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Medium 9780253019028

Luminous City, Luminous Gallery

IU Press Journals Indiana University Press ePub

Kimbembele Ihunga. Installation shot from Luminós/C/ity.Ordinary Joy exhibition at the Cooper Gallery, Fall 2014. Bodys Isek Kingelez, 1994. Paper, cardboard, polystyrene, mixed media. Photo by Marcus Halevi. Courtesy of the Pigozzi Contemporary African Art Collection (WWW.JAPIGOZZICOLLECTION.COM | WWW.CAACART.COM)

David Adjaye, Mariane Ibrahim-Lenhardt, and Henry Louis Gates, Jr. discuss the new Cooper Gallery and its first exhibition, Luminós/C/ity.Ordinary Joy

WHEN IT CAME time to design a dynamic space for Harvard University’s new Ethelbert Cooper Gallery of African and African American Art, the Hutchins Center’s founding director, Henry Louis Gates, Jr., turned to award-winning Ghanaian architect David Adjaye, whose numerous grand and ambitious public buildings—including the soon-to-open Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture—are renowned for their seamless merger of modernist and African aesthetics. When Adjaye was then invited to curate the first exhibition in the new gallery space, he sought the help of Mariane Ibrahim-Lenhardt, the young Somalian curator whose gallery in Seattle is making waves by insisting that African contemporary artists be taken seriously by the contemporary art world at large. In this conversation—which took place at the Cooper Gallery’s opening event in October 2014—Gates, Adjaye, and Ibrahim-Lendardt discuss the gallery’s architecture and the process by which Adjaye and Ibrahim-Lendardt selected the pieces for their show from the legendary Pigozzi Contemporary African Art Collection. The Cooper Gallery is under the direction of Vera I. Grant and is located in the heart of Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

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Medium 9781771870825

Biographical Notes

Virgo, Seán Thistledown Press ePub

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

BRIAN BRETT was born in Vancouver, and spent his childhood on the road in his father’s truck, learning the Fraser Valley farm region, the native villages, and ocean and lakeside fishing camps. He ruined his knees walking over too many mountains, and has had too many opportunities to witness the destruction of the great raincoast cloud forest and the rich delta of the Fraser River. A poet, novelist, and journalist, the author of eleven books, his latest publication Trauma Farm: A Rebel History of Rural Life won the 2009 Writers’ Trust Non-Fiction Prize. His natural habitat is limited to the climate region where the wild rhododendron grows. He has spent his adult life advocating the preservation of this ecology. Currently, he lives on an organic farm on Saltspring Island, British Columbia.

Novelist and poet BARRY CALLAGHAN is included in every major Canadian anthology and his fiction and poetry have been translated into seven languages. His works include The Hogg Poems and Drawings (General 1978), The Black Queen Stories (Lester & Orpen Dennys 1982), The Way The Angel Spreads Her Wings (Lester & Orpen Dennys 1989), When Things Get Worst (Little, Brown & Co. 1993), A Kiss Is Still A Kiss (Little, Brown & Co. 1995), Hogg, The Poems And Drawings (Carleton 1997), Barrelhouse Kings: A Memoir (Little, Brown & Co. 1998), and Hogg: The Seven Last Words. He has published translations of French, Serbian, and Latvian poetry, and has been writer-in-residence at the universities of Rome, Venice, and Bologna. He was a war correspondent in the Middle East and Africa in the 1970s, and at the same time began the internationally celebrated quarterly and press, Exile and Exile Editions.

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Medium 9780892727605

Neighborhood Deer

Down East Books ePub

Susan Hand Shetterly

I n 1535, Jacques Cartier and his crew, stuck for the winter in the New World, took the advice of a man who was most likely a Micmac, and made themselves a tea steeped in the sprays and bark of the northern white cedar, a pungent, resinous brew that saved them from death by scurvy. They called the tree

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Medium 9781780491929

Chapter Eight - Narrative Psychiatry

Sue McNab Karnac Books ePub

SuEllen Hamkins

Narrative psychiatry brings together narrative and biological understandings of human suffering and wellbeing. It relishes discovering untold but inspiring stories of a person's resilience and skill in resisting mental health challenges while exposing and deconstructing discourses that fuel problems. It examines what the doctor's kit of psychiatry has to offer in light of the values and preferences of the person seeking consultation, authorising the patient as the arbiter of what is helpful and what is not.

