A citywide showing of major contemporary art aims to unseat Boston's bronze statue ideal
Kate Gilbert, executive director of the Boston Public Art Triennial, in the lobby of the Boston Public Library where one of many public artworks will be installed next month.
John Tlumacki/Globe Staff
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'It really does feel like a completely different city than 10 years ago, ' said Kate Gilbert, the Triennial's executive director. 'There's just a greater aptitude for experimentation We're over our fear of the ephemeral — of a lot of those old fears, I think.'
Specifics will be made public next month, but installations will run a gamut of form and idea, from large-scale sculpture
to video
to performances
,
by artists both local and far-flung: Boston's Alison Croney Mosesand Stephen Hamilton, Nicolas Galanin, a widely celebrated Indigenous artist from Alaska.
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For Hamilton, whose project will be installed in Roxbury, the Triennial 'is not something I could have imagined when I graduated (from MassArt) in 2009,' he said. 'But I'm also looking to the future. How can an event like this help us grow?'
He might look to the rare feat of cooperation the Triennial has achieved:
the
Artist Stephen Hamilton in his Allston studio as he prepares for the Boston Triennial.
Lane Turner/Globe Staff
'The idea, really, is to have an experiment happening out in public,' said Karin Goodfellow, the city's
Boston's reputation as an international cultural center is rooted in its past, and its public art landscape reflects that:
Now + There's projects were everything Boston's public realm was not: Ephemeral. Contemporary. Oblique. Diverse. Some works were predicated on play; others,
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The Triennial will re-up its citywide program every three years, and its aim is not modest: To be a permanent emblem of a new Boston that's waited so long for its time to come. Partnerships are key to that vision. At the Museum of Fine Arts,the museum's contribution to the Triennial effort flanks its grand entrance: A pair of shimmering chromium sculptures by the Mohawk artist
A view of "The Knowledge Keepers" looking out from the Museum of Fine Arts. Left: "Andre," by Alan Michelson, 2024. Right, "Appeal to the Great Spirit," Cyrus E. Dallin, 1909.
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
The museum's contribution to a new way of seeing an old city, 'The Knowledge Keepers' is heavy with symbolism of a city in the throes of change. A
Meeting with Triennial staff over time, 'it's been clear to me that they were always approaching us with this idea that (the Triennial) could be a real change agent in the way in which Bostonians think about the art that's around them in the city,' said Ian Alteveer, chair of the MFA's Contemporary Art Department, who commissioned the work. 'I'm thrilled, and I'm also learning from this process myself.'
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At the City of Boston, Goodfellow is stewarding the city's own attempt at ephemeral, experimental public culture as part of the Monuments Project, funded with
"The Embrace," by Hank Willis Thomas, on a snowy day in 2023 shortly after it was installed on Boston Common. The artwork commemorates Martin Luther King Jr. and Coretta Scott King, and depicts four intertwined arms, representing the hug they shared after he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1964.
David L. Ryan/Globe Staff
The program
distributed $1 million
of that grant among
.
The city also has a roster of its own projects, to be announced later this month.
Called
Though it may feel sudden, new ways of thinking about public space – who it's for, what it can say, what it can do – are the product of a long, slow evolution. Unease around monuments in particular as simplistic emblems of complex histories had been simmering for years when, in 2020, the murder of George Floyd brought sudden, urgent action.
The statue of Robert E. Lee, altered by artists and protesters, at Lee Circle in Richmond, Va., June 20, 2020, before it was taken down. The monument became a rallying point for a national takedown movement after the murder of George Floyd in 2020.
Carlos Bernate/NYT
In Richmond, Virginia, a bronze statue of Robert E. Lee astride a horse
Boston's history is less fractious than the segregated South; but
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Tory Bullock, who started a movement to remove "The Emancipation Group" monument of Lincoln towering over an enslaved person in 2020.
