigenous sovereignty and centring and respecting Indigenous practices, world views and epistemology. When Johnson made her dispute with Wheeler public, the university released a statement in full support of Wheeler. The statement characterized Johnson as demanding and unreasonable (Montclair State University, 2021) and they supported their top-down hierarchical approach to making change. Johnson lost her commission but Wheeler kept his university position until he retired in 2022. Clearly Wheeler did not respect Indigenous autonomy or Indigenous practice and world views and he would not make any accommodation to do so in his interactions with Johnson. At the Chan Centre the artist’s autonomy and practices were respected in terms of the creation of the show. But when that creation pushed against the expectations of the venue, the Chan followed the typical model of asking the artist to accommodate their model rather than accommodating the artist’s vision. The power relationships and structures at the Chan Centre were unaffected by the experiences with the Tagaq/Williamson Bathory performance. Although, in hindsight, I would have approached the show differently to take advantage of opportunities for contextualizing the performance for our audience and staff, there was no institutional requirement for me to handle this performance, or future ones, differently from any other. 131 At Gammage the artist had more control over the creation and format of the production and FastHorse and Garcés created substantial relationships with the community through the process of creating the play. But did this production re-balance power relationships at Gammage? It seems unlikely. Reed is still the programmer and I could not find any reference to Native Nation on the Gammage website so there is no obvious sign that the work that FastHorse did is being built upon. Is the university maintaining those connections with the community and, if so, how? Or were the connections made with the artist only and not the venue or the university? Once the production was finished and the artist left, what remained of the community work they did? How will, or could, Gammage build on it for lasting change? Reed gave full autonomy to the artist but this “hands off” approach has limitations because it may not have led to the venue creating lasting connections with the local Indigenous community. None of my cases demonstrate a balanced collaboration between groups with equal power and resources. Because the university venue controls the resources, they can set the parameters for the collaboration, with or without input from their collaborator. A university programmer works within a hierarchical power structure that can be difficult to challenge or change. This is a limitation for artists working with large, hierarchal organizations such as universities. Even large arts groups such as symphonies are much smaller than even a mid-sized university. Reed shows how individual programmers can take different approaches but generally only within the sphere of their own unit within a large institution. Making change in the wider university community, as Wheeler claimed, can be much more difficult. However, even small changes, within one academic unit or with one artistic presentation, can be valuable steps. 132 In addition, artists have agency. As Johnson demonstrated, they can use their public profile to expose unfair practices, although at great personal and professional cost. In response to Johnson’s actions a number of artists and programmers made public statements in support of her when she made her experience public (Seibert, 2021). Indigenous artists can also refuse to work with university venues, as Tagaq was prepared to do. Refusal, especially if the reasons are made public, can be a powerful statement although at a potential cost to the artist. Attas (2022) asks the difficult question of whether a colonial institution can ever be decolonized. My cases do not offer a positive answer to her question. Power can be loosened and individual curators can be supportive and try to implement decolonial principles. However, ultimately the overarching structure of the university imposes its power and limits how much change an individual programmer can create. 133 Chapter 6: Curating and the Performing Arts 6.1 How the Concept of Curating has been Developing in the Performing Arts Since Harald Szeemann famously described himself as an “exhibition-maker,” the role of curator has evolved. While there is still no agreed upon definition (O’Neill, 2012), certain descriptions do come up repeatedly. For example, curators have been described as mediators (Ferdman & Eckersall, 2021), facilitators, translators (Balzer, 2014; Buden 2012) and, controversially, artists in their own right, whose art is the exhibit of others’ artwork. Increasingly, exhibition-making is not the only, or even the main, outcome of curating (Lind, 2021; O’Neill, 2012). In the performing arts, the term programmer is more commonly used for someone who chooses artists to present. The use of the term “curator” is a relatively recent phenomenon in performing arts and driven mostly by those who come from the visual arts or at least have a strong affinity to them (Husemann, 2012). Dance, which is more closely aligned with conceptual art, started using the concept of curating first, closely followed by theatre, while music has been much slower to adopt the concept (Farnsworth, 2020; Jackson, 2014; Pyper 2016). Theory on curating in the visual arts was originally based on curating objects and the visual arts have had an historical antagonism to theatricality (Fried, 1967/1998; Jackson, 2014). This antagonism is based on Fried’s (1967/1998) definition of theatricality as being concerned with the circumstances in which the viewer encounters the work and the theatrical effect that comes from the “complicity that the work extorts from the beholder” because the work “demands” that the viewer pay attention to it (p. 4). According to Fried, theatre exists for an audience, it must have one, in a way that other arts do not. Fried claims that art “degenerates” as it approaches 134 theatre, that theatre is “at war” with the arts and that the survival of the arts depends on “defeating” theatre. I find his choice of words startling (complicity, demand, degenerate, war) in his forceful rejection of theatricality. Curatorial theory and scholarship that is based on Fried’s rejection of theatricality would obviously be problematic as a foundation for a concept of curating in performing arts. With the “social turn” in the visual arts came an increase in curators booking performing artists, such as dancers and musicians, into gallery and museum spaces, and some art historians and critics have expressed distrust of this turn to experience (Bishop, 2018). This turn also led to visual arts scholars grappling with concepts that are part of regular practice in the performing arts, such as ephemerality, embodiment and immateriality (Ferdman & Eckersall, 2021). Visual arts curators also tend to have different approaches to concepts such as de-skilling and a mistrust of virtuosity (Bishop, 2018; Jackson, 2014; Farnsworth, 2020). Jackson (2014) points out there are two ways of thinking about virtuosity: as technical/physical skill or as conceptual/cognitive skill. As Jackson elaborates, with the rise of conceptual art, visual artists shifted their focus from execution of an identifiable skill (e.g., brush strokes) to the art object as the exploration of an idea. With this shift came a distrust of technical virtuosity in visual art because art that was technically accomplished was associated with commercial art production. The belief was that the critique of social systems, economies, and cultural industries needs to happen in an environment that sidelines the appeal and pleasure of art (i.e., beauty) in order to focus on the artistic encounter with an idea. Jackson (2014) notes that the challenge can be that an artwork that is rigorous in conceptual terms can look amateurish in the lay sense of technical 135 skill and virtuosity. Bishop (2018) notes that performance art was purposely under-rehearsed in order to provoke variation, risk, chance and unpredictability. Repetition meant a reduction of energy and risk but also connected the performance to theatre. However, in the performing arts, especially the classical forms of music, dance and theatre, virtuosity as skill is still a significant factor in curating and artist selection. As Farnsworth (2020) notes, these different ideas of virtuosity result in different ways of evaluating art from different disciplines. In spite of these differences, there is no rigid separation between art forms and artists have always worked and experimented across genres and disciplines. According to Ferdman and Eckersall (2021), what is new in the past decade is how institutions have been addressing this blurring of genres. For example, there are new developments in how museums and galleries accommodate the production needs of performers and how theatres adapt to artists who create durational work for an audience that can come and go during the performance. Some developments in curating in visual arts have influenced curating in the performing arts. For example, since 1987 (the establishment of the first academic programs for curating, which made curating a possible area of academic study), the understanding of curating in visual arts has shifted from vocational work with objects to critically engaged curating (O’Neill, 2012). A similar change is happening in theatre as curating shifts from focusing on the logistics of programming to the concept of programming (Ferdman, 2014). As visual arts started to question and re-think objecthood and display, theatre has also started to think about how works are labeled, produced and staged along with new ideas of spectatorship (Ferdman, 2014). 