{"id":21520,"date":"2020-08-27T11:00:00","date_gmt":"2020-08-27T09:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/?p=21520"},"modified":"2020-11-21T10:15:54","modified_gmt":"2020-11-21T08:15:54","slug":"inevitable-ecology-antonio-rovaldis-metroclimate","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/environment\/territory\/inevitable-ecology-antonio-rovaldis-metroclimate\/","title":{"rendered":"Inevitable Ecology: Antonio Rovaldi\u2019s Metroclimate"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Just as the Earth is in constant rotation, Milan-based artist Antonio Rovaldi is a man in perpetual motion. Yet as he goes\u2014on the road and around the world\u2014he stays in contact with the earth through his artwork. Often using photography, but also video, writing, installation, and other media, his artworks chart the visceral relationships he develops with specific landscapes. His current endeavor, a multi-year investigation of the coastlines of the five boroughs of New York City, goes by different names in its different manifestations. Starting this past year, exhibitions and other events have been happening in various locations in the United States and in Europe. All of this project activity, under the umbrella title End. Words from the Margins: New York City<\/em>, has been made possible by an artist\u2019s grant from the Italian Council, whose Ministry of Cultural Heritage and Activities and Tourism (MiBACT) awarded Rovaldi its fifth annual national prize in February 2019.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As threats to the land\u2019s health have become increasingly palpable, it is perhaps inevitable that Rovaldi\u2019s work would begin to reflect this concern. But when Rovaldi decided to turn his camera lens on New York City, he did not expect to be making a project about climate change. He was simply enchanted with the metropolis, and wanted to find his own way of seeing the most densely developed and hyper-mythologized real estate on the planet. For two years, starting in Spring 2016, Rovaldi traveled on foot and by bicycle to all five boroughs of the city, photographing constantly. He also undertook extensive research. He learned about the land\u2019s history through books, maps, ephemera, and other media, including the early silent art film Manhatta<\/em> by Paul Strand and Charles Sheeler, which is structured using excerpts from Walt Whitman\u2019s poetry (the excerpts from Whitman in this essay are different from those quoted in the film). This influential film foregrounds the magnificence of the city, and the myriad movements of its inhabitants, and many shots of the city\u2019s industrial buildings include visually poetic yet ecologically disturbing views of steam\u2014or smoke?\u2014curling into the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps any examination of New York City must contend with the natural environment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"

May 11, 2017 \/ Commercial St and Box St \u00a9 Antonio Rovaldi<\/figure><\/p><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Land Lover<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Rich, hemm\u2019d thick all around with sailships and steamships, an island sixteen miles
long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets, high growths of iron, slender, strong light, splendidly
uprising toward clear skies,
Tides swift and ample, well-loved by me\u2026<\/p>\u2014 Walt Whitman, Mannahatta<\/em><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Rovaldi\u2019s love for New York, and his fascination with its landscape, stretches back to when he started spending time in the city in 2005. And he unconsciously started working toward his five-borough project in 2009, when he had an artist\u2019s residency at the International Studio & Curatorial Program (ISCP) in Brooklyn. One day, he walked with Michael H\u00f6pfner, a fellow artist from the program, along the entire length of Broadway in Manhattan. H\u00f6pfner was blindfolded and Rovaldi\u2019s ears were blocked, so both men experienced intensified perceptions of the landscape through their other senses. While another artist friend documented the adventure on video, they passed from the island\u2019s southern skyscrapers through the theater district and commercial zones to the raw, northernmost parkland in Inwood still associated with the Native village name, Shorakkopoch<\/em>. Rovaldi reflected on the experience in Shorakkapoch<\/em>\u2014a collaborative installation (2009) and chapbook (2010).<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the end of that tiring marathon, as the friends rested in Inwood Hill Park, they were surprised to hear the hollow tock-tock-tock of a woodpecker. Such a primordial sound, after a day absorbing the world\u2019s most urban artery. The experience lodged in Rovaldi\u2019s imagination, and it provided him with a title: Rovaldi\u2019s current project is documented in a thick compendium of photographs and texts called The Sound of the Woodpecker Bill: New York City<\/em> (2019). \u201cThe Sound of the Woodpecker Bill\u201d is also the name of the most recent and most elaborate exhibition associated with the book, which opened February 13, 2020 at Galleria d\u2019Arte Moderna e Contemporanea (GAMeC) in Bergamo, Italy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"From

