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The Art of Socializing During a Quarantine – The Atlantic

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Quino Al / Katie Martin / The Atlantic

Recently, several hundred thousand, if not millions, of Americans have started working remotely, at the behest of their employers and in the interest of limiting the spread of the coronavirus. And for the foreseeable future, a group much bigger than that will, in accordance with encouragements to practice social distancing, start socializing remotely as well.

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Earlier this week, my colleague Kaitlyn Tiffany put together a primer on what social distancing means in practice, asking a panel of public-health experts to rate the danger of a range of social scenarios. Some of the experts said it was okay (if not ideal) to have small (and symptom-free) gatherings at home or visit a noncrowded bar or restaurant, but all of them called for caution and restraint. “People should be at home as much as possible,” one advised.

Thankfully, those who stay in have at their disposal a suite of communication technologies that people who lived through previous pandemics couldn’t have fathomed. I recently spoke with some researchers who study communication and social connectedness, asking them how they’d try to replicate the pleasures of socializing in the absence of actually meeting up with friends. Being cooped up at home will likely prompt feelings of loneliness and isolation no matter what, but the following strategies might make the experience of being stuck at home a bit less stifling.

People probably won’t have much trouble remembering to stay in touch with their best friends while stuck at home, but less-regular catchups—such as occasional lunches with co-workers or bumping into an acquaintance at a coffee shop—are more at risk of falling by the wayside, because they’re often impromptu. Melissa Mazmanian, an informatics professor at UC Irvine, told me that it might help to proactively schedule a videochat date that functions as a “low-level exchange of ‘What’s going on with you today?’” to compensate for these lost interactions.

Scheduling something that usually originates spontaneously can feel contrived, Mazmanian noted, but “you have to formalize it a little more, because we’re not going to run into each other.” It may be easy to default to eating lunch in front of the TV or computer, but shared meals can be an opportunity for connection. Recently, she and a colleague agreed that while they were working remotely, they’d set up a standing videochat lunch date, chatting and eating “together” in front of their laptops.

Similarly, Jeff Hancock, a communication professor at Stanford University, told me that even before the outbreak, he and a friend in another city often set up Skype calls to drink whiskey and catch up. “One of the reasons that we want to hang out with people often is to eat and drink together,” he told me, and people can simulate that at a distance with videochat. Moreover, Hancock said, “committing to a dinner or a lunch with somebody is a signal that ‘I care about this relationship’” and that they want more than just, say, an intermittent text-message thread that each party contributes to when he or she has the time. Plus, everyone has to eat, even our busiest friends.

In Mazmanian’s view, phone calls and videochatting are also well suited to promoting “deeper forms of human connection,” enabling heart-to-hearts even across distance; friends who live where you do are normally easier to keep up with, but during a near-quarantine, friends and family across the country (or world) are basically just as easy to stay in touch with as someone who lives a mile away. With that in mind, Mazmanian suggested “revisiting the people who you really care about and don’t have time to talk to very much,” now that people’s social calendars are sparse.

In planning your list of remote social engagements, note that having a range of different types of relationships can help people feel socially connected—Hancock described an “ecology” of friendships, including confidants, friends you get dinner or go to a movie with, and “friends that you can do nothing with.”

It’s not just the types of relationships you have that matter—it’s also the media you use to sustain them. Hancock told me that attention-heavy “synchronous” conversations (like those had in real time over the phone or videochat) can foster closeness, but so can “frequent, lightweight contact” (like sharing links or sending short messages). “The little pings matter,” he said.

Carving out big chunks of time for your loved ones is important, but so is integrating them into your day in smaller ways. One slightly unusual means of doing that: initiating a videochat with a friend or loved one and then leaving it running in the background for an hour or two as you go about your days. It sounds a little intrusive, but, as I wrote last year, many long-distance romantic couples do it, finding that it allows them to spend time together, chatting intermittently as they might if they lived in the same space.

Another more passive form of interaction is to watch a movie or TV show at the same time from afar—there are tools for syncing up Netflix across multiple computers and for streaming the same videos on different screens.