136 In the performing arts the role of curator is more than a programmer (Ferdman, 2014) and as the concept of curating develops in the performing arts it is important to distinguish programming from the more “purposeful” curating (Pyper, 2016). Programming is often linked to transactional aspects such as selling tickets and ensuring good attendance (Joseph, 2021). Ferdman (2014) describes curatorial practice as a blending of artistic and administrative considerations. Curators commission new work and conceptualize how, when, where and why events are presented. Similar to the visual arts, Ferdman believes that a performing arts curator is often seen as a mediator as artists and audiences look for new ways to program, interpret, create, present and experience work. 6.2 The Difference Between Programming and Curating The New York Times article about the dispute between Johnson and Wheeler quoted both of them and I believe these quotes sum up the difference between programming and curating. Wheeler stated that his “idea of social justice is onstage” (Seibert, 2021). In this view, the artist does the social justice work during their performance and the programmer’s job is limited to booking the artist. In his version, the artist’s activism does not go beyond the place of the stage and the time of the performance. In contrast, Johnson stated that “Jed wanted the effects of my work, but not to do the work” (Seibert, 2021 emphasis in the original). Some of the work she was asking him to do was to facilitate with the university administration to do a land acknowledgement and to participate in connecting with the local Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape people. Her form of activism definitely required the programmer to go beyond just booking her in their series (i.e., beyond inclusion) and beyond the place and time of the performance on stage. 137 In section 3.43.6, I discussed the limitations of representation and inclusion in the performing arts, which is the approach that Wheeler refers to when he defends his actions by objecting to the suggestion that he might be suffering from “’white rage.” His response was: “It’s so inaccurate. Look at the artists I’ve supported” (Seibert, 2021). Seibert points out the limitations of programming and inclusion when he states: The letter, and the responses to it, reveal accelerating shifts in how people in the arts are thinking and talking about the roles of artist and presenter, standards of workplace behavior and power, and how this all connects to deep wounds in American history. These shifts in thinking are not about inclusive programming but about power, which links to decolonization themes such as power-sharing, collaboration and Indigenous sovereignty. If programming focuses on inclusion and representation, what does curating offer that is different? In section 2.2, I noted the various “turns” in curating visual arts. All of these turns show how the role of the curator can move beyond selecting art and determining how to exhibit it. The social turn meant less focus on art objects and more on participation; in the educational and discursive turns, talks and other discursive events became the main event over the experience of the physical art objects. Rogoff’s (2014) suggestion that curating must “enter contemporary urgencies” rather than just commenting on them or using them as subject matter is relevant for curators who are interested in incorporating social justice in their practice. I believe that programmers, even when they book diverse artists, are using artists as subject matter. But “entering” into the contemporary urgency of decolonization would require more engagement with the key themes outlined in section 5.1: 138 respecting Indigenous autonomy, centring Indigenous practices, re-balancing power relationships and decision-making, and collaboration and relationship building. In the performing arts, generally a programmer selects performances/artists and works out technical and financial issues that may arise. They may book ancillary educational or outreach activities but these are not seen as the main event. I believe that programmers who are interested in working towards decolonization must move into a curatorial role. Performing arts curators can look to approaches used by visual arts curators who are interested in social justice (section 2.4). 6.3 Programming vs Curating in my Cases Programming may involve booking progressive work and diverse artists, as Wheeler did, but curating goes beyond selecting artists so curators with an interest in social justice and specifically decolonization can include other approaches. For example, when Wheeler faced resistance from university administration to do a land acknowledgement, he could have used that as an opportunity to work with Johnson to educate university administrators on the importance of land acknowledgments. He also could have collaborated with Johnson to start building an ongoing relationship with the local Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape people and the university, a relationship that he could have maintained after Johnson’s performance. Wheeler, by exerting his power as a programmer and refusing to work with Johnson on activities beyond her performance, shut down any possibility of taking steps towards decolonization in their work together. At the Chan Centre, the artist had full autonomy to create the performance, which included Indigenous practices, and the Chan Centre invited an Musqueam elder to do a welcome. But the power relationship and decision-making were not collaborative and the programmer and the 139 venue held the power. There was an artist/programmer relationship that existed because of multiple bookings but it was transactional rather than collaborative. I was thinking as a programmer when I booked this performance after seeing the work in progress and relied on our marketing and Tagaq’s reputation to sell the show. I missed the opportunity to act as a curator by contextualizing the performance for the audience and staff and to open up conversations on topics such as the impact of colonization on their art forms. Another curatorial approach would have been to consider working with an Indigenous group to hold the performance off-site in an Indigenous-run venue. We created an educational event with the talk at the First Nations House of Learning, which was a typical type of ancillary activity for our programmers. However, I believe the missed educational opportunities, as outlined in section 5.5, would have required thinking in a curatorial way which could have led to creating more robust discursive events that might have, as Hopkins (in Jackson, 2019) suggests, created conversations that continued through the bodies and minds that circulate after the experience. Although Reed gave more autonomy to the artists to create the work, he was still, for the most part, acting as a programmer. Once he programmed the work, he let the artist create the relationships and collaborate with the Indigenous communities in Arizona but the power balance and decision-making structures did not change. I believe there was a missed opportunity to initiate an on-going collaborative relationship between Gammage and the local Indigenous community that could continue after the artists left. 140 6.4 Opportunities that Could Arise from Curating in the Performing Arts Performing arts scholars point out several ways that the concept of curating could be useful to the field. Malzacher (2021) suggests that curating could be used as a provocation to challenge the idea of what programming can be. I believe that programming that goes beyond the stage and beyond the work itself, is a prime example of a provocation. Curating methods can push programmers to think beyond just booking artists. For example, Berry (2021) challenged the assumption of how audiences participate in a festival. Programmers are usually concerned with the transactional such as selling tickets but Berry changed the relationship between art and audience by asking people to donate instead of buying tickets. Joseph (2021) worked with an emerging arts group to encourage them to curate collaboratively rather than hiring one curator to do all the programming. Curatorial practice could also offer a way to create change (Malzacher, 2018; Sellar, 2018). Sellar (2018) suggests that curators can question and experiment with theatrical forms in order to question and challenge social order and political structures. Curators can work with artists who are engaging with social justice issues to question their artistic habits in order to offer audiences new ways of seeing (Sellar, 2018). Curatorial thinking can open new ways to understand human experience and address fundamental questions such as inequality, racism and climate change (Ferdman & Eckersall, 2021). Native Nation is one example of how a performance that was written and performed in collaboration with the community, can use a theatrical form to challenge the dominant society’s social order by putting the concerns, culture, world views and interests of Indigenous people front and centre. As FastHorse states: 141 Artistically it gives the ‘audience’ a chance to be in our world. As Native people it often feels like we are living parallel lives between our own rich, Indigenous cultures and the dominant culture. At Native Nation you get to experience our lives with us, next to us, looking us in the eyes. (Yu, 2019) By incorporating work beyond the stage, curators can put into action activities that confront contemporary problems. When they met, Reed asked Garcés if he could create something similar to Urban Rez for Gammage. But when the artists realized that the concerns of the Indigenous people in Arizona were quite different from Indigenous people in Los Angeles, Reed gave them the freedom and resources to create