From the \u201cPROLOGUE\u201d series \u00a9 Antonio Rovaldi<\/figure><\/p><\/div>\n\n\n\n

I too had receiv\u2019d identity by my body,
That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body.<\/p>

\u2014 Walt Whitman, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Rovaldi\u2019s approach grows out of his other photographic books surveying other landscapes. Most significantly, in the years leading up to the New York City project, Rovaldi completed a similarly motivated photographic study of his native Italy, which became the book Orizzonte in Italia<\/em> (2015). For this work, he bicycled along the coastlines of the Italian peninsula and the island of Sardinia, photographing the sun and sky, with his camera facing outward from the shore. Each photograph contained a horizon line, but Rovaldi realized that the thread connecting the images was not exactly the land or sea, or even the rising or setting sun which appeared in many of his images. Sol LeWitt had already explored that theme, anyway, in his artist\u2019s book Sunrise and Sunset at Praiano <\/em>(1980). Rovaldi saw that his own photographs, instead, were growing out of his bodily relationship to the land: the fact of his bicycling; the choice to fasten his gaze on a point perpendicular to the shoreline. His physical exhaustion chronicled the terrain\u2019s immensity, and his exhaustion of the seascape perspective challenged his ability to perceive its variety in ever fresh ways.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"

November 14, 2017 \/ Cedar Ave \u00a9 Antonio Rovaldi<\/figure><\/p><\/div>\n\n\n\n

The primary tone of this project emerged not as exhaustion, but as love. Bicycle travel puts the rider into intimate contact with the land\u2019s contours and atmospheres; framing its vistas prods the photographer\u2014and us viewers\u2014into appreciating its beauty. Rovaldi began to regard his artistic exploration of the land as a relationship with a lover: a connection that is both physical and beyond physical. The more he got to know the land, the more he realized there was to know. And, like in so many intimate relationships, if he treated the land with respect, it would offer itself back to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

New Views<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

After Rovaldi had finished exploring Italy\u2019s coastlines, he returned to New York and began to explore its landscape using a similar methodology. Biking, walking\u2014always moving\u2014 relating to the land through physical exertion. But he found that his coastal access was often blocked. Barbed wire and fences were punctuated by signs reading, with deadpan plainness, \u201cEnd.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How could he establish a relationship with a landscape that he could not traverse? Even when he was able to set foot on the shore, his view toward the horizon was often cluttered with buildings and other structures that were rising into the sky, across the water from where he stood. And when he walked around the city\u2019s central and most built-up borough, Manhattan, he realized that his sight lines seldom extended very far at all. The city seemed stubborn, as hard as the schist that serves as its natural stone foundation. Its obstacles demanded a new approach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The solution came through obedience, not exactly invention: New York\u2019s landscape forced Rovaldi to aim his camera at close range while he pivoted amidst the buildings and other obstacles. The sight lines often stayed limited to the tight radius directly around his body. This significant shift is not just about changing from a panorama to a close-up: it also reveals the relational dynamics between the artist and the landscape. Instead of devising and imposing a fixed visual strategy upon New York\u2019s territories, based on his previous experience, Rovaldi adopted a stance of improvisational responsiveness. The city presented itself in shades of gray, for instance, so the book is printed entirely in black and white. And as he let this fresh way of photographing emerge, Rovaldi began to see scenes he would not have noticed otherwise. He crafted stark, stunning images of intrepid weeds, vernacular architecture, evocative items that were cast away. A purely visual \u201cprologue\u201d of photographs exposes Manhattan\u2019s interior. Years of photographs of the five boroughs\u2019 coastal territories were edited in 2018 into the hundreds of images that form the five chapters of the book; some images from each chapter are shown in the exhibitions. Very few shots include people: The landscape is the main character. Respecting and loving the land has led again to a revelation of its unique qualities.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rovaldi sees the practice of responsiveness as a metaphor for a way of dealing with climate change. Who knows what the future may bring, if we follow the land\u2019s lead? He has already demonstrated the effectiveness of this approach: by following his visual instincts, he uncovered insights not only into the details of a specific landscape, but also into the dynamics of how a person can relate to a landscape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Responding Collaboratively<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, [\u2026]
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.<\/p>