Narrative psychiatry, as I theorise and practise it, arises from the confluence of several streams of inspiration in my life. Postmodern philosophy (Foucault, 1979) and feminist theory (Gilligan, 1982; Morgan, 1970) inspired me early on to discern and unpack operations of power in society. I studied medicine with the intention of becoming a doctor who could selectively draw from bio-medical discourses while resisting their hegemony, with hopes of attending more empathically to my patients (Lewis, 2011). Narrative psychotherapy (Freed man & Combs, 1996; Freeman, Epston, & Lobovits, 1997; Maisel, Epston, & Borden, 2004; White, 1989, 1995, 1997, 2000, 2004, 2007; White & Epston, 1990) gave me a playground of ideas, a workshop full of therapeutic tools, and a community of colleagues. These influences led me to practise what I call narrative psychiatry (Hamkins, 2004, 2010), which brings together the understanding that we experience our lives and identities through stories, that meaning is socially created, that we can interrogate the discourses that influence us, that we are embodied creatures beholden to the resplendence and vulnerabilities of biology, and, finally, that when these ideas are gracefully combined in compassionate practice, tremendous healing is possible.

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Medium 9781574416367

Fred Nelligan

Gayle Reaves, Editor UNT Press ePub
Medium 9781552452585

Dingbat

Heather Birrell Coach House Books ePub

Dingbat

DAD DIED IN FEBRUARY of my seventeenth year, in the backyard, while feeding the birds. Mum found him flat on his back, looking for all the world as if he were napping on the soft pile of snow he had just cleared from the space beside the feeder. When I got home from school, the ambulance had not yet arrived. Mum would not let me in the front door.

Go back to school, she said, her face white as bone.

When I kneeled beside my father, I was cheered by the fact that his eyes were closed. Dead people stared blankly into some unfathomable beyond. I laid my hand against his face. The skin was not warm, but it had a tender elasticity to it. I pulled his toque down over his forehead. There was a tiny curlicue of wax sitting like a hardened spot of Dijon mustard inside his ear. He was not dead.

Dad? I said, and leaned down close, so that he could hear.

A paramedic shoved me to the side.

Mum and I sat on the steps of the back porch and watched the uniformed men work. And it was work. They pushed and prodded at him, blew into his lungs, shocked his heart. We could see our breaths in the air, but sweat soaked their baby-blue shirts into navy. They did all that they could do. Still, they could have done more.

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Medium 9781552452585

BriannaSusannaAlana

Heather Birrell Coach House Books ePub

BriannaSusannaAlana

AT THE TOP OF THE STREET where Brianna, Susanna and Alana lived was a parkette in the form of a teardrop turned sideways. The parkette had a slide, two sets of swings (one for babies and one for big kids) and a climbing frame in the shape of a rocket ship. Brianna, at six, was not a baby, but still gave the big-kid swings the respect they deserved. Susanna, at ten, loved the big-kid swings, and had the soar-and-smash scars to prove it. Alana, at nearly thirteen, was so over swings of any kind.

Just above the parkette was a used-car lot, and next to that, an apartment parking lot, and next to that the apartment building itself, a brownstone of moderate proportions. Surrounding the brownstone was a well-manicured lawn that had been sectioned off in the northwest corner by yellow police tape. The police tape had been there for eight days and now appeared slack in places, fatigued.

From the observation pod at the top of the rocketship, Susanna had a good view of the goings-on around and inside the police tape. She observed, then reported her findings in urgent bulletins to Brianna and Alana. The former received these bulletins eagerly, if indiscriminately, jumping up and down below the pod, while the latter sat on one of the rungs of the slide yawning and peeling back the petals of skin around her fingernails. Still, whatever Susanna could tell them could not in any significant way diminish or augment what they already knew. The reason for the police tape was that somebody had been murdered.

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Medium 9781771870801

THE CARVING SHED

Forrie, Allan Thistledown Press ePub
The efforts of Correctional Service Canada to allow First Nations inmates to remain connected with their culture is the subject of “The Carving Shed”, as Stephen Reid joins the Native Brotherhood for an afternoon of quiet carving.
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Medium 9780253356864

37. Without Bounds

Robert B. Ray Indiana University Press ePub

I desire to speak somewhere without bounds. (218)

This mysterious remark, appearing in Walden’s great “Conclusion,” evokes Thoreau’s regular employment as the village surveyor. His book seems designed to enable our own staking out of things, coming complete with tools (compasses, rulers, dividers) and measurements: the number of rods separating Thoreau’s cabin from the railroad tracks, the exact distance from his site to Concord, the width and depth of the pond, the acreage of neighboring farms and lakes. In “Where I Lived and What I Lived For,” Thoreau makes punning use of his occupation by declaring “I have thus surveyed the country on every side within a dozen miles of where I live,” including, in yet another pun, “each farmer’s premises” (58). Quoting Cowper’s “Verses Supposed to Be Written by Alexander Selkirk” (Defoe’s model for Robinson Crusoe), Thoreau even supplies his own italics: “I am monarch of all I survey” (59).