a different play. A programmer may have of insisted that they re-mount Urban Rez but I believe Reed acted as a curator when he decided to commission a new play that responded to the concerns and issues of the Indigenous people in Arizona. Ferdman (2014) suggests that scholarship on curating could lead to a critical examination of common performing arts practices and preconceived assumptions that shape performance. Some of the common practices that could be examined are the separation of performers and audience, the format of rehearsals (e.g., including elders and Indigenous protocols) and allowing time for discussions with non-Indigenous staff regarding how Indigenous concepts and worldviews are incorporated into the performance by Indigenous artists. Ferdman believes that examining common performance practices would encourage curators to question their own role in shaping the discourse. This reflection could lead to curators considering ways to support and facilitate these changes in common practice that would support Indigenous artists. Curating could also contribute to artistic, aesthetic, political, and discursive thinking (Malzacher, 2018) and it could 142 encourage placing more value on creative, analytical and polemical writing so that writing and publishing become essential to performing arts curating in order to build a repository of ideas and endeavors and to encourage reflection (Seller, 2018). Additionally, Husemann (2012) suggests that the introduction of the term “curator” and the interest in curatorial practice “could be interpreted as a first step toward the critical investigation of institutional structures” (p. 279). Farnsworth (2020) suggests that curating does not need to be thought of as a “silo” of knowledge specific only to the visual arts. Referencing Rogoff, it is not about comparing curating in different fields or “appropriating” the term curating but about extending curatorial ideas and ways of thinking into other fields. He suggests that curating can be thought of as “a collection of stories and ideas that can help realize a model for unconfinable knowledge” (p. 92). Malzacher (2018) suggests that the social and relational aspects of performing arts should be at the centre of a performing arts curatorial strategy because it reveals both the process of curating and the product of it. 6.5 Challenges to Curating in Performing Arts Some performing arts scholars reject the concept of curating in performing arts because of the concept’s origin in visual arts and its potential connection to capitalism, the market economy and neo-liberalism. The danger is that the title curator could be used as just a sales device to “snatch some of the glamour” from visual arts rather than as a step towards a real commitment to changing one’s own practice (Malzacher, 2018). One problem with using the concept of curating in the performing arts is the history in the visual arts of the “star” curator where the focus is on the curator’s vision over the artists and their artwork, sometimes to the extent that the curator is 143 seen as using the artwork of others as their raw material. This concern is especially important in the context of decolonization where an Indigenous artist’s work might be subsumed in a non-Indigenous curator’s vision or to meet their diversity goals. But curating that is based on collaborative, reciprocal relationships and that requires shared decision-making could avoid this issue because the curator would be a facilitator, not the star. A related problem is that the curator could be a barrier between the audience and the artist/artwork by imposing their interpretation on the work. This is a challenge for programmers who feel a need to “explain” artwork for their audiences, which can arise when presenting work from cultures that are different from the venue’s typical audience. In the Chan Centre example, the danger of creating safe spaces and warnings for the audience was that the we might influence the audience’s approach to the work by making it seem unsafe or difficult. However, a curator (as opposed to a programmer) would see this as an opportunity not to “warn” the audience but to create dialogue through discursive events where the artist or someone knowledgeable about the art form could talk about the work. These conversations could also include related issues like how climate change impacts the north, the on-going impact of colonization on Inuit culture and the importance of humour and sexuality in this work. There is also the concern that curating can add unnecessary complexity to the artistic process, which can result in the curator having too much influence (Ferdman & Eckersall, 2021). I believe this is a valid concern, which can stem from the “star” curator mindset, and that curators need to reflect on their influence. For example, in 2014 I offered Tagaq a show collaborating with Cullis-Suzuki but the next time we booked Tagaq she asked to choose her own collaborator, 144 which I agreed to. By this time Tagaq had won the Polaris Prize and had a higher profile so she had more artistic clout. In hindsight, I understand that for the first performance I was focused on my vision and imposed the idea on the artist. Of course, Tagaq did not need to accept the show but then she would have lost an opportunity to perform. In the second instance, Tagaq had a higher artistic profile so she had other performing opportunities if the Chan Centre did not come through. Also, I had more experience as a programmer and was less focused on putting my own stamp on the series and more interested in facilitating interesting opportunities for artists. Curating in the visual arts has been criticized for its connection to capitalism and the market. For example, a star curator’s name may sell an exhibit and curating can become just a sales device. But the opportunity for adopting curating in the performing arts is not to create star curators or to use it to strengthen ties to commerce but to offer a method to programmers to expand their practice. As the idea of curating expands to include other art forms, the advantage is not just curating as a method but as a way of thinking. I agree with Malzacher (2018) that the live arts need to create their own discourse and examine the potential of their own medium, unique opportunities and techniques. Farnsworth (2020) makes a similar point by saying that the concept of curating could enhance the understanding of music-curatorial practice and lay the theoretical groundwork for music-curatorial thinking. I believe that developing the concept of curating and curatorial thinking in the performing arts can be used to open the door to deeper critique and reflection in the performing arts. As Malzacher (2018) says, curating in the performing arts is a “self-inflicted task.” But I believe it is a valuable task that could offer ways for programmers to take steps to support decolonization when working with Indigenous artists in the performing arts. 145 Chapter 7: The Curatorial Although curating offers ways to take steps towards decolonization I believe the concept of the curatorial offers additional opportunities to work towards decolonization because of the educative potential of the concept. In this chapter I will give an overview of the concept and consider Rogoff’s characterization of the curatorial as a platform for knowledge production in relation to the work of Dewey, Biesta and Ranciere. I will then re-visit my cases to explore how a curatorial approach can open up opportunities to take steps to decolonization that programming and curating do not offer. 7.1 The Curatorial in the Visual Arts Although the concept of the curatorial has been developing in the visual arts for approximately three decades, with a profusion of discourse in the last 10 years, there is no agreed upon definition. However, most scholars agree that it is different from curating. Curating is associated with the professional practice and practicalities of exhibition-making (Lind, 2021; Martinon, 2013; Pierce, 2013; Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012; Sheikh, 2017) and assembling work to exemplify a thematic (Rogoff, 2012). Curating can be seen as the “background function” that makes the exhibit possible through organizational, administrative and substantive “know-how” (Montmann, 2017) and the techniques of curating feed into the curatorial (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012). Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) believes that curating and the curatorial can highlight each other’s limitations and potentials. In most conceptions, the curatorial involves the production of knowledge or meaning (Esche, 2013; Gronemeyer, 2018; Pierce, 2013; Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012). However, there are 146 different perspectives on how this knowledge or meaning can be produced. Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) states that the curatorial is different from curating because it is a platform of knowledge production. Lind (2021) writes that the curatorial can be understood as a method or even a methodology. Sheikh (2017) concurs, following O’Neill, that the curatorial is “a specific method of gathering and presenting knowledge” and Martinon (2013) describes it as an “evolving method.” Some scholars suggest that the curatorial is the relationship of people, objects and ideas (Lind, 2021; Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012), collectivity (Montmann, 2017) or collective knowledge production (Esche, 2013). Von Bismarck (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) suggests that the curatorial is made up of curating techniques and the connections between the participants with different backgrounds and agendas and by the material and discursive framings (e.g., institutional, disciplinary, racial, regional). Other scholars focus on the on-going reflective possibilities of the curatorial. For example, Esche (2013) states that the curatorial mostly happens when others (i.e., beyond the curator themselves) reflect on the exhibit. The public moment, although necessary, is only “one staging post” towards the full value of a project. Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) describes the curatorial (unlike curating) as an on-going process that is not over once the event of knowledge has taken on a material form. This idea echoes Hopkins (in Jackson, 2019) that conversations can be sustained through the bodies and minds that circulate beyond the original encounter or experience. Esche (2013) suggests that curating needs to become less visible as the curatorial becomes more prominent. I find it interesting that as the curatorial comes to the forefront, the practical concerns that are associated with curating take a backseat. 147 7.2 The Curatorial and Social Justice The conceptions of the curatorial of Lind (2021), Montmann (2017), Pierce (2013) and Rogoff (2014) can be linked with social justice. For example, Lind (2021) believes that the curatorial “takes the shape of a function and a method, even a methodology” (p. 6). She argues that curating seeks balance and equilibrium whereas the curatorial is fine with a lack of “balance” (e.g., presenting one perspective over another) and does not avoid tension and divergence. Montmann (2017) examines the curatorial as a “transdisciplinary method” that can intervene on many levels including the administration and economics of institutions (e.g., improve working conditions, refusing funding from unethical businesses). Pierce (2013) has vowed “never to define the curatorial” (p. 8) but she does say that it “produces in different ways, including theoretically and materially” (p.8). She adds that: To think about radical formations of knowledge that occur through the curatorial is to undo its functional and structural relationship to curating – whether as a potential methodology or as a mode of operating – so that we might begin to address the curatorial as a political engagement, as it connects to knowledge production in ways that are neither good or bad, but are unpredictable and difficult to manage. (p. 13) Finally, Rogoff (2014) believes the curatorial is a process and suggests that it should find ways of “conceptually entering contemporary urgencies” (p. 17). The view that the curatorial is bound up with formations of knowledge, the economics of institutions, political engagement and contemporary urgencies is significant for my cases because they are set in universities. Moreover, the link between the curatorial and social justice is relevant for my study when it comes to decolonization, which I will explore in section 7.5 below. However, I acknowledge, as detailed in section 1.5, that decolonization is different from other social justice issues. 148 7.3 The Curatorial and the Performing Arts Programming is the practical work of putting on a show and while curating can expand that practice by using the performance as a springboard for activities beyond the stage, I believe that the concept of the curatorial, characterized as an event and with its links to knowledge production, can be a useful concept for performing arts by expanding on programming and curating approaches. Many scholars characterize the curatorial as an “event” of knowledge (Martinon, 2013; Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012). Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) states that the curatorial shifts the emphasis from end product to the “trajectory of activity.” Crone (2013) calls the curatorial the “sensible stage,” with the idea of “stage” re-inserting spectatorship into the concept, and she believes that curatorial practice is bound up with the “moment of encounter.” This use of language related to live performance—event, encounter, stage—in the visual arts suggests that, despite Fried’s 1960s-era distrust of theatre, the concept of the curatorial could be applicable to the performing arts. Rogoff’s ideas of the curatorial are especially helpful in the context of the performing arts. She describes the curatorial as “a series of knowledges that come together momentarily to produce what we are calling the event of knowledge; a moment in which different knowledges interacting with one another produce something that transcends their position as knowledge (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012, p. 23). The live arts are inherently collaborative, an interaction of knowledges. Artists work together to create a show, and even a solo work, created in isolation, requires 149 collaboration with venue technicians such as stage and lighting people to ensure the performance is presented in the way the artist envisions it. In the performing arts, another key interaction of different knowledges is between the performer and the audience. Rogoff describes the event of knowledge as the link between what is on display and whatever is going on within and through audiences. However, the focus of the curatorial is the process, not an end goal or outcome. Curating focuses on a final product but the curatorial opens up to “inconclusive processes whose outcomes might be learning, or researching or conversing or gathering or bringing a new perspective into circuits of expertise” (Rogoff, 2014, p. 14). She suggests making the curatorial “the staging ground of the development of an idea or insight in the making” (p. 7). The curatorial, unlike curating, is an on-going process that does not end once the event is over because the event of knowledge is just part of the process in the development of new insights. Further, Rogoff suggests that the curatorial is at its best when “it is attempting to enact an event of knowledge rather than to illustrate those knowledges” (p. 17). Even if a performance just “illustrates” or “comments” on an issue, the curator has the opportunity to create ancillary events of knowledge that explore the issue further. Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) asks two important practical questions about the curatorial: how to instantiate it as a process, and how to create a public platform that allows people to take part in these processes. These are questions that curators need to address in order to create events of knowledge in tandem with the performances they are programming. 150 7.4 The Curatorial as Knowledge Production Rogoff’s (2014) characterization of the curatorial as a platform for knowledge production and the coming together of different knowledges creates a clear link to the educational perspectives of scholars such as Dewey, Biesta and Rancière. For example, Dewey (1938/2015) believes that educators can create situations and opportunities to spark curiosity and a quest for producing new ideas, which mirrors Rogoff’s belief that the curatorial can be a staging ground for the development of an idea or an insight in the making, to speculate and draw out a new set of relations. Biesta (2017) suggests that the work of art education is to bring people into dialogue with the world, which is similar to the way Rogoff thinks of the curatorial as bringing together of knowledges to produce new knowledge. I believe that curators may be able to create public platforms for knowledge production in the way that Dewey (1938/2015), Biesta (2017) and Rogoff (2014) have described. Thus the curatorial could be described as an approach to creating events that are an opportunity for knowledge production. 7.4.1 John Dewey In Experience and Education, Dewey (1938/2015) describes the experiential continuum, by which he means that every experience changes us and therefore changes all the experiences that come after it; similarly, every experience is based on the experiences that came before it. Dewey’ concept of the experiential continuum connects with Rogoff’s (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) concept of the curatorial as an on-going process. The curatorial is not completed once the event of knowledge has taken on material form because the event is just part of a process; borrowing Dewey’s term, we might think of it as a curatorial continuum. 151 Dewey (1938/2015) also believes that the interaction of internal and external factors of experience is an important aspect in judging experiences. Interaction happens between an individual, objects and other people and Dewey assigns equal weight to internal and external factors in experience. An experience is always what it is because of an interaction between an individual and their environment (the subject of the interaction, the location, objects, other people). The environment is whatever conditions interact with personal needs, desires, and purposes to create the experience being had. Similarly, Rogoff’s concept of the curatorial highlights the relationship of people, ideas and objects. I believe it is important for curators to consider how external factors such as the type, location and reputation of the venue may interact with internal factors such as potential audience members’ previous experiences with the venue, positive or negative. For example, a curator at a university venue may want to consider different kinds of outreach activities for students on campus (who may be familiar with the campus but not the venue), regular audience members (who are familiar with the venue) and people who may not be familiar with the venue or campus and may be more likely to attend events off-campus in the community. A curator can also consider external and internal factors in the artist’s experience. For example, some artists may feel more comfortable working with university venues than others because they may be familiar with the structure, hierarchies and academic environment of that kind of institution. This familiarity might influence the type of outreach activities the curator develops. For example, some artists may be comfortable being in a panel discussion with academics and others may prefer an off-campus event in a more casual setting with community members. 