An important element of feeling socially connected is receiving support from others, or at least knowing that the support is there to call on if needed, according to Julianne Holt-Lunstad, a psychology professor at Brigham Young University. She told me that research also indicates that offering support can be beneficial to the offerrer in addition to the offeree.

This support can take a variety of forms. It might be “tangible”—an offer to drop off some extra food at a friend’s house if needed. It might be “informational”—a response to a concerned friend’s advice-seeking about how to handle some aspect of life during a pandemic. Or it might be “emotional”—a check-in to see how a friend is weathering it all. “Even just perceiving that support is available, if needed, can be enough to dampen stress responses,” Holt-Lunstad said.

This suggestion may be a bit obvious, but with many workplaces and schools closed, the surest face-to-face socializing people will do is with those they share a home with. “This is a time when life is going to get simpler,” said Holt-Lunstad of her own household. “Now we have time to do some of the things that I think we don’t often have time for in our really hectic, busy schedules.”

Life under coronavirus is governed by uncertainty and worry, but in the moments when she is able to put those aside, Holt-Lunstad said she’ll be “trying to think of ways that we can really enjoy this time together rather than feeling distressed about it.” She anticipates playing games, camping, and going on walks, when she and her family are able to.

Though it’s not an element of social connectedness, per se, one pleasure of getting out of the house is the change of scenery. For instance, with the proper social distancing, going on a walk can provide a reprieve from looking at the same walls and furniture. It can also enable spontaneous encounters with strangers and re-create some semblance of life without coronavirus. “You may see someone in the distance, but you can still smile and wave and say hello … whether that’s your neighbor that you’ve known for 10 years, or whether it’s a complete stranger,” Holt-Lunstad said. Additionally, you could schedule a phone call with a friend for a time when you both can go on a walk. It won’t be like having them alongside you, but at least you’ll each be getting out of the house.

Perhaps the goal of varying your environment can even be achieved in the home, to a degree. “This sounds really trite, but I actually don’t think it is: Play with the lighting in your house” when you videochat, Mazmanian suggested. “Think of your video screen as a stage where you change the background for those you’re talking to and yourself.” It sounds a bit forced and won’t be for everyone, but maybe a videochat coffee date with a friend would be made more enjoyable if the setting resembled the coffee shop where you usually meet, with its dimmed lights and candles.

Similarly, Hancock noted that some people who work from home put on a different outfit when they start to work, in order to help them differentiate between work life and home life. Maybe remote socializers could take inspiration from that, and dress up for that videochat coffee date as they would if they were actually going out. (It probably sounds a bit desperate when described like that, but little things like this could be genuinely fun and spirit-lifting.)

“I think it’s important to not forget that human relationships are not always pleasant,” Mazmanian said. “Having a break from them can be good.” Obviously, this is nicer for people when they get to do it on their own terms, but it’s worth bearing in mind that when you’re being deprived of opportunities to go out and socialize, you might be more likely to remember the good parts than the bad. (To that end, I’d add that one perk of socializing remotely is that when you’re done with your phone call or videochat session, you’re already home—no need for a possibly drunken late-night commute from a bar or friend’s house.)

So go forth (or rather, stay in) and socialize, but also consider using your newfound time at home to do things you enjoy but can’t usually squeeze into your day. “Hunker down and do something cool with your hands and with your mind, like a science project, or knit a sweater,” Mazmanian said. “[You can] try to find a place of enjoyment in those more solitary activities.”

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to letters@theatlantic.com.

Joe Pinsker is a staff writer at The Atlantic, where he covers families and education.

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The Venice Biennale and the Art of Turning Backward – The New York Times

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There is a sour tendency in cultural politics today — a growing gap between speaking about the world and acting in it.

In the domain of rhetoric, everyone has grown gifted at pulling back the curtain. An elegant museum gallery is actually a record of imperial violence; a symphony orchestra is a site of elitism and exploitation: these critiques we can now deliver without trying. But when it comes to making anything new, we are gripped by near-total inertia. We are losing faith with so many institutions of culture and society — the museum, the market, and, especially this week, the university — but cannot imagine an exit from them. We throw bricks with abandon, we lay them with difficulty, if at all. We engage in perpetual protest, but seem unable to channel it into anything concrete.