\u2014 Walt Whitman, I Hear America Singing.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

\"Water

Water and Soil, NYC, by Francesca Benedetto<\/figure><\/p><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Rovaldi\u2019s responsive approach goes beyond simply tuning into the land. A primary aspect of it is that he recognizes the limitations of his own perspectives, so he orchestrates collaborations. After all, a variety of insights leads to a more complicated, engaging, and non-egocentric view of the New York City landscape. And the process of collaboration, itself, could model a response to climate change, which certainly requires globally collective efforts. As the project ripened, and Rovaldi prepared to apply for the grant from the national Italian Council, he built a coalition of institutions, coordinated by Lorenzo Giusti, a curator at GAMeC, the project\u2019s primary sponsoring institution. The structure of the grant itself communicates a collaborative working method: the Italian Council\u2019s Ministry of Cultural Heritage and Activities and Tourism (MiBACT) works with the Directorate General for Contemporary Art and Architecture, as well as with a division called Urban Peripheries (a fitting title for Rovaldi\u2019s endeavor). The goal is to fund projects that bring the works of contemporary Italian artists into global view. Events were planned, accordingly, at institutions on both sides of the Atlantic. An initial exhibition has already taken place at Harvard University: Rovaldi partnered with his friend Francesca Benedetto, a design critic in landscape architecture at Harvard\u2019s Graduate School of Design, to create End. Words from the Margins: New York City<\/em> at the school\u2019s Frances Loeb Library. The curatorial team for this exhibition (as well as for the major exhibition at GAMeC) consists of Giusti, Benedetto, and restoration ecologist Steven Handel. Book release events have been planned for the Magazzino Italian Art in Cold Spring, New York, and the Kunstmuseum St. Gallen, in Switzerland; another discussion has already taken place at New York University\u2019s Casa Italiana Zerilli-Marim\u00f2 in Manhattan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The book that is the most enduring record of Rovaldi\u2019s vision, The Sound of the Woodpecker Bill: New York City<\/em>, is an emblem of his collaborative method. To add to his photographs and writings, he contacted many people to contribute essays and \u201cillustrated maps.\u201d Each person has some connection to Rovaldi, so the book\u2019s perspective on New York City retains his personal stamp, but each of them also represents an individual angle. Francesca Berardi, for instance, whose book Detour in Detroit<\/em> (2015) is illustrated with photographs by Rovaldi, writes about people in New York City who collect recyclables for a living. Lorenzo Giusti compares Rovaldi\u2019s artistic practice of walking to the Dadaists and Andr\u00e9 Breton. Such variety allows Rovaldi to speak of his book as having \u201clots of windows\u201d\u2014the book\u2019s picturing of New York City extends far beyond the single, rectilinear frame of his own camera\u2019s viewfinder. And his openness and inclusiveness feels extremely appropriate for the city that historically has been so famously welcoming to immigrants and refugees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two collaborators merit special attention, because of how their work in The Sound of the Woodpecker Bill <\/em>complements Rovaldi\u2019s photographs. Francesca Benedetto\u2019s maps describe New York City\u2019s landscape by giving visible forms to different kinds of data. Each of the book\u2019s five chapters begins with a map in which Benedetto plots the locations of Rovaldi\u2019s shutter-clicks in \u201c+\u201d signs against the geology of that chapter\u2019s borough. The terrain looks pixellated yet prehistoric\u2014the landforms as recognizable as if on Google Maps, yet rendered in a visual language that has its own idiom. Other interpretive maps of sections of the landscape dramatize human impact. In these images, the terrain\u2019s organic textures contrast with mechanical lines indicating the paths for cars, trains, ferries, or air travel; sometimes Benedetto calls attention to the shapes of specific features such as lakes or islands. Benedetto invents notation systems for representing data such as geological strata, birdsongs, or Pok\u00e9mon Go character locations. Altogether, she charts a range of ways humans now interact with the landscape. In this, her work updates Kevin Lynch\u2019s maps from his classic book, The Image of the City <\/em>(1960). Both give new, visually narrative overlays to very familiar urban territories. But The Sound of the Woodpecker Bill <\/em>is not academic like Lynch\u2019s book; Rovaldi\u2019s anthology offers the reader impressions rather than theories. In support of this vision, it is designed so that Benedetto\u2019s maps and Rovaldi\u2019s photographs support each other visually and conceptually. And in Benedetto\u2019s images, no matter how we colonize the land with buildings and transit systems, organic phenomena still percolate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The book\u2019s only essay by a New York native is by Steven Handel, who wrote it when he was a visiting professor of Ecology at Harvard. When Handel was serving as a co-curator of the Harvard exhibition, he displayed shells of horseshoe crabs he had collected from New York\u2019s beaches. He had ample reason to travel to these sites: his hometown of Far Rockaway is on the outer banks of the borough of Queens. His essay for the book recalls the experience of growing up on New York\u2019s farthest shore, and it connects this personal history with his career as a landscape ecologist. Even more pertinent to a project about New York City, Handel\u2019s work as the director of the Center for Urban Restoration Ecology at Rutgers University led to his consulting on the landscaping of Brooklyn Bridge Park, for a New York commission on the reintroduction of native plants into the city\u2019s parklands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"