Barry Chin/Globe Staff
That same month in the North End,
on the empty stone plinth. Installed by Boston artist Cedric Douglas, he projected the images of an array of local icons as a
public honor: Elma Lewis, the iconic Roxbury arts educator; Mel King, the long-time Civil Rights activist; Jessie 'Little Doe' Baird, a Native American linguist who helped preserve and revive the Wampanoag language.
He called it
could see its potential. As part of the city's Unmonument efforts this summer, Douglas will extend the project he began in 2020; he'll be out in public asking Bostonians what should occupy the empty plinth where 'The Emancipation Project' stood. 'These are the kinds of projects that we mean to inform us going forward,' Goodfellow said.
The installation occupied the former site of the Christopher Columbus statue, which was beheaded in June.
@aramphoto
Public experiments are the lifeblood of a necessarily nimble outfit like the Triennial. For a city government and art museums, it's new terrain. But they're learning from each other in a way that could help rewire how the city itself thinks about public art.
'We can offer them some thoughts on the public realm that they haven't really engaged with, and we're learning from them, too,' Gilbert said. 'But it's about trust and collaboration more broadly, and that's what's really exciting.'
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And maybe, just maybe, this experiment waiting to happen can help show Boston not what it's always been, but what it could be, she said. 'It feels like a Pollyanna moment,' she laughs, 'but 'If we can do this at the civic level, really, what else can we achieve?'
Murray Whyte can be reached at
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Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
Afro Mexican actors fighting racism celebrate their heritage through their plays
TICUMÁN, México (AP) — There was something about her body, but Mexican actress Eréndira Castorela couldn't quite put her finger on it. Some casting directors told her she was 'too tall' to play a Mexican woman. Others insinuated her features weren't sufficiently 'Indigenous.' 'It wasn't until later that I discovered what it means to recognize oneself as Afro,' said Castorela, who subsequently confirmed her African ancestry. 'We are a diverse community which, perhaps due to discrimination, doesn't identify as such.' Her life changed after she joined Mulato Teatro, a theater company that empowers actors of African descent who are eager to forge a career despite racism. However, like most Afro Mexican activists, Castorela believes that nationwide recognition is still a long way off. 'If we look around, we'll see curly hair, high cheekbones, full lips or dark skin,' the 33-year-old said. 'But there's a wound that prevents us from recognizing ourselves.' The Afro Mexican lineage Unlike the United States, where there have been concerted efforts to boost awareness of the Black history, acknowledging Black people in Mexico has received little support. 'The concept of mixed race denies the cultural diversity that defines us as Mexicans," said María Elisa Velázquez, a researcher at the National School of Anthropology and History. "We are not only Indigenous, but also European, African and Asian.' It is well known that the Mesoamerican lands conquered by the Spaniards in the 16th century were inhabited by Indigenous people, resulting in mixed-race marriages and births. Less noted is the fact that some mixed-race Mexicans are partly descended from enslaved Black people. According to Velázquez, the evolution of communities incorporating Black people depended on their geographic location. 'Much of the Afro-descendant population established relations and coexisted alongside different Indigenous groups, resulting in very heterogeneous communities,' she said. Official figures from 2024 estimate the Afro-descendant population in Mexico is 3.1 million, mainly residing in the states of Guerrero, Morelos, Colima and Quintana Roo. While most identify as African Mexican, nearly two-thirds also perceive themselves as Indigenous. Finding her true identity Castorela — born in Morelos, a state neighboring Mexico City — recalls looking through family photo albums after first wondering if she had African ancestry. The features of her relatives left no room for doubt. 'I also realized we had created a narrative that concealed our origins,' she said. 'There was always someone saying: 'But there was a blond person in the family,' or 'Grandma had finer features.'' Castorela may not have curly hair and her skin tone may not resemble that of other Afro women, but she said her body never lied. When she was a young actress taking ballet classes, she felt constrained and uncomfortable. It wasn't until she joined African dance classes that the choreography was ideal for her height, weight and soul. 