So we spin around. We circle. And, maybe, we start going backward.

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I’ve just spent a week tramping across Venice, a city of more than 250 churches, and where did I encounter the most doctrinaire catechism? It was in the galleries of the 2024 Venice Biennale, still the world’s principal appointment to discover new art, whose current edition is at best a missed opportunity, and at worst something like a tragedy.

It’s often preachy, but that’s not its biggest problem. The real problem is how it tokenizes, essentializes, minimizes and pigeonholes talented artists — and there are many here, among more than 300 participants — who have had their work sanded down to slogans and lessons so clear they could fit in a curator’s screenshot. This is a Biennale that speaks the language of assurance, but is actually soaked in anxiety, and too often resorts, as the Nigerian author Wole Soyinka deplored in a poem, to “cast the sanctimonious stone / And leave frail beauty shredded in the square / Of public shame.”

This year’s Biennale opened last week under an ominous star. The Venetian megashow consists of a central exhibition, spanning two locations, as well as around 90 independent pavilions organized by individual nations. One of these nations is Israel, and in the weeks before the vernissage an activist group calling itself the “Art Not Genocide Alliance” had petitioned the show’s organizers to exclude Israel from participating. The Biennale refused; a smaller appeal against the pavilion of Iran also went nowhere. (As for Russia, it remains nation non grata for the second Biennale in a row.) With disagreements over the war in Gaza spilling into cultural institutions across the continent — they’d already sunk Documenta, the German exhibition that is Venice’s only rival for attendance and prestige — the promise of a major controversy seemed to hang over the Giardini della Biennale.

As it happened, the artist and curator of Israel’s pavilion surprised the preview audience by closing their own show, and posted a sign at the entrance declaring it would stay shut until “a cease-fire and hostage release agreement is reached.” A small protest took place anyway (“No Death in Venice” was one slogan), but the controversy had only a tiny impact on the Prosecco-soaked Venetian carnival that is opening week. Right next door, at the U.S. Pavilion, twice as many visitors were waiting to get inside as were protesting.

One could strain to read the Israeli withdrawal productively, as part of a century-long tradition of empty, vacated or closed exhibitions by artists such as Rirkrit Tiravanija, Graciela Carnevale, and all the way back to Marcel Duchamp. Probably it was the only possible response to an untenable situation. Either way, the Israel pavilion encapsulated in miniature a larger dilemma and deficiency, in Venice and in culture more broadly: a thoroughgoing inability — even Foucault did not go this far! — to think about art, or indeed life, as anything other than a reflection of political, social or economic power.

That is certainly the agenda of the central exhibition, organized by the Brazilian museum director Adriano Pedrosa. I’d cheered when he was appointed curator of this year’s edition. At the São Paulo Museum of Art, one of Latin America’s boldest cultural institutions, Pedrosa had masterminded a cycle of centuries-spanning exhibitions that reframed Brazilian art as a crucible of African, Indigenous, European and pan-American history. His nomination came a few weeks after Giorgia Meloni became Italy’s first far-right prime minister since World War II. And Pedrosa — who had successfully steered his museum through Brazil’s own far-right presidency of 2018-22 — promised a show of cosmopolitanism and variety, as expressed in a title, “Foreigners Everywhere,” that seemed like a moderate anti-Meloni dig.

But what Pedrosa has actually brought to Venice is a closed, controlled, and at times belittling showcase, which smooths out all the distinctions and contradictions of a global commons. The show is remarkably placid, especially in the Giardini. There are large doses of figurative painting and (as customary these days) weaving and tapestry arranged in polite, symmetrical arrays. There is art of great beauty and power, such as three cosmological panoramas by the self-taught Amazonian painter Santiago Yahuarcani, and also far less sophisticated work celebrated by the curator in the exact same way.