April 2018 \/ Hudson River Greenway, near George Washington Bridge \u00a9 Antonio Rovaldi<\/figure><\/p><\/div>\n\n\n\n

As a scholar of restoration ecology, a discipline that seeks strategic remedies for damaged ecosystems, Handel sees Rovaldi\u2019s project attending to issues of plant adaptation and human migration. The images are \u201cnot warm and fuzzy\u201d but rather \u201cmessy, as an unplanned landscape is.\u201d Rovaldi\u2019s recordings of birdsongs mixed with traffic sounds made Handel think of Menno Schilthuizen\u2019s writings on how some birds in Europe started to sing earlier or at a higher pitch, in response to the cacophony of rush hour. And Rovaldi\u2019s photographs of plants growing out of cracks in the concrete spotlight the hardiness of weeds to survive even when the water supply turns saline, as it tends to do where the land meets the sea. These remind Handel of his research into plants introduced to the city\u2019s wildlife from other places: they have a \u201cpersonality fit to make it\u201d akin to the survivalist profiles of human migrants. The adaptations of these rough plants\u2014Handel calls them \u201curban ecotypes\u201d\u2014could be models for human resilience, for present or future climate refugees or for when the oceans rise to meet us. Wild vitality persists, managing even in the worst possible conditions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Foreign Lands<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

What is it then between us?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?<\/p>