'I feel much freer because there's openness and movement,' she said. 'Identifying as African Mexican has given me the mental and spiritual peace I needed to realize there is a place where I can reflect myself.' A struggling career The theater company where Castorela and two dozen other artists collaborate was founded in the early 2000s by another Afro woman who struggled to excel as a Black actress in Mexico. Born in Colombia, a South American country where around 10% of the population is Black, Marisol Castillo said she had no clue her physical features would hinder her career. But after falling in love with Mexican playwright Jaime Chabaud and moving to his hometown, everything changed. 'Some want to force us to fit a mold, a white mold,' Castillo said. 'And when we differ, we're told: 'You're a bad actor, you're out of tune.' But we're just different.' Casting directors mostly offered Castillo roles as prostitute, exotic dancer, maid or slave. So she teamed up with Chabaud, and 'Mulato Teatro' was born. 'There was very little openness and awareness,' Chabaud said. 'So I started writing plays for her.' Tales of African and Mexican heritage The themes of Chabaud's plays are as diverse as the actors who bring his characters to life. 'African Erotic Tales of the Black Decameron' draws inspiration from oral traditions, fusing the worldview of African communities. 'Yanga" portrays a real-life 17th-century Black hero who is considered a liberator in the Mexican state of Veracruz. Among the topics inspiring Chabaud are not only African legends or characters, but stories closer to home. 'Where are you going, Mr. Opossum?' tells the tale of a 'Tlacuache,' an ancient creature from Mesoamerican mythology. In Chabaud's play, the Tlacuache steals fire from a goddess to save humanity from hunger and darkness. The creature has no divine powers, but his ability to play dead enables him to sneak past the Jaguar, a deity safeguarding the flames. 'Jaime always tells us that we should all worship Mr. Tlacuache instead of other deities,' said Aldo Martin, playing the leading role. Martin, 28, does not identify as Afro, but feels the company's work successfully portrays Mexico's diversity. 'Our ancestors are not only Indigenous, but a fusion, and these mixed heritages have resulted in a very distinct society, made of all colors, which shouldn't pigeonhole us into just being Afro,' Martin said. Diversity is welcomed at Mulato Teatro Castillo and Chabaud primarily encourage Afro-Mexican artists to work in their plays, but they also welcome amateur actors and LGBTQ+ performers. One of them is transgender actress Annya Atanasio Cadena, who began her career in plays addressing topics such as suicide, alcoholism and drug addiction in marginalized communities. 'In my (LGBTQ+) community, we know what it's like to fight against the world,' said Atanasio, who plays a trans woman in one of Chabaud's plays about gender violence. 'I'm very moved to have been given the chance to become part of this space, which also heals me,' she added. "We can show that we exist and we are more than just a story. We are bodies, desires, feelings, and the pain we carry.' Dreams of an unknown land There's a special play written and directed by Castillo: 'Dreaming of Africa.' Although she has not been able to trace the exact roots of her ancestry, her work and community make her feel closer to a long-lost home. 'When we, people from the same ethnicity meet, we call each other 'brother,'' Castillo said. 'After all, we came from the same ports.' She said she'll never forget a presentation of 'Dreaming of Africa,' when a girl from the audience approached her. 'She could barely speak, so we hugged,' Castillo said. 'Then she said: 'Thank you for telling me I'm pretty, for making me feel my worth'.' Castillo, too, learns something about herself as she acts, writes and directs. It's like peeling an onion, she said, taking layer by layer to reveal what's underneath. 'I grow with each play,' Castillo said. "I feel prouder of my roots, knowing that I can move away from stereotypes like playing a prostitute or a witch. That I, too, can be a queen.' ____ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
The Hill
a day ago
- The Hill
Afro Mexican actors fighting racism celebrate their heritage through their plays