152 In his philosophy of art, Dewey (1934/1980) makes it clear that art is not separate from life. Dewey believes that the job of one who writes about philosophy of art is to restore the continuity between “the refined and intensified forms of experience that are works of art and the everyday events, doings and sufferings, that are universally recognized to constitute experience” (p. 3). The aesthetic is not an external “intruder” on experience but rather the “clarified and intensified development of traits that belong to every normally complete experience” (p. 46). According to Dewey, “normally complete experiences” occur in our interaction with our environment when these interactions are in rhythms of discord and resolution. Experience has an aesthetic quality when it is a culmination of this continuous movement. In a distinctly aesthetic experience, characteristics that are subdued in other kinds of experiences are dominant, specifically those characteristics that make it an integrated experience. Dewey uses the example of a play that is divided into acts but still has an overall unity as a complete play. So key elements of aesthetic experience is that it moves to completeness and has a unity. But it is not just the experience of art that can be aesthetic. Dewey believes that intellectual activity, such as thinking, can also be an aesthetic experience. Thinking differs from other activities that we consider aesthetic because it uses symbols and signs instead of physical substances as materials. Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) notes that she has seen many experiments of gatherings and conversations in art but also AS art. These events explore art practices beyond exhibits and the display of objects and I believe they demonstrate Dewey’s idea of intellectual activity as an aesthetic experience. Thus curators can create platforms for knowledge production that are also aesthetic experiences in themselves. Dewey cautions that the “enemies” of the aesthetic are “the humdrum; slackness of loose ends; submission to convention 153 in practice and intellectual procedure” (p. 40). I believe that curators can counter this problem by creating opportunities to that intensify the experience of the art they are presenting. 7.4.2 Biesta and Rancière In my work I have often encountered the point of view that the arts are important to society because they teach the audience empathy and understanding and that the arts can help fight injustice by increasing awareness of inequality. Both Biesta and Rancière address the limitations of this perspective. In Letting Art Teach (2017), Biesta acknowledges that some definitions of art state that it expresses an artist’s message and the audience is supposed to figure it out, to “get” it. Biesta does not look at art in terms of intention/reception and states that art is about “figuring out, quite literally, what it means to be in dialogue with the world” (p. 38). This idea of being in dialogue with the world echoes Dewey’s (1938/2015) idea of the interaction between individuals, objects and other people and Rogoff’s (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) concept of the curatorial as a relationship of people, ideas and objects and a series of knowledges that come together to interact with one another. Instead of expressing a message to “get,” Biesta believes that the artist is showing something to the audience that the artist deems worth showing and worth paying attention to. This “showing” is relational between artist and audience. I believe that “showing” is also relational between the curator and audience. The curator believes that the work is worth paying attention to and worth putting resources towards in order to enable that showing. Curators have an opportunity to build on what the artist is showing by creating events of knowledge that are, as Rogoff describes, a link between an exhibit and what is going on for audiences. However, 154 this link is not intended to express a message to “get” but to bring together knowledges in dialogue. Similarly to Biesta, Rancière (2009) believes that playwrights and directors sometimes want the spectators to see, feel or understand some particular thing or draw a particular conclusion. Even if artists say that they do not want to instruct the spectator, they still assume that what the audience will perceive or feel or understand is what the playwright or director has put into the performance. Rancière elaborates that being a spectator is not a passive condition. He believes that we must recognize knowledge at work in the activity peculiar to the spectator. The spectator observes, selects, compares, interprets and links to other things she had seen. Spectators participate in the performance by refashioning it in their own way. Thus the effect of a performance cannot be anticipated because it requires spectators to play the role of interpreters who develop their own translations and appropriate the story as their own. This view echoes Dewey’s idea that to perceive, beholders must create their own experience and he compares the perceiver to the artist who must select, simply, clarify, abridge, and condense according to their interest. The beholder must do the same thing, according to their “point of view and interest” (p. 54). Rogoff’s (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) use of language to characterize the curatorial suggests she also assumes that the audience is an active interpreter. The curatorial is a “trajectory of activity” and active knowledges come together in the creation of new knowledge in an on-going process. If we reject the idea of the arts as explaining or delivering a message, according to Biesta we can think of it as an existential encounter, where we realize there is no message to receive and no 155 clear path to correct understanding. According to Biesta, art raises questions and these questions are not about expanding our understanding but opening us up to dialogue, interruption and things beyond our understanding and making sense. Similarity, Rogoff characterizes the curatorial as an opportunity to bring knowledges together by “conversing or gathering,” which generates dialogue to explore the questions raised by artists and their artwork. Biesta (2013) states that “a dialogue, unlike a contest, is not about winning and losing but about ways of relating in which justice can be done to all who take part” (p. 3). I believe that one way to work towards this justice is to put into practice Rancière’s (2009) axiom that intellectual emancipation is the verification of the equality of intelligence. In The Beautiful Risk of Education, Biesta (2017) states that acting on this axiom requires constant verification of it in order to “practice” the truth of the assumption, to make it true in concrete situations. As long as we always think of equality as something that will occur in the future, something we are working towards, we will never achieve it. Biesta believes that we must bring equality into the here and now and act on the assumption of the equality of intelligence of all people. Rogoff assumes this equality of intelligence when she describes the coming together of knowledges to create new knowledge. The space of the curatorial relies on an intelligent audience. 7.4.3 Limitations of Curator Framing and Assumptions about Audience Reception Curatorial work can involve framing and contextualizing a performance but it is important that the curator does not take on the role of the type of expert who must guide the audience, who are assumed to be less knowledgeable, because that perspective ignores the audience’s agency and equality of intelligence. Dewey (1934/1980) remarks that the perceiver of art is irritated by art 156 that is created by an artist who is “trying to regulate by conscious intent the nature of the emotion aroused” (p. 68). Similarly, Rancière rejects the idea that art can, or should be expected to, create specific reactions; he also believes that the idea of an efficient relation between the art that people experience and “how their thinking changes as a result is based on an assumption that the development of spectators’ political subjectivities must be directed by experts” (Ruitenberg, 2011, p. 217). By focusing on the outcome they want the artwork to have on the viewer, artists and curators ignore the audience’s agency and capacity. If a curator does the interpretative work for the audience, they assume that the viewer does not know or understand the art and that they cannot be trusted to interpret and understand the work as well as the curator can. This becomes a vicious circle when “many art viewers have come to believe that, since they are ‘non-experts,’ they do not know how to interpret a work of art without the artist statement or a museum docent instructing them” (p. 221). The interpretive responsibility of a curator, however, does not need to be trapped by this circle. “Rancière insists that spectators and curators are equal in intelligence, but this is not to say that they have the same knowledge or are equally experienced in paying attention” (Ruitenberg, 2011, p. 221). Rogoff does not describe events of knowledge as the transmission of the artist’s (or curator’s) expertise to the audience. The curator may have more knowledge of the art and they may be experts in their specific field but they can create events where the equality of intelligence and knowledges of all participants is assumed, which, as Rogoff (2014) states, can bring “a new perspective into circuits of expertise.” 