Were Still Here: Community-Based Art, the Scene of Education, and the Formation of Scene

CHARLES K IM Harvard Divinity School NOBUKO MIYAMOTO Great Leap, Inc.

In this cross-generational dialogue, authors Charles Kim and Nobuko Miyamoto engage in a creative exploration of community-based art, contemporary Asian American identity, and the possibilities of creativity within educational spaces. Using the ideas of John Dewey as a foundation, Kim and Miyamoto offer their dialogues, experiences, and analyses as a window into the processes of creating, making an argument for the need for education to return to the context of communities, and sharing a hope that art will reclaim its place in the everyday lives of ordinary people.
When I was child, My mother would always catch me staring outside the window. Stop dreaming, she would say. Nobuko took a slow sip of her coffee, Looking intently into my eyes. With a tone of generations, she spoke: Never stop dreaming.

I dont know her name. She was quiet, looked reserved, and seemed troubled. The bangs of jet-black hair veiled her face, shielding her eyes from even the possibility of unnerving contact. She sat at the furthest corner of the table. I wondered whether she would even participate. I placed a canvas and tubes of paint in front of her. With flashes of anxiety, she sometimes glanced at the others, then nervously returned her focus downward.
Harvard Educational Review Vol. 83 No. 1 Spring 2013 Copyright by the President and Fellows of Harvard College

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Remember, mix and create your own colors, but paint only with your palms. No fingers. While others were busy working, she sat still. Half the class session passed without her making even one gesture toward participation. Then, slowly, she began to move toward the paint. Instinctively, it seemed, she grabbed blue, clenching furiously as elastic clouds poured straight onto her canvas. Black and gray soon followed. She drove her palms into the paint, gliding to all four corners. The color tones felt like melancholia. Darkness was fused together. She sat still again, her body tense with thought, and others wondering if the possession had subsided. No one could have guessed what happened next. In a split second she thrust the darker paints aside as she grabbed for springyellow, white, light green. Like the passing of winter, she gently planted on top of the dark, rich soil. Then, as if she were caressing a loved one, she placed her palms on the canvas. A garden indeed, one that told tales of seasons, death, and life. Green lying on blue, yellow on black. What made you choose those different colors? She looked up and smiled.

There exists a culminating, fleeting moment of learning that lies just beyond reach. It is at once a moment of transformation, determination, and emancipation. It is momentary because, like inspiration, it is an event that sparks evolutionary movement. Yet to describe that initial spark is to engage in a futile enterprise. How does one even begin to explain such a moment? How does one even begin to speak of what Ralph Waldo Emerson (1895) would term geniusa gleam of light that flashes before every ordinary man. This flash can only be described in retrospect, after the phenomenon itself: we are always in the pursuit of, yearning again for, these glimmers. In short, it is a gift. As educators, we are often befuddled by the phenomenon of learning. How do we even begin to explain the process of why one comes to desire knowledge, both in its accumulation and its production? Education is a collage of genres; it is an often-messy process of forming individuals within and around their communities in service of the flourishing of those communities. To contextualize education within the scene of the communal is to place an individual in relation to a cohort of learners, to the needs of the community, and to the vision that drives its existence. It is at once as cultural as it is political, as social as it is spiritual. Here we encounter our most provoking question as educators: what propels the desire to learn? This article is at once a statement on the scene of education and an experience of education itself. The chosen medium is a dialogue between the authors, Nobuko Miyamoto and Charles Kim, a conversation that is marked by an exchange that is a forging of reflections meant to advance and envision a better future of learning. We met in the most ideal circumstance: Charles was a
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student and collaborator of Y/P Remix, a cross-disciplinary art project designed to intertwine the history of social movements of the 1960s and 1970s, diverse community narratives, and arts organizing principles. The project premiered on January 25, 2012, at the Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibition in Hollywood for the Pacific Standard Time series, an initiative of the Getty Museum, together with arts institutions across Southern California, and funded by the J. Paul Getty Trust. Nobuko became the sojourning teacher and researcher, the two of us converging in a creative exploration to forge a multigenerational story about the Asian American experience in twentieth-century America. This article is a reflection of that process. We are journalists of a process, exploring the realm of praxis where thought and action merge. Embedded here is a merging of our own narratives, practices, and dreams of a better futurea future full of the kind of education we hope to experience more frequently. Using our dialogue script, pedagogical examples, reflections, and an analysis of John Deweys notion of art as rooted in the common and ordinary, we explore the possibilities and limits of creativity within the educational sketches of community-based arts. In doing so, we want to bring you into the messy process of creating in hopes of leading you to the uncreated, that peculiar place of quietude and thoughtful reflection where true wisdom is encountered.

