We are no longer in apocalyptical
and futuristic science fiction, we are Sci-Fi

–

"Conversations in Isolation" is a series of ongoing dialogues with artists, writers, social scientists, queer activists, art organizations, curatorial collectives, historians, indigenous thinkers, health professionals, and educators, around the effects of COVID-19 in our local and global contexts from a Central American and Caribbean perspective. These conversations series began in late-March and are published periodically in Buchaca Generosa [Generous Pocket], a biweekly digital magazine edited by Daniela Morales Lisac and M. Paola Malavasi, and published by TEOR/éTica.

Miguel López: How are you personally, and how is the COVID-19 affecting your daily life and work?

Holly Bynoe: At the start of the crisis and pandemic, like much of the world, I was glued to the screen and media channels. This felt like suffocation, so I knew early on that I had to put other measures in place for self-care and to build protection around me. I felt the very same urge after natural disasters, notably Hurricanes Sandy, Matthew and Dorian, 2012, 2016 and 2019 respectively. There is a fever pitch that happens in my internal landscape, where my rationale and emotional capacities merge, then one overtakes. This leads to my body doing strange things like forgetting, projecting end of time horrors, eating dinner at 2 pm, and worse yet, a complete emotional shutdown. Not knowing how to process fear, anger, privilege and government malfunction can derail one’s capacities, and because of my previous experience, my coping mechanisms were healthy and kicked in pretty fast.

After resigning from my museum job, moving to a new country—Barbados—earlier this year and not knowing how my livelihood would be affected, I understandably went into a tailspin, grasping, worrying and not knowing about this tabula rasa that was emerging before me. To counter this, I examined capitalist and neoliberal machinery and understood that the path that we were travelling as a collective was deeply broken, hostile and toxic. So when the lockdowns came, first partial then total, I did my best to observe this blank slate and accept, so as to not pressure myself into being busy for busy’s sake, or to not worry about the state of culture in the Caribbean region—something that was vulnerable from the get-go and something that will continue to be affected by the pandemic and its reverberations. These systems’ ideologies weren’t built with a healthy regional ecology in mind, so as per usual the free agents in our space are going to be the ones to chart and pioneer change.

Finally, in a professional capacity, there were some larger disruptions to my cultural work calendar, such as the postponement of the MoMA International Curatorial Institute Fellowship and an exhibition project in Europe. This delay is motivating me to reassess my curatorial lens. I am using the lockdown to take care of myself and families while reconsidering my language proficiency—deepening access and empathy—when it comes to uniting the work I am doing in the arts with a conscientious move back to the land and an embrace of ancestral knowledge. I feel that this is where I access most of my freedom, grace and encouragement during this time.

ML: But even if you didn't pressure yourself into thinking about the state of culture, at some point that reality hits you. What were your first thoughts about the impact on the cultural landscape?

HB: One of the first things that I started to fear regarding cultural work was the retrenchment into foundational national insecurities; the ones we weren’t able to work out during the post-independent eras, and the realities that we are still grappling with. I call them “nationalisms in retrograde” as something that we can see from the financial aid, interventions and initiatives and ‘grants’ emerging regionally which are inherently biased, discriminatory or regressive in function.

In the Caribbean, many of us have been working remotely and virtually for some time now given our geographic context, so some things come naturally to us. From my observations across social media, there is a danger in wanting to know how certain things will be affected before the crisis waves pass. The fact is that we are moving into a paradigmatic shift that is going to bring us to reckonings that we haven’t seen in contemporary times. I don’t know what this will do to our creative industries, but I hope since they were unhealthy to begin with, that the current pressure or COVID-19 pressure will create opportunities for agitators and cultural workers to create new systems. To build a healthy collective would require that we move away from the rampant nepotism and cronyism—a fundamental plantocracy ethic—that fuels the retrograde. 

ML: Less than eight months ago Hurricane Dorian dramatically affected the Caribbean islands. At that time, you were living in Nassau, working as Chief Curator of the National Art Gallery of The Bahamas (NAGB), which after the hurricane was quickly transformed into a space for healing, offering sanctuary for survivors. How was that process?

HB: The process was an organic one. When Dorian made landfall on September 1st, 2019, it seemed as though the entire archipelago took a collective inhale and held its breath for three days until the behemoth passed. Within this time frame, social media did its work and placed us all in a panic. I cried for days and couldn’t function, but the following Monday morning, I woke up, cleaned the house and told myself that it was time for a new kind of thinking and being.

On September 3rd, as Grand Bahama was still under the effect of the storm, the staff of the Museum met on-campus to debrief around our objectives and aims given the tragedy. We were lucky to be mostly unaffected in New Providence, and as such the institution could use its resources and connections to put something powerful in motion to effect change across our local communities, which was inevitably going to contribute to the care and support for those left homeless and displaced from their homes.

