May 29th, 2015 - Ann Brady
- donaldewquist
- 16 hours ago
- 4 min read
On that day, I, a lifelong introvert who willed myself to be an extrovert for forty weeks of the year, was mostly anxious. A new cohort of artists was in the midst of departing after a five-week themed residency we’d titled Rising Waters. The intention was to spark new thinking and influence civic will toward finding and spreading solutions to the rising waters of climate change. A collective effort, it was guided by a diverse array of artists in collaboration with scientists, philanthropists, activists, and residents on one of Florida’s low-lying islands along the Gulf of Mexico.
I was not one of the artists but instead the lead administrator of the residency program and coordinator of twenty people over the five weeks, each with their own timeline, agenda, goal, and attitude. They started off, by turns, nervous, shy, giddy, grateful. But their confidence increased, and my anxiety diminished as each evening’s sunsets were applauded, the chef’s meals were shared, and solo and communal work commenced on a regular basis. I checked in with requisite regularity (as it often took a steady series of asks before honesty eclipsed platitudes) to ensure they were getting along, weren’t homesick, liked the food, were happy with their studio, didn’t need a better pillow or a housemate who didn’t snore. I was the host, and these were my guests, and I needed everyone to feel included and heard, leave with their limbs intact and their aspirations somewhat met, to make a friend or maybe a plan to keep the conversations going.
I had particularly wanted this, the first themed residency of our nascent program, to be a success. (Although always hard to gauge what made a successful residency, evaluations citing “life-changing” were a frequent comment and therefore became the yardstick.) The topic was so compelling, everyone agreed it was timely. The Third National Climate Assessment (released May 6, 2014) showed that much of south Florida would experience dramatic, damaging effects of climate change and rising sea levels within just a few decades. Since its fate is shared by other parts of the world, we wanted to combine global thinking with local connections. But it was ambitious and complicated, and what could be done in just five weeks? I could never predict what would happen, despite my experience and controlling nature.
Reflecting on it a decade later, I recognize that this group of like-minded strangers, thrown together to mingle, conspire, and create, synthesized the essence of what an artists’ residency is—to put aside the final product, the big bang result, the sexy solution, and to topple headlong into the process: the sometimes messy, sometimes loud, sometimes mundane work that can lead to vociferous exchanges, workable ideas, and bursts of brilliance. All of which could take place in the space of an afternoon.
In that final week, as the residents were already feeling nostalgic for uninhibited time—the beach, the ospreys, the community, the chef who made all their meals—I was in my usual state of duality: sadness to see everyone leave and relief we would have a week’s respite before the next group arrived. They left to return to their routines, with heartfelt hugs and hurried promises to stay in touch.
Ten years and four (five? six?) hurricanes later, I think how revelatory it was to discuss and plan and work and do what could be done in a short span to influence through art and ideas, to devise creative hypotheses and practices for mitigation, propagation, resiliency. Much of it was ephemeral—performances and outings and field work; a portion was humorous—door stops and flags and t-shirts (“Row vs Wade”). But some of it was lasting—sculptures and videos, poems and blogs, mangrove propagules, and sharing practical possibilities.
I have just retired after being in the midst of administering artists’ residencies for decades. I could rewind ten, twenty, thirty-plus years, and each reminiscence would bring me back to a cohort of people who are spirited, smart, and fun, and will of course be the ones to come up with the workable, shape-shifting solutions to every crisis.
I never gave much thought to retiring before I actually did it. When people ask me how I like it, I am cagey, as I never longed for it like so many people I know, stuck in “golden handcuff” jobs. I was lucky—I unwittingly fell into a world where I was around artists every day. And aren’t we all shaped by the people with whom we are encircled?
If I was a financial analyst, or a chemist, or a massage therapist, or a decorative painter like my sisters, would I be the person I have become? I have met and hung out with over a thousand artists—and how could I not be influenced by these activists, often living on the edge, who have a passion that dictates their lives in the sense that they cannot not do what they do? That a part of them remains childlike, full of wonder and exploration, open to the world—and they are often the defenders of the marginalized, the voiceless, the vulnerable. How could I not become a fierce feminist, a resister of the status quo, a lover of art in all its forms? And now I am a retiree (!) who rejects the word and its passive definition. We always said that artists’ residencies are about advancement, not retreat. Therefore, redirecting my life, being open to the possibilities, focusing on the process, advocating with and for the disregarded—that’s a start to my new, unfettered life.
And if it makes me a little anxious, that’s okay.