\u2014 Walt Whitman, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

In this fervent couplet of questions, Whitman asks how he can relate to the land of New York City\u2014the lines that follow this stanza mention both Brooklyn and Manhattan\u2014given the differences in time scale that separate his own lifespan from the timeframe of the land. Similarly challenging distances affect, or infect, Rovaldi\u2019s project. Separation is a characteristic condition of the mechanics of photography, because the camera stands between the photographer and the photographed, and this structural condition frames the image\u2019s capacity to transport a viewer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The analog process of photography, Rovaldi notes, creates gulfs of space as well as time: \u201cthe roll of film records a distance in the territory\u201d between one frame and the next, because its photographs were taken as the artist was moving over land. Then, the process of printing from that film highlights the time lag between exposure and development: \u201cWhen you\u2019re working in the darkroom [\u2026] it\u2019s an emotional moment, because you\u2019re curious to see what\u2019s going on with the picture that maybe you took two years before. You never know if it will be good or bad.\u201d In the book The Sound of The Woodpecker Bill: New York City<\/em>, Cecilia Canziani writes a particularly moving essay about the \u201creconstruction of a distance\u201d in the photographic process. Revisiting the image after a hiatus, for Rovaldi, is like returning to a city or to a person from whom you have needed some space. The full relationship requires a distance as well as a return. Rovaldi calls all of these kinds of temporal and spatial distances \u201cthe grammar of photography.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The issues involved in this grammar implicate the viewer as well as the photographer. How can we relate to the land in the image, despite the distances that separate us from it? How can our experience of the image take on a quality of immediacy? These questions become especially important if our involvement with the image is to spur any kind of climate action.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the exhibition at Harvard, Rovaldi created engagement by arranging the space of the exhibition to refer to the geography of New York City. One wall of the library, containing Rovaldi\u2019s photographs and a few of Benedetto\u2019s maps, formed one \u201ccoast\u201d of the exhibition space; another \u201cshoreline\u201d was the library\u2019s wall of windows, in which more of Benedetto\u2019s maps were mounted on translucent films. Also printed onto films were typeset transcriptions of Rovaldi\u2019s work journals, chronicling the times and locations of his photographs. The interior space of the library then theatrically represented the island terrain that Rovaldi explored on foot. The visitor entering the exhibition was metaphorically reenacting the activity of traversing the terrain. Rovaldi made sure to include the touch of the real, in the form of the wall of horseshoe crab shells, and he offered an immersive audio recording of the landscape sounds\u2014including the sound of the woodpecker bill\u2014via headphones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The experience of visiting one of Rovaldi\u2019s exhibitions makes visitors relate to a New York landscape which remains far away. This remote quality echoes Rovaldi\u2019s awareness of his own inevitable situation of \u201cforeignness,\u201d as he describes it. He is consistently trying to become acquainted with a land that is not only not his own hometown, but which also takes him away from his home culture. This undercurrent of distance fuels a spirit of humility and self-scrutiny: Rovaldi is constantly asking himself, \u201cWhere do I come from, where am I headed, and at what speed?\u201d This set of questions recalls Gauguin\u2019s famous and colossal painting, Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? <\/em>(1897-1898). While Rovaldi\u2019s first two questions about location echo Gauguin\u2019s categorical interrogations of human activity\u2014necessary questions, especially in eras marked by colonialism\u2014Rovaldi\u2019s additional investigation into his own \u201cspeed\u201d examines his own methodology. Does the metabolism of his working methods respond well to the demands of the land he is exploring? Is he slowing down and opening up enough to notice what is around him? (Are you?) Such questions model the thorough accountability necessary for planetary stewardship.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alternative Endings<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer [\u2026]<\/p>

\u2014 Walt Whitman, As I Ebb\u2019d with the Ocean of Life.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

What can the ending be? For this article, for Rovaldi\u2019s project, for our planet? Paul Strand and Charles Sheeler\u2019s old art film ends in a sun-drenched, triumphalist, wide shot of New York City, but our climate forecasts no longer assure us of such sanguine futures. How might (Rovaldi\u2019s) art offer visionary alternatives?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"