We Gatchu: Sanctuary after the Storm was an initiative that I put forward as a way for the institution to mitigate the inevitable erasure of mental health concerns, which is a pattern repeated after every trauma experienced around natural disasters. The institution was in a unique position to instigate outreach, and within a few days, we amassed a collective of 8 mental health professionals with different areas of expertise. In collaborating with them, we were able to co-develop a comprehensive social engagement protocol for the months after, working in tandem with national, regional and international efforts that were going on across the three main islands.

In addition to the mental health-focussed sessions which included crisis management, smaller group forums, open community sessions, first responder meetings and one on one sessions with experts, we were able to work with the modality of art therapy. Scottish educator Susan Moir McKay, who was resident on Grand Bahama for over twenty years, came on board for a two week period to lead this conversation, which was both rewarding and foundational for the museum’s knowledge of the care needed during that time.

Over the course of two months, that arts programming was entirely aborted showing how nimble and adaptable the institution was to the contextual needs of the social space. We staged multiple private and community events with several partners including international relief arts organisation The Goodness Tour, and the West Coast energy healing initiative Soul Healing Way, led by educator, healer and shaman Helen Klonaris. These esoteric and alternative healing elements became a powerful part of the main arsenal in reconnecting people with themselves. Across the New Providence shelters, reiki, song, dance, drawing, concerts, laying on of hands, yoga and meditation through Wellness Sundays became powerful tools of transformation. The Museum, which always felt rigid, was held in a certain energetic light during this time. This reformation was intimate; there were no agendas or hacks, it was all very much gut and intuition work, led by people who were impassioned and also moving through shared trauma in the wake of the storm.

ML: And what do you think about the role of art institutions during this current COVID-19 crisis?

HB: I think that cultural institutions play a pivotal role in being change-makers and leaders in their social spaces during times like these. COVID-19 is, however, a different crisis in terms of figuring out ways to deploy language, action and empathy through the visioning and missions of institutions. For some in post-colonial countries, this might be hard since they are mostly fixed to ideas of integrity, stability and nation-building rather than equity, compassion and transparency. But there are several institutions and leaders that are rising to the call and creating moments of deeper reflection, which I appreciate.

For example, the National Gallery of the Cayman Islands from early on was working on their collection, ensuring that their shows could be virtually experienced, and the Bermuda National Gallery launched its recent tour of the 2020 Bermuda Biennial. While I know this isn’t novel in our world, for younger institutions to be thinking like this means a lot for our region and says quite a bit about its leadership’s path of inquiry. Thelma Golden’s leadership at the Studio Museum in Harlem has been intimate and compassionate. In a time when most institutions have brought out their donate buttons, she has sent a message of hope and gratitude which fills me with newfound respect. There are also some Museums doing it a little bit differently, like the Te Papa Museum with their little page of calm. 

Of course, we are all in a holding pattern, not knowing how our work will change and what exhibitions, programming and cultural exchanges will mean in a post-COVID moment… but we know that institutions will be hallmark spaces and guides for the public to find new meaning. Artists now more than ever need alternative platforms of support to create during this time. I am concerned by the contraction of the global community, and what that will mean for trickle-down economics in the developing world.

We have to hold ourselves by different standards. I’m not sure yet if that means we will be seen as second-wave tricksters, but out of this moment, it is clear that we must revise the rules which have long governed our existence.

ML: Many Caribbean islands are still rebuilding and recovering from the devastating impacts of the last hurricanes, and now are facing the threat of a pandemic to overwhelm health care capacities and disrupt local economies highly dependent on tourism. How do you evaluate the connections and the destructive force of these two events?

 HB: Prior to COVID, we were looking at a Caribbean on the brink of survival and the periphery of economic collapse. The Caribbean remains on the frontlines of climate injustice and is a space that will pilot a new visioning of climate refugees. We are no longer in apocalyptic and futuristic science fiction, we are Sci-Fi. Tourism has always been unsustainable, and we haven’t invigorated or critiqued the model practically or economically to have it encompass anything other than its plantation to tourism trajectory.

We have had almost a century to dissect the model, but we have been recalcitrant towards change. The old model of tourism, one of exhaustion, servitude and depletion has always taken into consideration the positive experience of the visitor and rarely takes into consideration local contexts, whether that be people, land or resources.

Too frequently, we excuse the tantrums of tourism, throwing money at failed projects with flawed rationales because we want to hold on to the status quo. This kind of tunnel-visioned approach to investment can put us at a disadvantage, leading to policy erosion, the build-up of national debt, severe environmental damage and complex national insecurities. The repeated decision to not diversify the way we invest in and value ourselves leads to a decreased awareness of our true potential and consciousness, interrupting the construction of a fulfilled identity. We have developed infrastructure to support the sun, sand and sea trope, and while it may feel like a noose that is tightening, COVID might be a further wake-up call to let us see things a bit differently in terms of policy and agitation for something more nourishing.