In the brutal rounding-down arithmetic of the 2024 Venice Biennale, to be a straniero — a “foreigner” or “stranger,” applied equally to graduates of the world’s most prestigious M.F.A. programs and the mentally ill — implies moral credibility, and moral credibility equals artistic importance. Hence Pedrosa’s inclusion of L.G.B.T.Q. people as “foreigners,” as if gender or sexuality were proof of progressive bona fides. (Gay men have led far-right parties in the Netherlands and Austria; over at Venice’s Peggy Guggenheim Collection is a wonderfully pervy show of the polymathic Frenchman Jean Cocteau, who praised Nazis while drawing sailors without their bell-bottoms.)

Even more bizarre is the designation of the Indigenous peoples of Brazil and Mexico, of Australia and New Zealand, as “foreigners”; surely they should be the one class of people exempt from such estrangement. In some galleries, categories and classifications take precedence over formal sophistication to a derogatory degree. The Pakistan-born artist Salman Toor, who paints ambiguous scenes of queer New York with real acuity and invention, is shown alongside simplistic queer-and-trans-friendly street art from an Indian NGO “spreading positivity and hope to their communities.”

Over and over, the human complexity of artists gets upstaged by their designation as group members, and art itself gets reduced to a symptom or a triviality. I felt that particularly in three large, shocking galleries in the central pavilion of the Giardini, packed tight with more than 100 paintings and sculptures made in Asia, Africa, Latin America and the Middle East between 1915 and 1990. These constitute the bulk of what Pedrosa calls the show’s nucleo storico, its historical core, and this was the part of the Biennale I’d looked forward to most. It had promised to demonstrate that the world outside the North Atlantic has a history of modern art far richer than our leading museums have shown us.

Indeed it does. But you won’t learn that here, where paintings of wildly different importance and quality have been shoved together with almost no historical documentation, cultural context, or even visual delight. It flushes away distinctions between free and unfree regimes or between capitalist and socialist societies, or between those who joined an international avant-garde and those who saw art as a nationalist calling. True pioneers, such as the immense Brazilian innovator Tarsila do Amaral, are equated with orthodox or traditionalist portraitists. More ambitious exhibitions — notably the giant “Postwar,” staged in Munich in 2016-17 — used critical juxtaposition and historical documentation to show how and why an Asian modernism, or an African modernism, looked the way it did. Here in Venice, Pedrosa treats paintings from all over as just so many postage stamps, pasted down with little visual acuity, celebrated merely for their rarity to an implied “Western” viewer.

You thought we were all equals? Here you have the logic of the old-style ethnological museum, transposed from the colonial exposition to the Google Images results page. S.H. Raza of India, Saloua Raouda Choucair of Lebanon, the Cuban American Carmen Herrera, and also painters who were new to me, got reduced to so much Global South wallpaper, and were photographed by visitors accordingly. All of which shows that it’s far too easy to speak art’s exculpatory language, to invoke “opacity” or “fugitivity” or whatever today’s decolonial shibboleth may be. But by othering some 95 percent of humanity — by designating just about everyone on earth as “foreigners,” and affixing categories onto them with sticky-backed labels — what you really do is exactly what those dreadful Europeans did before you: you exoticize.

And yet, for all that, there is so much I liked in this year’s Biennale! From the central exhibition I am still thinking about a monumental installation of unfired coils of clay by Anna Maria Maiolino, a winner of the Golden Lion for Lifetime Achievement, that recasts serial production as something intimate, irregular, even anatomical. Karimah Ashadu, who won the Silver Lion for her high-speed film of young men bombing across Lagos on banned motorbikes, gave the economic intensity of megacity life a vigorous visual language. There are the stark, speechless paintings from the 1970s of Romany Eveleigh, whose thousands of scratched little O’s turn writing into an unsemantic howl. There are Yuko Mohri’s mischievously articulated assemblages of found objects, plastic sheeting and fresh fruit, in the Japanese Pavilion, and Precious Okoyomon’s Gesamtkunstwerk of soil, speakers and motion sensors, in the Nigerian Pavilion.