November 24, 2017 \/ Great Kills Park and Buffalo St \u00a9 Antonio Rovaldi<\/figure><\/p><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Rovaldi points us toward provisional hope in ways that are, like everything else about his project, unexpected. The Sound of the Woodpecker Bill is, after all, \u201can impossible book,\u201d declares Francesca Benedetto. It tries to encapsulate a city\u2014a reality\u2014that is too complex to be contained, even in a volume that is almost two inches thick. Rovaldi\u2019s own summary insights emerge from his work with the camera. He presents the city from the perspective of its margins, and the images do not cohere into a clear narrative. Likewise, the narrative texts of the book are a symphony of voices he is conducting. They function like a novel, a genre that critic Mikhail Bakhtin describes as \u201cheteroglossic\u201d because of how it juxtaposes diverse discourses. And Rovaldi\u2019s \u201cromance\u201d with the land does not have to be digested all at once; it can be picked up at different points at different times. The authors speak like a cast of characters, and it is possible to skip around in the book as one wanders through an exhibition space. This light touch is evident also in the video that Rovaldi made to accompany the exhibition at Harvard, showing him wandering among The Rest of the Images<\/em> (2019, in collaboration with director Federica Ravera) in his studio in Milan: on occasion, old baseballs rolled casually across the screen, or brightly colored balls shared the studio floor with an array of books and photographic prints.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This nonlinear way of reading echoes the process of editing that Rovaldi went through to create both the book and its associated exhibitions. Engage, retreat; approach closer, create distance. Visit New York (and take photographs); go back to Milan (and piece together a new vision of the absent city). This inevitable grammar of photography means that he is able to forge another, imaginary version of the current world\u2014and this visionary, constructive practice is perhaps a primary requirement for a response to climate change. Rovaldi is fond of quoting from a book by Amitav Ghosh, The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable<\/em>, that \u201cwe need [\u2026] to envision what [another world] might be,\u201d because \u201cif there is any one thing that global warming has made perfectly clear it is that to think about the world only as it is amounts to a formula for collective suicide.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rovaldi\u2019s concern for these issues made him see that access to the borderlands needed to be opened, to make possible a full response to the encroaching waters. \u201cThe waterfront is the only place where you can build something really new,\u201d he observes, and here the idea of \u201cbuilding something\u201d refers not to architectural construction but to visionary invention. So often, climate theorists apply their ideas to remote and rural landscapes, but New York\u2019s borderland is just as untouched and uncharted, even though it is part of the world\u2019s biggest city. It is indeed possible to address climate change through urban environments, but \u201cif you deny access to the people, you\u2019re done. The shore of Staten Island [for example] is really rough, and people don\u2019t know what it is.\u201d Getting to know the territory means that the land itself may indicate ways to address the threats to its existence. Just as the weeds thrive, and the blocked sightlines force new modes of photography, the realities of the land can\u2014and perhaps inevitably will\u2014motivate a new ecology.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A Rovaldian story should not end with any resolution, but rather with an openness to possibilities. And most fittingly, it should end in nature. Along New York\u2019s raw coastlines, Rovaldi reports, a paradoxical condition prevails, one whose contradictions are ripe with potential. As he worked, he could sense the proximity of the city yet feel far from it. This distance was marked not by foreignness, but by reconnection to the timeless rhythms of the earth. In his essay for The Sound of The Woodpecker Bill: New York City<\/em>, Rovaldi writes, \u201cMost of the time I took my photographs in a state of almost unreal peace and silence, in those places where the density of the concrete suddenly gives way to a grassy area, where nature once again finds space in which to unfold [\u2026]\u201d As Rovaldi\u2019s work invites us to vicariously experience that border zone, we can begin to hear the silence as well as the sounds that emerge from it. Both can help to suggest ways forward in response to climate change, and in concert with the land itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What do you think endures?
Do you think a great city endures?<\/p>

\u2014 Walt Whitman, Song of the Broad-Axe.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Cover: Cedar Ave \u00a9 Antonio Rovaldi, November 14, 2017<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Just as the Earth is in constant rotation, Milan-based artist Antonio Rovaldi is a man in perpetual motion. Yet as he goes\u2014on the road and around the world\u2014he stays in contact with the earth through his artwork. Often using photography, but also video, writing, installation, and other media, his artworks chart the visceral relationships he<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":101027,"featured_media":21606,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1843],"tags":[1880],"corpus":[1353],"post_types":[1206],"associate_editors":[],"authors":[1640],"class_list":["post-21520","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-environment","tag-territory","corpus-aica-en","post_types-investigation-2-en","authors-k-lisa-schiff"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21520","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/101027"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=21520"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21520\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21606"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21520"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21520"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21520"},{"taxonomy":"corpus","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/corpus?post=21520"},{"taxonomy":"post_types","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/post_types?post=21520"},{"taxonomy":"associate_editors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/associate_editors?post=21520"},{"taxonomy":"authors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.switchonpaper.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/authors?post=21520"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}