While certain countries have experimented with eco-tourism and agro-tourism to shift practices away from depletion, in the Caribbean there are few models where this is ethically held in check, and certainly the economic models of these businesses, in most cases, are propped up by other sources of income. To think that we were ever secure with the current tourism model is a kind of naivety and myopia. Since the economic depression of 2008, most Caribbean countries have not yet recovered, and are carrying on dragging foot. Some are innovating their agricultural, environmental, cultural and heritage ministries to move towards a more equitable future, but across Small Island Developing States (SIDS) like Barbados, the economies are just too fragile to expect any full rebound after the pandemic.

With the 2020 hurricane season days away and the seasons becoming more volatile, there isn’t an area in the region that remains unaffected. The economic model of tourism is hanging on by the last thread, and while powerhouse countries like the Bahamas, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico and Cuba might be able to innovate, incentivise or rescue the industry with bailouts, these aren’t sustainable; just a plaster on a gaping wound.

Where are the conversations around being in service of others for 400 years? Can we expect people of the Caribbean to keep performing and servicing in this capacity? Under these exploitative measures where minimum wages don’t match GDPs or connect to security or quality of life, will the reform consider wider social implications of poverty, unrest, mal education and poor health care systems? What about the underbelly of the sex work industry, and the lack of confidence in our autonomies? Dependency when pathological is just that—damage. Jamaican poet and writer Olive Senior said it best in her epic poem ‘Meditation on Yellow’.

ML: Along with Annalee Davis, you are one of the co-founders of Tilting Axis, a moving platform that encourages critical thinking, research processes and alliances throughout the Caribbean. Three weeks ago, the Tilting Axis core team announced a one-year postponement of the annual convening for 2020—originally planned for The Bahamas—after a gathering in Barbados to think about its plan for the future. What do you personally think are the possibilities and big challenges for a project like Tilting Axis in a post-pandemic world?

 HB: One of the challenges in post-pandemic times will be the motivation of host institutions to take on a project like Tilting Axis (TA), given the projection of national states retracting economic support for regional or international projects which look at larger issues around art ecologies. Host institutions might now see TA as excessive, given it is not connected to national agendas nor VITAL to the ecology of any one space. Museums all across the world have begun to shrink and cut budgets. For instance, only a few weeks ago one of our core partners, the Pérez Art Museum Miami (PAMM), announced that it laid off and furloughed 60% of the institution’s staff. This disruption exemplifies what the repercussions of closure may be for cultural institutions that have struggled to attain a varied model of sustainability.

Another challenge will be to find the funding to formalise TA. After five years of hosting annual meetings in the English, French and Spanish Caribbean, managing a fellowship programme and most recently hosting a strategic meeting with the core team including Annalee Davis, Mario Caro, Lise Ragbir, Tobias Ostrander and Natalie Urquhart, we had a moment to recall and make an assessment of the work we have done along with constructing a roadmap for the future. It is clear that while the platform is powerful, it needs its own autonomy to realise its clear vision of building infrastructure to support and sustain contemporary art practitioners in the region, and serving as a catalyst for creative projects and collaborations. We have worked very hard to define the ethics and parameters of this initiative, but we have a long way to go to move it into the direction it needs to become a more diverse, less exclusive platform.

Of course, how can we now expect to annually convene amidst a global economic depression? While these encounters are fundamental to shape our space and create new exchanges, this will no doubt reinforce the exclusivity and privilege across our spaces.

So the question now becomes: what better can be done with the resources that we have? Possibilities that may arise out of this upheaval might include opportunities to discover new intersections and considerations could be given to a discursive platform such as TA, and what ways the model can be innovated to adapt to a greener, more environmentally conscious world. As a collective core team, we were already having conversations around carbon footprints, institutional values and how the project can align with the economy’s vulnerable state. We are also mindful of the tempestuous colonial histories of our countries, and the disparities these have created within the region’s populations; we must ensure that questions of privilege and equity remain at the forefront while we draft TA’s renewed direction.

Finally, here are some questions that have been brewing over the last couple of weeks: what will TA be if Caribbean institutions become skeletons? What will the new role of informal art spaces be if there are retrograde movements and retrenchment into nationalism and populism? These are interesting fluctuations which provide TA with opportunities to participate in a bigger conversation around survival, possibility, agency and creativity. I am excited to be linked to something so mutable and inevitably responsive to our living and ever-changing world.

San José / Bridgetown, May 14, 2020