157 In Letting Art Teach, Biesta (2017) comments that art is often suggested as a way to help us better understand others so that we will act in a moral and empathic way. But Biesta rejects this idea because “understanding conceived as sense-making is not a sufficient condition for moral action” (Biesta, 2017, p. 96). Similarly, Rancière (2009) states that that there is no reason “why understanding the state of the world should prompt a desire to change it” and “there is no direct road from intellectual awareness to political action” (p. 75). Nonetheless, many continue to believe that art will “mobilize us against injustice” (p. 61). Tuck (2018) asks us to, think fully about theories of change that rely on raising awareness or raising visibility. This theory of change assumes that people are unaware of an injustice or issue or illness or social calamity—and that in making them more aware, we ready them to take appropriate action. (pp. 96-97) Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) appears to acknowledge that awareness does not necessarily lead to change when she talks about the gap between the exhibition’s stated aims and its effect in the world; a gap between its goals and its ability to fulfill them in an “illustrative form.” She believes that the curatorial can take place between the ambition of the project and the inability of any such project to fulfill itself and she thinks this gap is important and can be very active. I believe that by creating events of knowledge, curators can create an opportunity for audience members to explore the questions raised by an artwork without expecting the art or the artist to fill the gap by providing a message to “get.” If, as discussed above, it is impossible and undesirable to guarantee that any message that an artist or curator wants to convey will be transmitted to the audience and no guarantee that the performance will cause them to take any specific action, taking steps to foster decolonization 158 cannot be realized by booking artists whose performance has a “message” that fits the curator’s mandate. In fact, booking an Indigenous artist because the programmer believes the artist’s performance will convey a specific message that fits the programmer’s vision is instrumentalizing the artist’s work in order to support the programmer’s vision and perhaps reputation, which does not respect the artist’s artistic independence and thus does not contribute to decolonization. I propose that curators who want to support steps towards decolonization can do more through a curatorial approach. 7.5 The Curatorial, Decolonization and the Cases South African curator Gabi Ngcobo (2021), speaking from an African context, stresses the importance of decolonization as an on-going process that should not be compartmentalized: For me, it [decolonization] is like the curatorial. It is not a thing that you go and do at work and then when you come home you are done with your decolonization. It’s a means of understanding where the coffee you drink comes from, and the way you speak to your kids or your family, it is an embodied thing. (p. 161) Ngcob’s words echo Rogoff’s idea of “entering” contemporary urgencies and not just commenting on them or illustrating them. Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) asks two important practical questions about the curatorial: how to instantiate it as a process, and how to create a public platform that allows people to take part in the process. The three cases in this thesis offer ways of looking at how to create a public platform for knowledge production. In regards to her experience with the Montclair case, Johnson (2021) wrote in her public letter: 159 There were questions about what decolonisation looks like. I appreciate the question! Because if I knew, or anyone knew — then, wham! that is what we’d be after. It (fortunately) has more nuance than that, but there are initiatives that nurture decolonisation. The word “nurture” aptly describes steps that could be taken towards decolonization and I believe that programmers can use a curatorial approach to nurture activities that support decolonization. In the letter, Johnson described specific initiatives that could have been undertaken by Wheeler in their work together: • staff cultural competency trainings; • discussions with Indigenous and accomplice leaders in the field; • plans toward adding to board, advisory councils, or staff First Nations/Indigenous representation; • plans for ongoing, future inclusion of Indigenous artists in programming model; • Embodied Land Acknowledgement processes; • equitable relationships with local Indigenous community and here in Lenapehoking, specific pathways that address the forced displacement of Lenape peoples. (Johnson, 2021) Johnson’s suggestions are practical work. Through these proposed activities, Johnson was asking Wheeler to, as Rogoff states, “enter the urgency” of decolonization. Johnson wanted Wheeler to work with her as equals, as collaborators, and in a shared process. Further, Johnson states that “deep partnerships” are required for her to create “gatherings that bring people together that we might reconfigure how we function in this world” (Johnson, 2021). I believe a “deep” partnership would require shared power and decision making. Johnson adds that decolonization 160 is “the practices, learnings, unlearnings, and ways we find ourselves through a new equitable politics and way of being” (Johnson, 2021). Interestingly, none of Johnson’s activities listed above involve an audience. Her presence at Montclair was made possible because of the dance commission but her suggested decolonization work was not limited to her performance. I believe this is how curating evolves into the curatorial: the artwork is the spark for activities but the curatorial activities are not limited to the performance or even activities about the performance because, as Rogoff has characterized it, the curatorial is about knowledge production, which can take many forms in relation to an artist’s work and performance. This is one way that Johnson and Wheeler diverged. He wanted her work to stay on stage. Looking at two of Johnson’s examples, what could a curatorial approach that nurtured decolonization look like? For example, to create staff cultural competency trainings, Wheeler could have worked with Johnson to create an event for ACP staff about the colonial history of New Jersey, the significance of land acknowledgements, the art of the local Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape community or about how Johnson’s choreography connects to her activism. In the spirit of knowledges coming together, such an event could offer an opportunity for ACP staff to connect with Johnson’s work through sharing their own knowledge and experience. Johnson’s examples also include discussions with Indigenous and ally leaders in the field. Johnson could have worked with Wheeler to identify these leaders in order to initiate discussions with the university around building an on-going relationship that, ideally, could lead to concrete actions that continued after Johnson’s work with Montclair was completed. I believe Johnson’s 161 examples show how to “instantiate” the process of the curatorial by creating events of knowledge. Johnson offered Wheeler an opportunity to take a curatorial approach to build new knowledge around decolonization. But Wheeler required Johnson to bend to his rules and the rules of the institution and he rejected her ideas of ways to nurture decolonization by not sharing power or decision-making. If Wheeler had taken a curatorial approach, he and Johnson could have created events that could have led to wider discussions around decolonialization and what it could look like at MSU. In this way Wheeler could have created opportunities for, as Rogoff states, knowledges to come together as an active process, to produce new knowledge, which might have led to a different experience for the next Indigenous artist that Wheeler booked. And Wheeler could have brought what he learned to the next conference he attended, to share his new knowledge with the knowledge of other presenters, knowledge that would be, as Rogoff describes, on-going and continue after the event had taken place. In the Chan Centre case, we could have used a curatorial approach when developing the artist talk and other ancillary activities to “nurture” decolonization and “instantiate” the curatorial process through collaboration that brings knowledges together in the creation of an event. For the artist talk, the Chan Centre could have collaborated with the First Nations House of Learning (FNHL) earlier. Before contracting with the artist I could have asked FNHL how they envisioned an event with the artist and facilitated with the agent if necessary for any ideas that might have been out of the artist’s typical range of activities. But even if we had asked FNHL earlier, that would not have changed the power balance or have shared decision-making since the Chan 162 Centre had already decided on the artist. I believe a more robust collaboration would have been to establish a relationship with FNHL without the agenda of working with them on a particular performance, because our agenda fulfilled the Chan Centre’s goal of creating an outreach activity with the artist but did not consider FNHL’s goals. A collaborative relationship could have started with the Chan Centre asking how they could support FNHL’s goals. Perhaps artist talks are not an activity they would prioritize. A relationship initiated without an agenda might have led to discovering a different way of working together. In the case of the Chan Centre and FNHL it was two university units working together. But what kind of activities may have emerged if the Chan Centre had developed an on-going relationship with an Indigenous-led off-campus group based on shared power and decision-making? The Chan Centre could have created was an event with staff to introduce them to the two different art forms contained in