We see without feeling; we hear, but only a second-hand report, second hand because not reinforced by vision. (Dewey, 1980, p. 21)

Charles: Nobuko, I have to be honest with you. It has been a dream of mine to not only meet you but to work with you. A few years ago I produced a music album called Home: Word for the hip-hop collective Magnetic North & Taiyo Na. It was really a seminal moment for me personally, kind of like my introduction into the world of Asian American music. It was released during a difficult time, that of the Tohoku tsunami in Japan. But the music, surprisingly, was felt intimately there, climbing to number 2 on Japans iTunes hip-hop charts. Nobuko: Thats incredible! Charles: We are all still shocked. But I think its success had more to it than just timing. There was something very special about the project, especially in regards to rooting itself within the Asian American experience. The first song we worked on features a sample of one of your bandmates, Chris Iijima. He was the heart and soul behind the album, especially as an artist who raised his voice against injustice and the uplift of marginalized people. He was our model of what a communitybased artist is. So it only makes sense that it would lead me to you, another pioneering community-based artist.

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Nobuko: Oh, thank you for your warm words. Its just a pleasure to hear that there are artists remembering the past while creating work that still tells of a better world. Charles: Tell me, what does it mean to you when I call you a community-based artist?

Flowers can be enjoyed without knowing about the interactions of soil, air, moisture, and seeds of which they are the result. But they cannot be understood without taking just these interactions into account and theory is a matter of understanding. (Dewey, 1980, p. 12)

Community-based art is a peculiar notion precisely because it utilizes two elusive terms: community and art. How do we begin to speak of and fully understand the two? What are the characteristics of community-based art? At what point does community itself crystallize and form? Examining the dialectical relationship between art and the context of its engagement will help enliven our understanding and help us answer such questions. Philosopher, educator, and aesthetic theorist John Dewey (1980) posited that art is anything done with intentionality and intensity. He situated art in a radically simple way precisely because he wanted to reattach art to the everyday processes of life: The intelligent mechanic engaged in his job, interested in doing well and finding satisfaction in his handiwork, caring for his materials and tools with genuine affection, is artistically engaged(p. 4). Given this scene, Dewey was concerned with the moment of engagement itself. But circling this moment are many layers of formations. One can wonder what kind of mechanic he is or what his job specifically entails. One can wonder why he chose to become a mechanic or why his affections are captured by this medium. And, of course, one can be fascinated by the interweaving and interplay of these layers taking place because of the sheer enjoyment of his craft. In other words, the processes of art are both the product of and producers of its surrounding environment. Artistic engagement, then, has a cinematic quality: the work is the focus, but it only makes sense in relation to the moving frame. To speak of community-based art is to speak of the entire process and relational webs that produce the art itself. It is also to speak of this scene that serves as our compositional focus in pinpointing what education is and must be understood as: a scene of formation and a process of transformation. But like the nature of great art, one never fully understands how such works come to be, just as one never fully understands how a child grabs hold of learning for her or himself. It is that very mysteriousness, that very wonder, that must remain central to the arena of education.