Since Thoreau so often earned his living by marking his neighbors’ property lines, what are we to make of his “desire to speak somewhere without bounds”? The wish resembles another Thoreauvian longing, also characteristically expressed in spatial terms: “I love a broad margin to my life” (79). The two remarks remind us that Thoreau seemed to experience almost every kind of externally imposed rule, custom, or schedule as an occasion for claustrophobia. In Emerson’s words, “He was a protestant à l’outrance.” Some of Walden’s best critics have argued that this reflexive resistance extended to language itself, which, indeed, he often treated as something that gets in the way of living: “It is not easy to write in a journal what interests us at any time,” he once observed, “because to write it is not what interests us.” Andrew Delbanco goes further, describing Thoreau as “ultimately a despiser of culture.” “What Thoreau discovered,” Delbanco continues, “was that language itself … made him feel dead because it subjected him to the worn and degraded inventions of other minds.” Some evidence supports this position. In an 1857 letter, Thoreau seems to anticipate Flaubert’s dread of merely reproducing the banalities catalogued in his Dictionary of Received Ideas:

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Medium 9781780491929

Chapter Five - “Where the Hell is Everybody?” Leanna's Resistance to Armed Robbery and Negative Social Responses

Sue McNab Karnac Books ePub

Allan Wade

Leanna (thirty-five) and Jane (sixty-four) were robbed at gunpoint while closing a department store for the night, with “the take” for the day in hand. Two months later, Leanna phoned me to arrange counselling. We met six times over about six months while Leanna recovered and made some important life decisions. I found Leanna's descriptions of her experience especially compelling and, two years later, asked if she and I might record a conversation about the robbery. She agreed and allowed me to use the interview for training purposes. This chapter centres on a twenty-minute segment of this interview during which Leanna and I develop accounts of her responses to the robbery and to the series of negative social responses she experienced afterwards. As we explore Leanna's responses in detail, using active grammar and descriptive terms, Leanna emerges as an upright person who showed courage and composure while resisting the robbery and is justifiably indignant about the negative social responses she received.

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Medium 9780253356864

14. Genius

Robert B. Ray Indiana University Press ePub

Although Emerson famously said of Thoreau that “his biography is in his verses,” he described those verses as “rude and defective,” concluding that Thoreau’s “genius was better than his talent.” Without citing Emerson as the source of this famous judgment, Henry James extended its application to Thoreau’s prose, declaring in 1879 that “whatever question there may be of his talent, there can be none, I think of his genius.… He was imperfect, unfinished, inartistic … ; it is only at his best that he is readable.” Why did Emerson and James arrive at this opinion? What aspects of Thoreau’s writing prompted it?

While any list of writers with more talent than genius will always be a long one, the reverse is not the case. What American writers have had more genius than talent? Whitman? Gertrude Stein? Hart Crane? Thomas Wolfe? Has this imbalance occurred more frequently in America? And is it more common with writers, as opposed to other kinds of artists? We can start to answer these questions by noting that an artist needs to be lucky enough to have a genre available to him that suits his genius. Imagine if Larry Hart had come along before the flowering of the Broadway musical: he would have become, at best, simply a talented light-verse writer, a reduced version of his own ancestor, Heinrich Heine. Had Elvis Presley arrived before rock and roll, he might have developed into a minor version of his idol, Dean Martin, himself a lesser Sinatra. Elvis, of course, helped to invent the genre his genius required, and his ability to do so suggests a way to think about Thoreau and Walden.

