How can activist artists & cultural organizers help build the bridges we need to make democracy whole?

Bill Cleveland: 00:00:00

How can activist artists and cultural organizers help build the bridges we need to make democracy whole? The answer, of course, is in more ways than you can imagine, and then some.

And in this episode of Art is Change, we'll hear the story of just one of the many, many examples we can learn from.

This Is Art is a chronic of art and social change, where activist artists and cultural organizers share the tools and strategies they need to thrive as creative community leaders. My name is Bill Cleveland.

Now, in this episode, you'll hear how one bold question sparked a mural project, reflecting a flood of voices and connection across race, age, and geography. And how that mural project morphed from a visual illusion into a bridge between worlds.

And finally, when a forgotten commitment led to the mural's loss, how a community's response became a powerful act of healing and recovery. So we begin.

In: 1974

At the time, I was a newly minted artist administrator at the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts Commission, charged with hiring artists with U.S. department of labor funds to, and I quote, benefit the broader community. A community that at that time was tearing its hair out over a rusting metal statue that some charged was both too phallic and likely Islamic.

What can I say? It was nuts.

So I began with that obscure piece of cultural history because I think moments like that are emblematic of the fact that public art, particularly the kind we support with our tax dollars and lives right out there in the open, has always been more than decoration. It can provoke, it can heal, it can make people angry or bring them together. Sometimes all of the above.

What follows is not about the Indo Arch, but rather another public art project called the Community Bridge, a five year journey that transformed a plain concrete bridge in Frederick, Maryland, into a work of art seen by tens of thousands every year. But more importantly, a community creation that became a bridge between people.

It's also a story about the risks of building something together and what happens when it's not cared for. But before we go to Frederick, I'd like to hit you with another cultural historical flashback.

In the late: 1980

This was heated stuff. At the time, LA muralist Judy Baca, who's been referred to as the Mother of America's Mural Arts Movement, was the last to speak.

She started with this here is a partial list of the design team for one of my recent projects.

Artists, developers, architects, local high school students, neighborhood associations, gang leaders, city planners, business owners, the Army Corps of Engineers, and the Women's auxiliary from a nearby Baptist church. Then she smiled and said, I could go on, but I think you get my point. Judy Baca wasn't talking about some radical new experiment.

She was speaking from a long legacy of artists working hand in hand with communities and the idea that public art could be a shared creation.

Now, 10 years later, when I first met William Cochran, the artist at the center of this story, I thought of him as kind of like Houdini, you know, an illusionist. Not because he pulled rabbits out of hats, but because his tool was trompe l', oeil, the ancient art of visual deception.

ng more, something bigger. In: 1993

The city planned to revitalize a long, narrow park along Carroll Creek, a spot that had become an eyesore and, more importantly, a dividing line between Frederick's black and white communities. Right in the middle of this park was an unattractive concrete bridge. The city's plan was to renovate it, and Cochran saw his chance.

He proposed, instead of covering the bridge with stone, to paint it to look like stone. Done right, he said, it would cost less and still transform the space.

It was a hard sell, but he'd built credibility with his earlier murals, and he knew how to work the politics. As he put it, the goal is to work with everyone, to build a broad base of support as early as possible.

So after months of meetings and approvals, the project got a green light. But what the city approved was just the beginning of Cochran's vision.

He and his wife, Teresa, decided that this mural would be built not just by brush, but by community. They wanted the people of Frederick, on both sides of Carroll Creek, to shape its meaning.

Cochran realized that proceeding with this expanded idea would complicate an already difficult endeavor.

He also knew that his good intentions would not protect him from the political and social minefields scattered throughout his racially divided community. To begin building trust, he thought, we need a way to involve the public that was both accessible and safe.

So he and Teresa, who had agreed to help manage the growing project, hit on an idea of using a question to engage people to solicit ideas for the bridge's. Design. As simple as this seemed, they understood that this was one of the most critical elements of their project.

They needed a question that invited people to express their ideas and feelings about community creating, in Cochran's words, a shared vision.

For if the bridge was to become more than a decorative footnote, people on both sides of Carroll Creek would need to feel that their involvement was not just a gratuitous token gesture.

Also, because this was a visual design process, these ideas would need to be translated as symbols or images that would be used in the mural so people could literally see their ideas manifested as part of the newly rendered bridge. So they needed a question they could ask anywhere, to anyone they came up with. What object or image represents the spirit of community to you?

