Over the course of the next two months, “playing ecologically” in this way begins to stir up a range of further questions: from how we are being educated, to how we might live in the world, to what might happen after we die. The students have queries about permanence: how transient are we? How transient might (or should) our productions be? They ask about property: how might we think (think differently?) about ownership? When we visit the expansive, historic Laurel Hill Cemetery, for instance—rambling independently, then sitting and talking together among the tombstones—they are puzzled to see how much the wealthy people of Philadelphia have invested in creating permanent monuments of their having once been alive. Why haven’t they been able to accept their “transience”? Might we ourselves learn to hold our lives—and the record of our living—more lightly?
These questions get carried back to campus, where our consulting artist invites us to an open studio to witness her process for creating an on-campus installation. When we gather for the demonstration, she acknowledges that, in her representation of the natural world, she uses material that is not ecological, and manipulates color and size to make the real appear unnatural, even bizarre.
Fresh from all those permanent gravestones in Laurel Hill, some students express concern about the materials for the project. Having researched a range of more transitory projects created by eco-artists, they are uncomfortable with the plan for an installation that uses a heavy, permanent material to remake the landscape.
When advertisements for our final celebratory event go up around campus, we worry that some of the students may resist an installation they see as not aligned with their evolving ecological understanding, by commenting on or even defacing it.
But actually? Something much more interesting—more playful, ecological, and transgressive—transpires.
We host the installation in an open space in the center of campus, where the students put on an interactive performance, in which they use pieces of the installation as props for “playing house.”
We picnic, and invite others to also move, enjoy, play.
Many do so, with gusto.
As various members of the campus community stop by in the days thereafter, the artist captures images of them playing with the installation.
The signage invites play at the site. Over the weekend, however, these activities extend beyond that space.
On Monday morning, we hear that every piece of the installation has disappeared. The artist is—of course!—upset, worried about possible loss and damage to the art. With the help of public safety officers, the campus is scoured, turning up pieces scattered behind dorms, on branches, beneath a hanging willow; the artist arranges for them to be promptly picked up and delivered home.
As we help to track down the missing pieces—asking our students, the deans, the housekeeping staff and security team to keep an eye out—our own reactions are mixed. After such an intense academic semester, all those months of hard work, hard weather, and ill health, we actually find ourselves smiling, to see students now taking up the invitation to “play,” even redefining the terms of the game. Their hands-on engagement with the public installation suggests, to us, that it has been a success.
As Anne’s husband observes,
students are like squirrels—they take what they like and ignore what they don’t…creativity is…a collective enterprise…like unscripted performance art, and here the movers and users were performers… . It’s a story that evolved in a way that was not imagined (at least by me)…this is a happy story…impermanence is ecological; “permanence,” like “forever,” doesn’t exist….
Sara Gladwin, who has seen in Shonibare’s “magic ladders” an image of her own entrapment in the educational structures of progressive education, sees an alternative in the dispersal of the installation. She muses on how, when art is placed in public spaces, the unpredictable public may become part of the material, altering what is made, how it is understood and used. She writes to the artist to explain that, when she first received her requests to help find what was missing,
sara.gladwin
I immediately responded…that I would attempt to recover the lost piece, hoping to soothe some of your sense of distress. Upon further reflection about this issue, I had some additional thoughts about the missing piece.
As I passed by the installation throughout the week, I would count the pieces, always checking to see if there were still thirteen. I was tickled to see students tentatively venture playing with the pieces, rearranging and reassessing their placement, stepping into the role of “artist,” if only for that moment. It was not until the end of the week that the entire display was dispersed and scattered around campus. I wanted to express my strong belief that this was not evidence of a prank or intended with malice. My understanding is that moving the art from its original site was a continuation of the same playful and interactive spirit that was extended to the student body regarding the installation; placing them around the campus was another way of “rearranging” the installation so that it becomes part of the environment itself. By spacing out the pieces, the art display encompasses all of campus, rather than remaining isolated. Furthermore, the act of scattering, of spreading the art pieces out further and increasing their visibility, seems reflective of patterns of nature. Like bees carrying pollen from one flower to the next, the pieces were spread throughout the campus. Even the piece that was missing for a short time is a reflection of these same qualities.
I was sad to see the installation leave the campus. Throughout the weekend, various students including myself had interacted with the biggest piece in its new area. Saturday evening, two other friends and I sat back to back on it, while one friend played the Ukulele and the rest of us sang. It could be argued that the installation piece was not crucial in creating this moment—and yet, there was something about sitting back to back on this piece of art that lent to a sense of connectedness and joy between the three of us.
I felt like it was important for me to tell you that I believe the installation was a success because it prompted students to engage critically with their environment.
This instance has led me to reflect on whether ownership and permanence are ecologically constructive concepts…. I am speaking not only about ownership over art but about ideas and education more broadly….Sara Gladwin, e-mail message to authors, May 19, 2014.
In asking that we attend to the “varying channels” from which art arises, as well as to how it may best be distributed, Sara is again an intellectual saunterer, both taking up our invitation to free herself for play and finding the space to critique that opportunity structure. Making her questions manifest in metaphors, in unexpected winter storms and books stacked to create ladders, in installations that disperse and reappear, Sara’s reflections seem to us exemplary of how the politics of play may be made material. But as she herself points out, others may feel more snagged than freed by options such as those she’s selected, which don’t recognize other legitimate claims.