the performance and to discuss possible reactions from the audience. In the spirit of shared knowledge, the staff could have shared their knowledge of art forms and performances they had seen, particularly ones with audience interactions. I believe that there were missed opportunities to implement a curatorial approach but, more importantly and despite good intentions, opportunities were also missed to use a curatorial approach that would nurture decolonization. This kind of work requires building on-going and reciprocal relationships with Indigenous groups or leaders. It would require sharing power and decision-making, which is a challenge in hierarchical institutions. It would require a collaboration based on both sides setting the parameters. Ideally, this work is done long before a specific performance although, as in the case of Johnson and Wheeler, the artist can be the spark for initiating this kind of work. 163 At ASU, once Reed booked the artist, the artist created events of knowledge exchange with the community, which formed the foundation for the performance. In this case the artist had autonomy to create the performance so that they could centre Indigenous practice and world views and they shared power and decision-making with ASU about the performance. As curator, Reed seems to have been quite “hands off” and he gave the artist the freedom to create the show and to incorporate their activism so that FastHorse was not constricted in the way Johnson was by a collaboration that required the artist to bend to the rules of the institution and to keep their activism “on stage.” However, there are two aspects where it is unclear to me to what extent this event nurtured decolonization. One aspect is building reciprocal and sustainable relationships that are not extractive nor instrumentalizing. What was ASU’s goal in presenting FastHorse? To enhance their reputation? To access funding? To fulfill the university’s mandate? This may seem like an unfair way to characterize Reed and ASU’s initiative but it is unclear whether this performance and its associated activities built a reciprocal, sustainable and on-going relationship with any of the Indigenous communities that FastHorse engaged with. A related aspect that is unclear is whether this performance led to on-going activity. Rogoff characterizes the curatorial as an on-going process and it is unclear from the ASU example what actions may have continued after the performance either in the community or at the university. Did any lasting change evolve from this performance? A curatorial approach would include thinking of how to continue the process after the performance. 164 7.6 Drawbacks to the Curatorial Throughout this chapter on the curatorial I have used Rogoff’s idea that the curatorial involves creating events of knowledge. However, there is no guarantee these encounters will produce new knowledge. Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) states that a curatorial question that interests her is: Is it a mode of knowledge production? But if the curatorial is a mode of knowledge production, Rogoff’s view could be criticized for being too optimistic that the bringing together of knowledges will generate new knowledge. However, in her question about how to instantiate the curatorial as a process, Rogoff (Rogoff & von Bismarck, 2012) asks how to “create a public platform that allows people to take part in these processes” (p. 23) The key here is that the curatorial approach allows for participation, but in this question she does not suggest that there is a guaranteed outcome of new knowledge. This mirrors Biesta’s (2013) idea that it is the quality of the participation that matters most: It is not participation as such that counts, but the quality of the participation. There is, in other words, educative and noneducative participation: participation in which only one party learns (by adapting to the other party), and participation that transforms the outlook of all who take part in it and that brings about a shared outlook. (p. 33) Because it is impossible to guarantee that a curatorial approach will create knowledge, curators should focus on creating events that allow for quality participation. Another potential criticism is that using a curatorial approach does not guarantee that a curator will avoid problems such as power imbalances, inflexible structures, and instrumentalizing artists. As Robinson (2020) cautions, the potential is high for dialogue “to simply serve as new spaces for extractive knowledge gathering” (p. 173). I acknowledge that a curatorial approach 165 alone cannot prevent these problems, which is why it is essential that a curatorial approach to nurture decolonization is guided by the five themes as identified in section 5.1. A third criticism of a curatorial approach is that the events of knowledge may overshadow or supplant the performance. As outlined in section 6.1, Lind (2021) and O’Neill (2012) believe that, increasingly, exhibition-making is not the only, or even the main, outcome of curating in the visual arts. As mentioned in 7.5, I found it interesting that none of the items in Johnson’s list of activities to nurture decolonization included the audience or mentioned dance. If the people involved in the events of knowledge are not the audience, what is the relationship between the events of knowledge and the performance? Does it matter if the audience does not participate in the events of knowledge? Does it matter if the participants in the events of knowledge do not attend the performance? Does the curator need to link the art with the curatorial process? I think these are challenging questions and ones that I often asked myself as I wrote this thesis. I do not feel that I have yet developed a fully formed response but there are two components that I think are relevant. As Williamson Bathory (Chan Centre for the Performing Arts, 2018) says in section 3.3.5, her art is not a goal, it is a process, it’s life. The curatorial approach acknowledges that art does not stop at the edge of the stage. Performances, events of knowledge and curatorial practice do not need to be compartmentalized. I believe that a curatorial approach is a more integrated way of thinking of the arts, which is essential when thinking of the curatorial as an approach to supporting steps to decolonization. 166 A related idea is that the experience of a performance or an event of knowledge can, as Hopkins states, be sustained through the bodies and minds that circulate beyond the original encounter or experience. Similarly, Dewey suggests that aesthetic, educative experiences can live fruitfully and creatively in new experiences, Biesta states that art raises questions that open us up to dialogue with the world and Rogoff characterizes the curatorial as on-going activity. All of these perspectives share the view that robust experiences live on through the participants. Thus, perhaps it does not matter, from a curator’s point of view, whether a participant attends all of the activities. Since a curator cannot control how participants will interact with the activities they have created, the curator can only focus on facilitating activities with the potential to live on in the participants through continued dialogue and shared knowledges. A fourth criticism is that the curatorial approach may give the curator too much power to frame the performance in a particular way. What if an artist does not want their show characterized in the way a curator has portrayed it in the event of knowledge associated with their performance? This is where a collaborative approach is essential. It is important for curators to share power and decision making and to reject the “star curator” and “curator as expert” models of curating. This is especially important when working with Indigenous artists so that their work is not characterized in ways they might reject, for example, by focusing on victimhood. 7.7 Suggestions for Further Exploration Using a curatorial approach in performing arts is rich for further exploration. Concrete examples of programmers implementing a curatorial approach would be fruitful. For example, I think a case study of a curator at the university who decentered the university’s goals and centred the 167 goals of Indigenous artists would be interesting. For example, Chinese American artist Deborah Wong (in Robinson 2020) believes that a truly ethical collaboration might begin with an invitation from an Indigenous artist and not the other way around. She adds, it’s all about listening. I don’t yet know how to do it, but I know I aspire to a radical willingness to claim nothing. To claim no knowledge, no authority, and maybe not even request collaboration: I wonder whether elevating collaboration as the ideal terms for encounter isn’t another kind of hunger. Maybe the first step is to sit just outside the door, without any expectation that we might even be invited in. (p. 246) Also, it would be interesting to see if a curatorial approach could be used to support Indigenous resurgence. Robinson (2020) suggests, speaking specifically of compositional methodologies, that settlers and allies could explore ways “that do not require Indigenous people to shoulder the burden of decolonization and instead allow us to focus our energies toward resurgence with and for Indigenous communities?” (p. 254). How could curators, when presenting Indigenous artists, take on decolonization work without relying on the artist, so the artist can focus on their work. A simple example is that a curator could negotiate with administration to allow smudging so that the artist could focus on their rehearsal. As Tuck (2018) explains, much of the focus is raising awareness for those who do not know. But what if curators instead worked with communities to create curatorial activities for those who do know? As Tuck elaborates: So much of what we do to compel change relies on raising awareness. But what if we—as communities, as collectives—were to disbelieve awareness as change? What if we, as 168 Indigenous peoples, as people of colour, as disenfranchised peoples, believed that our own awareness, our own knowing, is enough to make change? What if we did not wait for others to also know but are inspired by our own knowing? What if we hold true that we are the ones who need to know, and not others? What if we believe that we are the ones who can make change, and that others are not more powerful than us to effect change? These are radical questions that throb at what gets taken for granted as the work of social justice, of organizing, of public scholarship. (p. 97) Lastly, programmers typically judge success by tickets sales and attendance. I believe a curatorial approach could offer ways to develop other types of criteria to judge success. Additional criteria is important in large institutions where curators may have to justify their decisions to university administrators who may use budgets and attendance as their main ways to evaluate the venue’s activities. 