Beyond the Biennale, Christoph Büchel’s frenzied exhibition at the Fondazione Prada assembles mountains of junk and jewels into an impertinent exposé of wealth and debt, colonialism and collecting. In the Palazzo Contarini Polignac, a hazily elegant video by the Odesa-born artist Nikolay Karabinovych reinscribes the Ukrainian landscape as a crossroads of languages, religions and histories. Above all there is Pierre Huyghe, at the Punta della Dogana, who fuses human intelligence and artificial intelligence into the rarest thing of all: an image we have never seen before.

What all these artists have in common is some creative surplus that cannot be exploited — not for a nation’s image, not for a curator’s thesis, not for a collector’s vanity. Rather than the sudsy “politics” of advocacy, they profess that art’s true political value lies in how it exceeds rhetorical function or financial value, and thereby points to human freedom. They are the ones who offered me at least a glimpse of what an equitable global cultural assembly could be: an “anti-museum,” in the phrase of the Cameroonian philosopher Achille Mbembe, where “the exhibiting of subjugated or humiliated humanities” at last becomes a venue where everyone gets to be more than a representative.

I still, unfashionably, keep faith with Mbembe’s dream institution, and the artists here who would have their place in it. But we won’t build it with buzzwords alone, and if anyone had actually been paying attention to the political discourse in this part of the world in a time of war, they would have realized that two can play this game. “An essentially emancipatory, anticolonial movement against unipolar hegemony is taking shape in the most diverse countries and societies” — did someone in the 2024 Venice Biennale say that? No, it was Vladimir Putin.

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Turner Prize shortlist includes art showcasing Scottish Sikh community

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A Scottish artist who uses cars, worship bells and Irn-Bru in her work is among the nominees for this year’s Turner Prize.

Glasgow-born Jasleen Kaur’s work reflects her life growing up in the city’s Sikh community.

She is up for the prestigious art award, now in its 40th year, alongside Pio Abad, Claudette Johnson and Delaine Le Bas.

Turner Prize jury chairman Alex Farquharson described it as a “fantastic shortlist of artists”

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Works by the nominated artists will go on show at London’s Tate Britain gallery from 25 September.

They will receive £10,000 each, while the winner, to be announced on 3 December, will get £25,000.

In a statement, Farquharson said: “All four make work that is full of life.

“They show how contemporary art can fascinate, surprise and move us, and how it can speak powerfully of complex identities and memories, often through the subtlest of details.

“In the Turner Prize’s 40th year, this shortlist proves that British artistic talent is as rich and vibrant as ever.”

The shortlisted artists are:

Pio Abad

Pio AbadPio Abad
[Pio Abad]
Pio Abad's installationPio Abad's installation
[Hannah Pye/Ashmolean]

Manila-born Abad’s solo exhibition To Those Sitting in Darkness at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford included drawings, etchings and sculptures that combined to “ask questions of museums”, according to the jury.

The 40-year-old, who works in London, reflects on colonial history and growing up in the Philippines, where his parents struggled against authoritarianism.

The title of his exhibit is a nod to Mark Twain’s 1901 essay To the Person Sitting In Darkness, which hit out at imperialism.

Jasleen Kaur

Jasleen KaurJasleen Kaur
[Robin Christian]
Jasleen Kaur's installationJasleen Kaur's installation
[Keith Hunter]

Kaur is on the list for Alter Altar at Tramway, Glasgow, which included family photos, an Axminster carpet, a classic Ford Escort covered in a giant doily, Irn-Bru and kinetic handbells.

The 37-year-old, who lives in London, had previously showcased her work at the Victoria and Albert Museum by looking at popular Indian cinema.

Delaine Le Bas

Delaine Le BasDelaine Le Bas
[Tara Darby]
Delaine Le Bas's installationDelaine Le Bas's installation
[Iris Ranzinger]

Worthing-born Le Bas is nominated for an exhibition titled Incipit Vita Nova. Here Begins The New Life/A New Life Is Beginning. Staged at the Secession art institute in Vienna, Austria, it saw painted fabrics hung, with theatrical costumes and sculptures also part of the exhibit.