One night, Cochran tested the question on a teenager hanging out drinking beer with his buddies under the bridge in question. The kid didn't hesitate. Oh, yeah, two hands, one helping the other over the wall. One black, one white. Doesn't matter which is which.

With that, Cochran knew they had the right question. So Teresa and a guidance team of community leaders set out to collect answers everywhere. Schools, libraries, street corners.

They mailed postcards, put the question on an electric billboard for six weeks, Even got a local cable to run a documentary. Ideas poured in. Drawings, poems, music, Even one from a soldier in Bosnia who sent the peacekeeping forces emblem in both Cyrillic and English.

In the end, the mural would take five years to complete. Early on, funding was thin and months went by with only the words shared vision painted across the bridge.

But slowly, support grew from local businesses, individuals, and eventually state and city funds. By the end, hundreds of people had contributed ideas. Thousands had labored, donated, or cheered it on.

,: 1998

There was music, dance, fireworks, even representatives from a sister project in South Africa. One of them brought a stone from a road that had once seen symbolized apartheid.

Cochrane passed it into the crowd and it went all the way around and back to him. When you touch the stone, he said, you touch the soil of South Africa.

After that night, some people in Frederick would simply say, I got to touch the st. So some reflections. Obviously, community based art making is not for the faint of heart. You learn on the job.

Sometimes while building the rocket as it is taking off, you learn that trust is your most valuable resource and that Time and money will always rule the day. In Frederick, the Community bridge became more than a mural. It was a social sculpture woven from thousands of hands and voices. Now, a Postscript.

That was: 1998

aning, and repairs. But after: 2006

Meanwhile, design changes to the surrounding park, Sloping walkways, brick pavers hard against the mural walls, created a perfect trap for moisture and salts. Water seeped in, and with it came a destructive bacteria that slowly ate away at the cement beneath the paint.

By the time full assessments were done, the damage was irreversible. The original mural, the one unveiled on that September night, was gone. That's the hard part of the story. But here's the hopeful part.

The city and the artists have worked together to plan a complete Recreation Community Bridge 2.0. This time, new materials and substrates will make it all almost impervious to neglect.

The painting will happen in Cochrane Studio, panel by panel, and then be installed on the bridge.

And just like before, the community can be part of the design, contributing new symbols, sharing fresh perspectives, even watching the process online.

There's even thought of using augmented reality and immersive audio so visitors can experience not just the the visual illusion, but the story behind it. Right there on Carroll Creek. So the bridge began as a trick of the eye, but what it revealed was no illusion. It showed that common ground is real.

If you're willing to build it together, now it has a chance to do it again. What a story, right? William Cochran's Community Bridge wasn't just a stunning illusion painted on concrete.

It was a testament to what's possible when art becomes a shared act of imagination and trust. Here's what stayed with me from this story. First, something I think we all know. Community art is serious work.

It takes time, relationships, and a whole lot of listening to make something that's not only a vision, but the real story of the people who made it. I also think the Community bridge shows us that art can change how we see each other.

That simple question, what object or image represents the spirit of community to you? Invited voices from all walks of life to create something lasting.

The community bridge also reminds us that care is needed to sustain the work, whether it's a mural, a play, or a song. As powerful as this mural was, neglect took its toll.

But now, with the community's help, it's getting a second life, stronger, more durable, and just as rooted in collective meaning.

Finally, an important lesson I think we can all learn from unfortunately, the murals material condition was not the only thing that could have benefited from more regular attention when the project was over.

The often difficult to see, but even more powerful social capital and trust equity that was created during the project did not have an individual or an organizational steward to help maintain and build on this valuable community asset. To be fair, very few communities have the awareness or resources needed to do this.

But for those who see art making as a potential bridging strategy, it's important to recognize that as powerful as it is, conceiving and creating something new together is only the first step in the long road to building a lasting community bridge.

Now this is a story about a monumental visual arts collaboration, so given this, I'm sure some of you will want to see what we've been blathering about here. So links to information and images from both the historic and the current community bridge efforts are available in our show Notes.

Art Is Changed is a product of the center for the Study of Art and Community. Our theme and soundscapes spring forth from the head, heart and hand of the maestro Judy Munson.

Our text editing is by Andre Nebbe, our effects come from freesound.org and our inspiration comes from the ever present spirit of UK 235. So until next time, stay well, do good and spread the good word. Once again, please know this episode has been 100% human.