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Nobuko: Community-based art is, for me, an artistic commitment to tell the stories of the community you come from and how these stories have shaped your vision of where it will go. This is exactly why we called ourselves Yellow Pearl. We were a traveling trio made up of guitarist/singer/songwriter Chris Iijima (whom you already know), musician Charlie Chin, and myself, traveling around the country with our instruments, our newly discovered voices, and visions of the kind of America we wanted to live in. We would soon find ourselves in the middle of something much bigger than anything we could have imagined. It all started the summer of 1970. I was in New York City helping a good friend make a docudrama about the Black Panthers. I met the legendary activist Yuri Kochiyama, who took me to a meeting of Asian Americans for Action. Chris was a leader there, and they were going to this conference in Chicago where East and West Coast Asian Americans were coming together for the first time. Charles: First time? Nobuko: Yes, it was the first time anything like that was organized for Asian Americans, especially with the climate of radical politics. Charles: What was the reason for gathering? Nobuko: We came together to make a statement against the Vietnam War. But it was more than just protest; we also found we were doing similar work in our communities in Los Angeles and New York, working with teens and elders, health clinics, drug programs, womens centers. We were part of something greater than ourselveswe were a movement . . . Charles: Thats interesting that it was Chicago. Not only is it a geographical center, but its also a city that knows deep segregation. To have gathered there, as a way of showing racial harmony, is a statement in itself. Nobuko: Yes. It was a testing time. Fred Hampton, the leader of the Black Panthers Chicago chapter, had just been murdered by the Chicago police. The movement was on high alert, with one of our own core organizers having been murdered in San Francisco a few nights before. We were looking for answers. And it was here, in Chicago, that we found community and a common struggle. Charles: I think thats profound, that in the search for answers, community was discovered. Nobuko: Yes. Answers are never fixed, since they are alive and moving. The pursuit of truth often brings you to kindred spirits. For they are meant to aid your journey. Charles: I can relate to that. My experience of Chicago was strikingly similar. Nobuko: Are you from Chicago? Charles: No, but I spent a year there. Strangely, I find myself there a couple times a year, often before I have to make significant life decisions. It was where I discovered community and commonality as well. Nobuko: How did you end up there? Charles: I was a fairly disillusioned college student at the time, not really having a sense of purpose for my studies. I was a sociology major who wanted to know urban poverty personally. So I left school indefinitely. Nobuko: Why Chicago?

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Charles: I always knew I wanted to live there. So I decided to move there through a faith-based program, Mission Year, which sets you up with roommates, a communal living structure, and a local church to partner with. In short, the program takes young, idealistic, suburban evangelicals and throws them into the heart of the city, disabling proselytization and enabling simple acts that explore the notion of loving thy neighbor. In a lot of ways, it was here that I discovered that deep love and political engagement go hand in hand. Nobuko: A Christian Real World sitcom. Charles: [Laughs] Exactly. You know, I moved to Chicagos West Side. Actually, into the Austin neighborhood, which isnt too far from the organizing center of the Black Panthers. Nobuko: [Smiles] So we werent too far away from each other . . . Charles: Yes, very close! I spent a year there, simply learning how to love my neighbors. I volunteered at a nonprofit legal clinic, serving as a community liasion for their clemency and jobs program, and at the local library, creating afterschool art spaces for children. But most importantly, I spent a lot of time playing music in Black churches. Nobuko: An Asian American playing in an African American church. Thats very cool. Charles: One of the things I learned most from the Black church was how music, or art in general, creates a meeting ground for different kinds of people to gather together. You create a platform where people can bring their voice, their own and unique voices, to create a choir. Its like this best-kept secret to community organizing. Nobuko: Well, the Civil Rights movement was pretty explicit about it with We Shall Overcome . . . Charles: Thats true. Let me rephrase. Art is a presently, perhaps severely, underrated community organizing tool. Nobuko: The way they are slashing arts education programs . . . severely underrated. Charles: They can really learn something from the music of the African American church. That there is a liberating space nurtured every Sunday, where struggling community folks can come to sing and experience with others the joys of sharing love together. In fact, there was this gospel singer who gave a special seminar to our Mission Year teams. During the Q&A, one of us asked him what soul music was. After riffing on multiple explanations, he sat in silence, seemingly frustrated with his inability to articulate. Then suddenly he broke out singing. We were entranced by the feeling evoked from his singing: the trills, the sustain, the cadence. He stopped, looked up, and asked, Did you feel that? We all nodded. What you felt was the struggle, he continued, and the freedom of its sound only happens because we are here together. Nobuko: Wonderful. You know, that feeling youre hitting at, that feeling of connection, is what I also encountered in Chicago. We had all kinds of peopleAsian, Black, White, Native American, and Latino. In a city like Chicago, where there are clear racial lines drawn between neighborhoods, it was beautiful to embrace everyone as family and as a common humanity. By doing so, we were acknowledging that we were in this struggle together. I also think its important to remember that

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this was at the Black Panthers headquarters. In mainstream America, we tend to believe that the Panthers were violent and exclusive. Its a common misconception that the Black Panthers wanted power at the cost of the subordination of others. But here they were embracing me, an Asian American woman from Los Angeles, as a sister. They were some of the warmest and most peaceful human beings Ive ever met.

Charles: Thats a great movie scene. I wish I couldve been there. Nobuko: [Laughs] But your hair color would be peppered like mine! Charles: [Laughs] The colors of wisdom!