TICUMÁN, México (AP) — There was something about her body, but Mexican actress Eréndira Castorela couldn't quite put her finger on it. Some casting directors told her she was 'too tall' to play a Mexican woman. Others insinuated her features weren't sufficiently 'Indigenous.' 'It wasn't until later that I discovered what it means to recognize oneself as Afro,' said Castorela, who subsequently confirmed her African ancestry. 'We are a diverse community which, perhaps due to discrimination, doesn't identify as such.' Her life changed after she joined Mulato Teatro, a theater company that empowers actors of African descent who are eager to forge a career despite racism. However, like most Afro Mexican activists, Castorela believes that nationwide recognition is still a long way off. 'If we look around, we'll see curly hair, high cheekbones, full lips or dark skin,' the 33-year-old said. 'But there's a wound that prevents us from recognizing ourselves.' Unlike the United States, where there have been concerted efforts to boost awareness of the Black history, acknowledging Black people in Mexico has received little support. 'The concept of mixed race denies the cultural diversity that defines us as Mexicans,' said María Elisa Velázquez, a researcher at the National School of Anthropology and History. 'We are not only Indigenous, but also European, African and Asian.' It is well known that the Mesoamerican lands conquered by the Spaniards in the 16th century were inhabited by Indigenous people, resulting in mixed-race marriages and births. Less noted is the fact that some mixed-race Mexicans are partly descended from enslaved Black people. According to Velázquez, the evolution of communities incorporating Black people depended on their geographic location. 'Much of the Afro-descendant population established relations and coexisted alongside different Indigenous groups, resulting in very heterogeneous communities,' she said. Official figures from 2024 estimate the Afro-descendant population in Mexico is 3.1 million, mainly residing in the states of Guerrero, Morelos, Colima and Quintana Roo. While most identify as African Mexican, nearly two-thirds also perceive themselves as Indigenous. Castorela — born in Morelos, a state neighboring Mexico City — recalls looking through family photo albums after first wondering if she had African ancestry. The features of her relatives left no room for doubt. 'I also realized we had created a narrative that concealed our origins,' she said. 'There was always someone saying: 'But there was a blond person in the family,' or 'Grandma had finer features.'' Castorela may not have curly hair and her skin tone may not resemble that of other Afro women, but she said her body never lied. When she was a young actress taking ballet classes, she felt constrained and uncomfortable. It wasn't until she joined African dance classes that the choreography was ideal for her height, weight and soul. 'I feel much freer because there's openness and movement,' she said. 'Identifying as African Mexican has given me the mental and spiritual peace I needed to realize there is a place where I can reflect myself.' The theater company where Castorela and two dozen other artists collaborate was founded in the early 2000s by another Afro woman who struggled to excel as a Black actress in Mexico. Born in Colombia, a South American country where around 10% of the population is Black, Marisol Castillo said she had no clue her physical features would hinder her career. But after falling in love with Mexican playwright Jaime Chabaud and moving to his hometown, everything changed. 'Some want to force us to fit a mold, a white mold,' Castillo said. 'And when we differ, we're told: 'You're a bad actor, you're out of tune.' But we're just different.' Casting directors mostly offered Castillo roles as prostitute, exotic dancer, maid or slave. So she teamed up with Chabaud, and 'Mulato Teatro' was born. 'There was very little openness and awareness,' Chabaud said. 'So I started writing plays for her.' The themes of Chabaud's plays are as diverse as the actors who bring his characters to life. 'African Erotic Tales of the Black Decameron' draws inspiration from oral traditions, fusing the worldview of African communities. 'Yanga' portrays a real-life 17th-century Black hero who is considered a liberator in the Mexican state of Veracruz. Among the topics inspiring Chabaud are not only African legends or characters, but stories closer to home. 'Where are you going, Mr. Opossum?' tells the tale of a 'Tlacuache,' an ancient creature from Mesoamerican mythology. In Chabaud's play, the Tlacuache steals fire from a goddess to save humanity from hunger and darkness. The creature has no divine powers, but his ability to play dead enables him to sneak past the Jaguar, a deity safeguarding the flames. 