Personal narratives

An introduction to Arts and Culture

Two years ago, I picked up a copy of The Strand for the first time. I was early for my first class in Northrop Frye Hall and was waiting on the first floor. A stack of bright newspapers was piled next to my chair. I flipped to the Arts and Culture section and read about albums your dad likes that are surprisingly good, adult ballet, and arts around campus. Frye Hall, new to me, suddenly seemed less intimidating; the articles were welcoming. I folded the paper into my bag before class began.  

I didn’t write anything for The Strand until December of that year, but I would pick up a copy wherever I found it around Vic and read through the Arts section. I was intrigued by its boldness. On my own, I had been writing reviews that I didn’t share with anyone else. And here was a group, on campus, of people writing reviews and essays and interviews. They were practicing and offering an alternative form of essay-writing. In that first issue, the then–Film and Music editor (a section which has since been combined with Arts and Culture) wrote about his hopes for the section: it would be a place where readers could build social capital by staying informed about contemporary pop culture. 

If there’s one thing I’ve learned through writing about art, it’s that, invariably, you’re also writing about yourself

This is something of a similar statement of intent. My hope is that Arts and Culture will continue to include writing that is timely and relevant, but it might also become a space for the local and the personal. If there’s one thing I’ve learned through write about art, it’s that, invariably, you’re also writing about yourself.

What openly personal writing might offer is an approach to art and culture without barriers. Essays are free to circulate when they aren’t tied to form or place. Recently, I’ve read pieces about using Animal Crossing: Wild World as a diary (by Terrence Abrahams), about dance within and without The Red Shoes (by So Mayer), and about the faded restaurants of LA’s Pico Boulevard (by Jonathan Gold). They’ve offered me ideas about digital play, performing gender, and memory—even though I’ve never played that game, seen that movie, or been to that street.  

To value the emotional means to let a conversation unfold between the artist and the writer, and then between the writer and the reader. The person, or people, behind the art become conspicuously present. Interviews are located in a specific time and place. A review might be prefaced by its author’s lived experience, which informs their interaction with the art in question. This kind of writing strikes a balance between old and new experience. It doesn’t claim objectivity, but it also doesn’t overwhelm the art with personal history.  

This arts writing will not, and should not, replace traditional arts and culture coverage. Concerts, openings, and fundings need to be recorded and reflected upon as they happen. Local artists need support and exposure. The personal writing I’m interested in is only another way of reading and writing. Often, it’s located in the past, with art and places that have had time to gather meaning for a person. These objects become local in another sense, tied to experience or identity.  

So, tell me about your passions and obscurities: write about the bar or restaurant that makes you think of home, the band that still conveys a sense of political urgency, the childhood movie that’s wildly different from how you remember it, or the pop song that needs to be talked about. Uncover the personal and the local, wherever that might be.