This is perhaps one of the reasons why a crowd seeks to close in on itself: it wants to rid each individual as completely as possible of the fear of being touched. The more fiercely people press together, the more certain they feel that they do not fear each other. (Canetti, 1960, p. 16)

As a film critic would examine the interweaving of environment, plot, and characters, it is helpful to understand the scene of education by considering the dual identity embedded in the notion of community: momentary and evolutionary. A momentary sense of community can be likened to the story I shared about the reserved girl who had a transformative moment while painting with her palms. It was an inexplicable, fleeting moment that occurred, perhaps fusing the strands of timing and place, in a manner that opened up fascinating opportunities for reflection, growth, and celebration. It was after that transformative moment that many of her peers started to engage with her and with each other in conversation. She even pushed her hair back, unveiling her face. It was a catalyzing moment. But it was not necessarily anything we specifically achieved as teachers. In fact, it was perhaps our lack of courage to engage her initially that created a space for the mysterious to occur. This is common for educators. We often do not have a clue as to how our students manage to learn and become self-determined. It is as if there is some magical learning glue that is holding our classrooms together. Of course, preparation is necessary. Of course, one must be active in growing skills. But the moments of learning where students become self-determined, those are more difficult to explain. So it is with community formation. The evolutionary elements of community are generally what emerge after the momentary sense of community. This is an active process that must be improvised on quickly. Because of the girls transformative painting moment, we quickly rearranged the flow of the class session to build on her experience and to create new avenues through which to highlight her moment and to invite other students to join in. This not only led her to share her work, but doing so led other students to share their paintings as well. It further led to a
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discussion about why they chose certain colors and why they made certain compositional choices. Together, students then pieced their paintings together as one giant collage, using various colors to stitch it into a whole work. This process poses a fascinating insight into the scene of education. When transformation occurs within a group, teachers must take on a facilitative role so that this momentary community can be ushered into one where ideas, stories, and feelings are exchanged and where collaborative work culminates in a common project. Yet this project must arise from the vision and direction of the students themselves. For a collective vision, rather than the enactment of a singular vision, is a necessary pursuit of education, especially if one is to nurture creative, thoughtful, and compassionate human beings. Is not the goal of education to raise innovative and visionary citizens for a progressive world? And is not this what community-based arts can do? Are doing? We hold such questions in tension, not resolution.

Charles: Youve used the word struggle many times in this conversation. And you especially use it when gesturing toward building a commonality among people and communities. Can you talk a little bit about that? Nobuko: This is what Yellow Pearl was about: accenting and voicing the struggle of Asian Americans to find a place, a home, in America, that we belonged here and that we will fight with our brothers and sisters for a better America, one that includes everyone. Our 1973 album, A Grain of Sand: Music for the Struggle of Asians in America, shares stories of this struggle through the genres of folk, soul, jazz, and the blues. It was also recently inducted into the Smithsonian Institute, being widely recognized as the first album of Asian America. Charles: Thats amazing. Youre officially a part of American history! Nobuko : Yes, Im officially a relic. [Laughs] Charles: So this is the historic album that we remixed? What was the drive behind recreating Yellow Pearl for a contemporary audience? Nobuko: It was an opportunity to bring together some significant musicians and activists, to look back and look forward, to use songs to give you a little taste of what it was like to be Asian American and part of the moment of dynamic social change in the 60s and 70s. When you think of the Civil Rights movement, you can recall the images and soundtrack of that time. Its part of the American collective consciousness. But a little-known fact is that Asian Americans were part of that story. That time helped us find our song, our voice, after one hundred years of silence in America. Our songs were not played on the radio. Record companies were not interested in promoting usnot enough of an audience. But we sang our song anyway . . . just for the joy of hearing ourselves . . . to express our beliefs, our feelings, our dreams. It was a way of dispelling the damaging images wed grown up with and of remaking our own. It was a way of empowering ourselves, distilling our understanding of the political system in which we lived in a human, soulful, cool way. And those songs circulated around our communities and helped

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us create relationships with Blacks, Latinos, and Native Americans who were also pushing for change.