'Jaime always tells us that we should all worship Mr. Tlacuache instead of other deities,' said Aldo Martin, playing the leading role. Martin, 28, does not identify as Afro, but feels the company's work successfully portrays Mexico's diversity. 'Our ancestors are not only Indigenous, but a fusion, and these mixed heritages have resulted in a very distinct society, made of all colors, which shouldn't pigeonhole us into just being Afro,' Martin said. Castillo and Chabaud primarily encourage Afro-Mexican artists to work in their plays, but they also welcome amateur actors and LGBTQ+ performers. One of them is transgender actress Annya Atanasio Cadena, who began her career in plays addressing topics such as suicide, alcoholism and drug addiction in marginalized communities. 'In my (LGBTQ+) community, we know what it's like to fight against the world,' said Atanasio, who plays a trans woman in one of Chabaud's plays about gender violence. 'I'm very moved to have been given the chance to become part of this space, which also heals me,' she added. 'We can show that we exist and we are more than just a story. We are bodies, desires, feelings, and the pain we carry.' There's a special play written and directed by Castillo: 'Dreaming of Africa.' Although she has not been able to trace the exact roots of her ancestry, her work and community make her feel closer to a long-lost home. 'When we, people from the same ethnicity meet, we call each other 'brother,'' Castillo said. 'After all, we came from the same ports.' She said she'll never forget a presentation of 'Dreaming of Africa,' when a girl from the audience approached her. 'She could barely speak, so we hugged,' Castillo said. 'Then she said: 'Thank you for telling me I'm pretty, for making me feel my worth'.' Castillo, too, learns something about herself as she acts, writes and directs. It's like peeling an onion, she said, taking layer by layer to reveal what's underneath. 'I grow with each play,' Castillo said. 'I feel prouder of my roots, knowing that I can move away from stereotypes like playing a prostitute or a witch. That I, too, can be a queen.' ____ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
San Francisco Chronicle
a day ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
Afro Mexican actors fighting racism celebrate their heritage through their plays
TICUMÁN, México (AP) — There was something about her body, but Mexican actress Eréndira Castorela couldn't quite put her finger on it. Some casting directors told her she was 'too tall' to play a Mexican woman. Others insinuated her features weren't sufficiently 'Indigenous.' 'It wasn't until later that I discovered what it means to recognize oneself as Afro,' said Castorela, who subsequently confirmed her African ancestry. 'We are a diverse community which, perhaps due to discrimination, doesn't identify as such.' Her life changed after she joined Mulato Teatro, a theater company that empowers actors of African descent who are eager to forge a career despite racism. However, like most Afro Mexican activists, Castorela believes that nationwide recognition is still a long way off. 'If we look around, we'll see curly hair, high cheekbones, full lips or dark skin,' the 33-year-old said. 'But there's a wound that prevents us from recognizing ourselves.' The Afro Mexican lineage Unlike the United States, where there have been concerted efforts to boost awareness of the Black history, acknowledging Black people in Mexico has received little support. 'The concept of mixed race denies the cultural diversity that defines us as Mexicans," said María Elisa Velázquez, a researcher at the National School of Anthropology and History. "We are not only Indigenous, but also European, African and Asian.' It is well known that the Mesoamerican lands conquered by the Spaniards in the 16th century were inhabited by Indigenous people, resulting in mixed-race marriages and births. Less noted is the fact that some mixed-race Mexicans are partly descended from enslaved Black people. According to Velázquez, the evolution of communities incorporating Black people depended on their geographic location. 'Much of the Afro-descendant population established relations and coexisted alongside different Indigenous groups, resulting in very heterogeneous communities,' she said. Official figures from 2024 estimate the Afro-descendant population in Mexico is 3.1 million, mainly residing in the states of Guerrero, Morelos, Colima and Quintana Roo. While most identify as African Mexican, nearly two-thirds also perceive themselves as Indigenous. Finding her true identity Castorela — born in Morelos, a state neighboring Mexico City — recalls looking through family photo albums after first wondering if she had African ancestry. The features of her relatives left no room for doubt. 