The 58-year-old artist was inspired by the death of her grandmother and the history of the Roma people.

The jury said they “were impressed by the energy and immediacy present in this exhibition, and its powerful expression of making art in a time of chaos”.

Claudette Johnson

Claudette JohnsonClaudette Johnson
[Anne Tetzlaff]
Claudette Johnson's installationClaudette Johnson's installation
[David Bebber]

Manchester-born Johnson has been given the nod for her solo exhibition Presence at the Courtauld Gallery in London, and Drawn Out at Ortuzar Projects, New York.

She uses portraits of black women and men in a combination of pastels, gouache and watercolour, and was praised by the judges for her “sensitive and dramatic use of line, colour, space and scale to express empathy and intimacy with her subjects”.

Johnson, 65, was appointed an MBE in 2022 after being named on the New Year Honours list for her services to the arts.

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Turner Prize: Shortlisted artist showcases Scottish Sikh community

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Turner Prize shortlist includes art showcasing Scottish Sikh community

Jasleen Kaur's installation
Jasleen Kaur’s installation includes a classic Ford Escort covered in a giant doily

A Scottish artist who uses cars, worship bells and Irn-Bru in her work is among the nominees for this year’s Turner Prize.

Glasgow-born Jasleen Kaur’s work reflects her life growing up in the city’s Sikh community.

She is up for the prestigious art award, now in its 40th year, alongside Pio Abad, Claudette Johnson and Delaine Le Bas.

Turner Prize jury chairman Alex Farquharson described it as a “fantastic shortlist of artists”

300x250x1

Works by the nominated artists will go on show at London’s Tate Britain gallery from 25 September.

They will receive £10,000 each, while the winner, to be announced on 3 December, will get £25,000.

In a statement, Farquharson said: “All four make work that is full of life.

“They show how contemporary art can fascinate, surprise and move us, and how it can speak powerfully of complex identities and memories, often through the subtlest of details.

“In the Turner Prize’s 40th year, this shortlist proves that British artistic talent is as rich and vibrant as ever.”

The shortlisted artists are:

Pio Abad

Pio Abad
Pio Abad's installation

Manila-born Abad’s solo exhibition To Those Sitting in Darkness at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford included drawings, etchings and sculptures that combined to “ask questions of museums”, according to the jury.

The 40-year-old, who works in London, reflects on colonial history and growing up in the Philippines, where his parents struggled against authoritarianism.

The title of his exhibit is a nod to Mark Twain’s 1901 essay To the Person Sitting In Darkness, which hit out at imperialism.

Jasleen Kaur

Jasleen Kaur
Jasleen Kaur's installation

Kaur is on the list for Alter Altar at Tramway, Glasgow, which included family photos, an Axminster carpet, a classic Ford Escort covered in a giant doily, Irn-Bru and kinetic handbells.

The 37-year-old, who lives in London, had previously showcased her work at the Victoria and Albert Museum by looking at popular Indian cinema.

Delaine Le Bas

Delaine Le Bas
Delaine Le Bas's installation

Worthing-born Le Bas is nominated for an exhibition titled Incipit Vita Nova. Here Begins The New Life/A New Life Is Beginning. Staged at the Secession art institute in Vienna, Austria, it saw painted fabrics hung, with theatrical costumes and sculptures also part of the exhibit.

The 58-year-old artist was inspired by the death of her grandmother and the history of the Roma people.

The jury said they “were impressed by the energy and immediacy present in this exhibition, and its powerful expression of making art in a time of chaos”.

Claudette Johnson

Claudette Johnson
Claudette Johnson's installation

Manchester-born Johnson has been given the nod for her solo exhibition Presence at the Courtauld Gallery in London, and Drawn Out at Ortuzar Projects, New York.

She uses portraits of black women and men in a combination of pastels, gouache and watercolour, and was praised by the judges for her “sensitive and dramatic use of line, colour, space and scale to express empathy and intimacy with her subjects”.

Johnson, 65, was appointed an MBE in 2022 after being named on the New Year Honours list for her services to the arts.

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