Charles: Our songs are still not played on the radio. Theres a song that Chris Iijima sings that has the words, Were still here, were going strong, and were getting tired of proving we belong. I often feel the uphill battle of finding a place to call my own. I mean, even when you have an overnight superstar like Jeremy Lin, you still hear the barks of a society that doesnt know what to do with someone who breaks the mold. Nobuko: Sometimes its disheartening that your generation has to deal with similar issues that we had to. But its also inspiring that a good number of you have taken up the yoke. Chris wouldve been proud too. Charles: What was Chris like? Nobuko: When I first met Chris, he was just out of Columbia University, a community activist, a real politico. Charles: And you? Nobuko: I was green, totally clueless about politics. A refugee from Hollywood. Trained as a dancer. Did some films and Broadway musicals. All those Oriental musicalsFlower Drum Song, Kismet, The King and I. The one exception being West Side Story, where I passed for Puerto Rican. It started me searching for something else. Now, it was in Chicago where it all happened. One night Chris pulled out his guitarwe had no idea. And somehow we stumbled into writing our first song. The birth of that first song in Chicago and the powerful response to it started Chris and me on a journey. We went back to New York City and wrote five songsthe brother could write a songdid a benefit at the Buddhist temple and made just enough for two tickets to Los Angeles.

Why is it that to multitudes art seems to be an importation into experience from a foreign country and the esthetic to be a synonym for something artificial? (Dewey, 1980, p. 13)

Speaking to the future of education, as well as its contemporary manifestation, from the perspective of community-based art requires a specific statement on the state of knowledge production and accumulation itself. Knowledge, as it stands in relation to pedagogy and the desire of learning, must be vehemently tied to the needs of a given community. As much as education must serve the needs of a wider national economy by supplying the intellectual resources to secure future progress and prosperity, it must also customize its interaction with the vibrant needs and demands of local community life. Such movements are bountiful, given our Internet revolution and the seemingly infinite online educational resources distributed at a fraction of the cost of previous generations. But the accompanying pedagogies and teaching methods that facili-

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tate such distribution must also be earnestly addressed. Taking our cue from Dewey yet again, we must look to the arts for a deeper vision of how that can be manifested. Art, in light of Deweys analysis, is the plethora of tools that empower communication. Art, as it stands, given our modes of production of the modern era, has been separated from everyday life, thus mystifying its processes and rendering it out of reach of ordinary living. Dewey (1980) said of art, But the arts of the drama, music, painting, and architecture thus exemplified had no peculiar connection with theaters, galleries, museums. They were part of the significant life of an organized community(p. 7). Art is the language of communities. Paintings on the wall depict a peoples history. Music and song were intimate parts of the rites and ceremonies in which the meaning of group life was consummated, Dewey continued (p. 7). As technology today can enable new forms of human connection, art must recover its rightful place as communal activity, both in production and in aesthetic reflection. Community-based art thus offers a unique perspective on how to think about the scene of education by rooting its methods in the facilitating of new and age-old tools that enable human expression. The narratives to be shared, however, must arise from the communities themselves in order to hold weight and ownership by the learners themselves.

Charles: In preparing for the Y/P Remix show, we spent the majority of our time rehearsing at the Senshin Buddhist Temple in South Central Los Angeles. Again, its fascinating that we occupy the same area again, given that the community center I work at, A Place Called Home, resides in South Central as well. But tell me, what was it like coming back to Los Angeles? Nobuko: The LA I returned to was very different from the one I grew up inquiet, conservative, provincial. This LA was alive, with lots of organizing going on and a new spirit of community. I felt like I was rediscovering my hometown, with new brothers and sisters. Charles: Why did you return to begin with? Nobuko: Back in 1973, I knew I wanted to live in LA for the long run. Someone in the community asked if I would teach a dance class and took me to Senshin Buddhist Temple. Reverend Mas Kodani, the minister at the time, believed the temple should be a dojo, a place to learn about Buddhism, and that art was a way. I was also about to have a baby, and teaching dance classes at the temple became a way to support myself and my son as a single mother. So my son, Kamau, grew up crawling on the floor during dance class, sleeping to the sound of taiko practice, and eventually performing when I did shows for kids. Charles: Art as a way? Nobuko: Yes, its a tool, a fun and expressive medium that can help us learn more about traditions, especially older ones that need to be remixed for a younger generation.