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Medium 9781771870825

Getting Into the Cabri Lake Area

Virgo, Seán Thistledown Press ePub

GETTING INTO THE CABRI LAKE AREA

Tim Lillburn

1

GO TO LEADER AND STAY AT THE HOTEL across from the elevators if it’s too cold to sleep on the river flat just north of the Estuary townsite. Estuary is west and north of Leader — you’ll have to pass by it eventually: only five houses or so left, two last summer with trucks parked in the yard, another one, a white bungalow set off to the west, nearer the river, owned, rumour has it, by an American hunter who turns up every fall or so. Anyway the Leader hotel. It’s old, smells of cigarette smoke climbing through the ceiling from the small bar below; you could read the paper through the sheets. On the weekends, they have a buffet in the evening and morning. The town is doing well; a number of people there work at the PetroCanada plant at Burstall, a forty-five minute drive southwest. If you arrive on a Friday night, visit the Swiss men’s store owner the next morning before you set out: lots of stories and some interesting merchandise aimed at the Hutterite colonies in the area.

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Medium 9781771870849

Queen of Clubs

Ratzlaff, Lloyd Thistledown Press ePub

]>

MAYDAY! Our mother’s neighbour calls to say that Mom looks bad, very bad; she’s been out making a garden, but something has gone awry and an ambulance is coming to take her to the Rosthern Hospital. By the time we drive out from the city, she’s strapped in an emergency room wheelchair, moaning Ohh, ohh, lifting hands alternately to her forehead, or gripping the chair’s edge and straining to get out. Her eyes seem to see, but she doesn’t respond to us, and we can only repeat the things we most want her to know: We love you; please try to rest; everyone is helping; things will be all right — and try to believe this last ourselves.

The doctor on duty arranges a transfer to Saskatoon’s Royal University Hospital. I ride back with Mom in the ambulance, and she calms somewhat; but at the new emergency ward she rears and thrashes again, jabs her feet through the bedrails as if determined to get up and leave. Eventually a CT scan shows bacteria from an ear infection eating through the mastoid into the meningi between her skull and brain, and already spreading into the right temporal lobe. Air pockets generate internal pressure and make her head ache ferociously. No one will estimate the brain damage without neurological tests, and she’s not conscious enough to respond.

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Little Bluestem and the Geography of Fascination

Virgo, Seán Thistledown Press ePub

LITTLE BLUESTREAM AND
THE GEOGRAPHY OF FASCINATION

Don Gayton

IT ONCE WAS A PART OF A GREAT AMBER SEA, this grass. The sea was drained and ploughed long before the invention of the airplane. Hawks and falcons may carry the memory, but no human has ever seen it from the air. But just to imagine looking down on that tallgrass sea, the grassy ocean that stretched from Winnipeg to Texas, and knowing that Schizachyrium was a part, is perhaps enough.

Schizachyrium, it is called. Sky za ky ri um. Skyzakyrium. It is a word so rarely said, you may put the accent on whichever syllable you like. Not sure why it so took me, really. It could have been the strange and haunting name of this prairie icon, this delicate bunchgrass. Or that it is the poster child of a different metabolism, and therefore fascinating by its minority, its ethnicity. Why should it matter, really, that I found it growing quietly hundreds of kilometers outside its range?

Schizachyrium; some assembly required. It is of course a Latin name, but one that takes on meanings of its own. Our nomenclature is based on a dead language because we don’t want connotations, we don’t want the evolution of meaning, but I wonder. What if the Latin roots of this particular word are so obscure we are forced to invent their meaning? I would have my own legend about the name Schizachyrium, that it doesn’t really mean that the seed has a split awn, (schizein=to split, achuron=chaff) but rather that it refers to the grave and rumpled god Schizachyrio, a lesser light among the Greek deities, one whose particular mojo was Obscure Complexity.

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Medium 9780253018595

Straddling Shifting Spheres

IU Press Journals Indiana University Press ePub

a conversation with David Chariandy

Am I a writer? An artist? I do not know. I know, though, that if tomorrow someone managed to convince me that all is hunky-dory with those who look like me, I would indulge myself in long Fieldingesque works . . . I would call myself a writer. Right now, I feel the term intellectual worker, which I have heard Lloyd Best of the Tapia House Movement in Trinidad use, best describes me.

—ERNA BRODBER, “Fiction in the Scientific Procedure”

CARIBBEAN WRITERS HAVE a long tradition of straddling the worlds of critical and creative work. Some, like Erna Brodber and Kamau Brathwaite, formally pursued academic studies and continued to practice in their discipline while also producing fiction and poetry; and others, like Derek Walcott and M. NourbeSe Philip, wrote cultural criticism alongside their poetry without the official sanction of a doctorate but often from the ivory tower nonetheless. The boundaries between the academic and cultural spheres have never been firm and the balance never even, but our theorists are frequently also our poets, our novelists, our playwrights. Such intellectual workers consciously shift between various types of writing as they grapple with Caribbean concerns.

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