169 Chapter 8: Conclusion 8.1 Summary I started this project because of my questions and doubts regarding connecting my performing arts programming and social justice goals. I questioned my assumptions and ideas about the role of the programmer and the ability of the performing arts to influence social change. When I started my program, I focused on social justice programming in general because this reflects how many progressive programmers work. However, research for this project led me to understand that decolonization is not the same as other social justice issues and I decided to focus my thesis on decolonization. In this thesis, I argued that settler programmers could use the concepts of curating and the curatorial as mechanisms to take steps towards decolonization, beyond inclusion and representation and particularly those aspects beyond the content of the performance on stage. In further exploring the concept of the curatorial, as characterized by Rogoff, I considered how the educational work of Dewey, Biesta and Rancière illuminated some aspects of the curatorial which are relevant for programmers and curators who are interested in taking steps towards decolonization. I supported my claims by first outlining how the concept of curating has been theorized in the visual arts literature and examining the role of curating in furthering social justice and decolonization in the visual arts. Then, using examples from the literature, my professional experience as a performing arts programmer and two examples of performances booked by programmers in university venues, I examined how social justice and decolonization goals have 170 been taken up in the performing arts. I also reviewed how performing arts scholars have written about the benefits and drawbacks of using the concept of curating in the performing arts. Referring to three cases, my study considered the limitations of programming by itself to further decolonization goals and I outlined how the concept of curating offers programmers practical and theoretical direction to address decolonization in their practice. In the final chapter I explored the educative potential of the concept of the curatorial, in particular as characterized by Rogoff as an event of knowledge, and how the theories of Dewey, Biesta and Rancière connected with ideas of the curatorial. I argued that the concept of the curatorial offers opportunities for knowledge production in the pursuit of decolonization in the performing arts and that a curatorial approach opens up opportunities to take steps to decolonization that programming and curating do not offer and I outlined possible further research directions in this field. 8.2 Limitations of My Research The three examples of university programmers booking Indigenous artists are not full case studies and do not serve as evidence for broader claims. Three cases is a small selection and, even in my own work experience, there are many more examples that could be useful. Additionally, because I decided not to interview the participants and I only used the public information available, I do not know their motivations, thoughts or reflections. As I started my research on the concept of curating in the visual arts I was surprised by the historical antagonism to the performing arts, which made me wonder if a concept that evolved from the visual arts could even be applied to performing arts. I was also puzzled by the concept 171 of deskilling and the mistrust of virtuosity, especially because virtuosity is highly prized in the classical forms of music, dance and theatre. I wondered if, as Malzacher stated, using the idea of curating was just an attempt to “snatch glamour” from the visual arts without any real usefulness. However, as I continued my research I encountered ideas around the “social turn” and how visual arts curators were booking live arts in galleries which meant grappling with issues that are common in performing arts. There is little literature to draw on regarding the concept of “the curatorial” in the performing arts so when I started exploring it I was surprised when scholars used language associated with live events such as “stage,” “encounter” and “trajectory of activity” which, intentional or not, clearly links to live events, the performing arts and a live audience, which helped me see how the concept could valuable in the performing arts. As the concept of the curatorial evolves and likely becomes less connected to visual arts specifically, performing arts scholars may begin to lead discussions of developments in the field. Encountering the work of educational scholars made me think of my project differently because they made it clear that a teacher, artist, curator could not guarantee what impact their work would have on the audience. In my experience, it is a common platitude that performing arts increase understanding and empathy and my research for this project challenged that belief. 8.3 Opportunities for Future Research This thesis offers a starting point for settler programmers and curators, particularly those working in universities, to consider how steps towards decolonization could be included in their 172 work. Further research could explore ways that university curators could implement a curatorial approach by connecting with other university departments on issues related to decolonization. For example, thinking of Larissa FastHorse’s community work on water issues that are crucial to Indigenous people in Arizona, a curator could create events to connect with professors and students working on water use and conservation. Further research could also explore and expand on some of the ideas and approaches detailed in this study, particularly collaborative projects with local Indigenous groups that centre Indigenous perspectives, knowledge and world views. I recognize that in large, hierarchical and colonial institutions sharing decision-making and power can be extremely difficult. However, this is valuable facilitation work that a curator could do. These types of projects might build reciprocal, sustainable relationships with Indigenous leaders and communities that do not centre the university or curator’s goals of expanding their audience, increasing tickets sales from diversity audiences, enhancing the reputation of the institution or accessing funding. Research could also focus on how a curatorial approach might support Indigenous resurgence in addition to or as a complement to working towards decolonization. Programmers usually work season to season, constantly bringing in new artists and new performances to appeal to ticket buyers. Further research could explore ways that an on-going curatorial process could create continuity in decolonization work, which could include fully integrating programming of Indigenous artists so that they are not pigeon-holed in an “Indigenous series” or “diversity” programming. 173 Additionally, I think it would be interesting to explore the perspectives of audience members who attend performances and/or ancillary activities on and off campus to learn more about their experiences and perspectives. Working towards decolonization is crucial and overdue but I believe that settler programmers could consider a curatorial approach as a way to incorporate steps towards decolonization in their practice. 174 References Anderson, Stephanie. (2018). The construction of national identity and the curation of difficult knowledge at the Canadian Museum for Human Rights. 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I am Rohingya: A genocide in four acts [documentary film]. Innerspeak Digital Media. https://stream- mcintyre-ca.ezproxy.library.ubc.ca/ubc/title/23390 194 Appendix Enrolment and Venue Information for Case Study Institutions Institution Montclair State University University of BC (Vancouver campus) Arizona State University (Tempe campus) Total number of students 21,784* 58,768** 57,588*** Main performance venue Kasser Theatre Chan Shun Concert Hall Gammage Type of venue Theatre Concert Hall Auditorium Capacity 463 seats 1189 seats 2827 seats Venue used for case-study performance N/A Telus Studio theatre Off campus: Steel Indian School Park near “Circle of Life” Capacity of venue used for case study performance N/A 250 2000 Type of venue used for case study performance N/A Black-box theatre Special event park * www.montclair.edu/about/-montclair/ar-a-glance/ ** www.ubc.ca/about/facts.html *** www.asu.edu/about/facts-and-figures
Thesis/Dissertation
eng
Educational Studies
Vancouver : University of British Columbia Library
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International
Graduate
Ruitenberg, Claudia
“Unconfinable knowledge” : curating, the curatorial and decolonization in the performing arts
Text