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Charles: I think thats exactly right. Im currently the music department coordinator at A Place Called Home, which is a community center that seeks to create a home for the children of South Central. We serve around three hundred youth each day. Its really a beautiful place. We have a dance studio with an instructor who choreographs for the music icon Prince, a recording studio that is supported with programs by the Berklee College of Music, a visual art studio, an athletics department, a teen center . . . Essentially, we offer the tools for South Centrals children to achieve. Theres always more work to be done and more resources to be sought, but, at the end of the day, its an amazing home where they can cultivate their dreams and find support to reach for them. All that said, we use art specifically because it is one of the greatest tools to build a sense of focus, skill, and to cultivate a vision for their lives. The arts really help create that space. And building off of what you said about the dojo as a space for learning about the higher principles of Buddhism through the practice of art, I believe that what we do at A Place Called Home is nurturing an ethic of creative nonviolence through facilitating creative spaces to explore personal and communal stories. What I mean by that is this: our youth grow up in the most gang-saturated area of Los Angeles; violent aggression is a part of their everyday lives. So when they enter our center, they arent leaving their aggression on the street by walking through our doors. They are bringing those very impulses in. The goal of our institution, then, is to provide the right constraints to frame these impulses into something productive. Nobuko: What does that look like? Charles: Theres a trombonist in our contemporary music ensemble. Hes a great musician, recently awarded a Shaheen Scholarship from our funders to go on to study music at San Jose State University. He once told me, When you go out on stage to play, theres that moment where you just feel it. I love it, I really love it. That moment when you throw out positive energy into the crowd and they throw it back. Theres nothing else like it. Theres a sensitivity he possesses, something we were able to musically cultivate here. We were able to pair him up with a great teacher, and through the process he had an awakening on stage, one where he was able to bring his natural posture into a sense of place that he could call his own. That sensitivity is so interwoven into who he is. For this very same trombonist also told me a story about how he had to lock out his drunk and abusive father. He called the police to take him away so that he could keep the negativity out of the home and away from his mother. Its that kind of parallel that makes me realize that we are doing the work of nonviolence here. We are giving the children of South Central a very different scene, where their sensitivities are nurtured into productive and positive expressions. Nobuko: Thats beautiful, but also heartbreaking. Charles: I think thats what makes nonviolence interesting and necessary as a platform for envisioning better ways of living. Youre being asked to surrender your impulse to retaliate and to love instead. But love in a creative way that seeks the transformation of the culpritlike taking ones suffering, putting a grooving rhythm under it, and watching it become soul music that helps others toward freedom. Thats the story of the freedom spirituals of the Civil Rights movement.

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Nobuko: Thats what A Grain of Sand was all about, and thats what we did with Y/P Remix. We were able to bring together the antiwar anthems of Chris Iijima and the Asian American voice, the broadway sounds of Benny Yee, the pioneering taiko sounds of Danny Yamamoto, the courageous activism of Tatsuo Hirano at the Siege of Wounded Knee, the Latin doo-wop and rock of activist Ruben Guevara, the slam poetry of Traci Akemi Kato-Kiriyama, and the funk of your bass lines! The sounds, both played and spoken, are symbols of the years of community struggle endured by each of our members and the vision of what is possible, shown to a Hollywood audience who would otherwise lose the privilege to know such stories. Charles: It really was a privilege to be a part of the show. Thank you so much for having me. Im very excited for the tour that will happen [Smiles]. Nobuko: Yes, our stories will be heard. Were still here, together.

The sources of art in human experience will be learned by him who sees how the tense grace of the ball player infects the onlooking crowd; who notes the delight of the housewife in tending her plants, and the intent interest of her goodman in tending the patch of green in front of the house; the zest of the spectator in poking the wood burning on the hearth and in watching the darting flames and crumbling coals. (Dewey, 1980, p. 5)

The dialogues between us, between John Dewey and everyday aesthetics, and between pedagogical reflections and meditation on the future of education present the need for radical ways of thinking. Radical not in the sense of newness or extremity, but radical in the sense of returning to the root. We are asking education, as a field and an ideal, to take a cue from community-based arts and to return to the context of learning: communities and communication. That art would be treated not as a leisurely hobby but, rather, as a fundamental mode of engagement. That art would expand and reclaim its territory in the everyday lives of ordinary people. That education would reclaim its rightful place in the process of community formation, where visions of living would produce the necessary knowledge to empower communal flourishing. Like any great work of art, we must recognize the mysterious quality of dreams, of transformation, and of learning so that we may be ready to evolve alongside the momentary gifts of wonder, so that we come to recognize that were all still here, together.

References
Canetti, E. (1960). Crowds and power. Hamburg, Germany: Farrar, Straus & Giroux. Dewey, J. (1980). Art as experience. New York: Perigree. Originally published 1934. Emerson, R. (1895). Essays: First series. Philadelphia: Henry Altemus.

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