'I also realized we had created a narrative that concealed our origins,' she said. 'There was always someone saying: 'But there was a blond person in the family,' or 'Grandma had finer features.'' Castorela may not have curly hair and her skin tone may not resemble that of other Afro women, but she said her body never lied. When she was a young actress taking ballet classes, she felt constrained and uncomfortable. It wasn't until she joined African dance classes that the choreography was ideal for her height, weight and soul. 'I feel much freer because there's openness and movement,' she said. 'Identifying as African Mexican has given me the mental and spiritual peace I needed to realize there is a place where I can reflect myself.' A struggling career The theater company where Castorela and two dozen other artists collaborate was founded in the early 2000s by another Afro woman who struggled to excel as a Black actress in Mexico. Born in Colombia, a South American country where around 10% of the population is Black, Marisol Castillo said she had no clue her physical features would hinder her career. But after falling in love with Mexican playwright Jaime Chabaud and moving to his hometown, everything changed. 'Some want to force us to fit a mold, a white mold,' Castillo said. 'And when we differ, we're told: 'You're a bad actor, you're out of tune.' But we're just different.' Casting directors mostly offered Castillo roles as prostitute, exotic dancer, maid or slave. So she teamed up with Chabaud, and 'Mulato Teatro' was born. 'There was very little openness and awareness,' Chabaud said. 'So I started writing plays for her.' Tales of African and Mexican heritage The themes of Chabaud's plays are as diverse as the actors who bring his characters to life. 'African Erotic Tales of the Black Decameron' draws inspiration from oral traditions, fusing the worldview of African communities. 'Yanga" portrays a real-life 17th-century Black hero who is considered a liberator in the Mexican state of Veracruz. Among the topics inspiring Chabaud are not only African legends or characters, but stories closer to home. 'Where are you going, Mr. Opossum?' tells the tale of a 'Tlacuache,' an ancient creature from Mesoamerican mythology. In Chabaud's play, the Tlacuache steals fire from a goddess to save humanity from hunger and darkness. The creature has no divine powers, but his ability to play dead enables him to sneak past the Jaguar, a deity safeguarding the flames. 'Jaime always tells us that we should all worship Mr. Tlacuache instead of other deities,' said Aldo Martin, playing the leading role. Martin, 28, does not identify as Afro, but feels the company's work successfully portrays Mexico's diversity. 'Our ancestors are not only Indigenous, but a fusion, and these mixed heritages have resulted in a very distinct society, made of all colors, which shouldn't pigeonhole us into just being Afro,' Martin said. Diversity is welcomed at Mulato Teatro Castillo and Chabaud primarily encourage Afro-Mexican artists to work in their plays, but they also welcome amateur actors and LGBTQ+ performers. One of them is transgender actress Annya Atanasio Cadena, who began her career in plays addressing topics such as suicide, alcoholism and drug addiction in marginalized communities. 'In my (LGBTQ+) community, we know what it's like to fight against the world,' said Atanasio, who plays a trans woman in one of Chabaud's plays about gender violence. 'I'm very moved to have been given the chance to become part of this space, which also heals me,' she added. "We can show that we exist and we are more than just a story. We are bodies, desires, feelings, and the pain we carry.' Dreams of an unknown land There's a special play written and directed by Castillo: 'Dreaming of Africa.' Although she has not been able to trace the exact roots of her ancestry, her work and community make her feel closer to a long-lost home. 'When we, people from the same ethnicity meet, we call each other 'brother,'' Castillo said. 'After all, we came from the same ports.' She said she'll never forget a presentation of 'Dreaming of Africa,' when a girl from the audience approached her. 'She could barely speak, so we hugged,' Castillo said. 'Then she said: 'Thank you for telling me I'm pretty, for making me feel my worth'.' Castillo, too, learns something about herself as she acts, writes and directs. It's like peeling an onion, she said, taking layer by layer to reveal what's underneath. 'I grow with each play,' Castillo said. "I feel prouder of my roots, knowing that I can move away from stereotypes like playing a prostitute or a witch. That I, too, can be a queen.'
