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Sunday, December 16, 2001

By Mary Thomas

War seems to remind us that we're citizens in a way that peace and prosperity do not. American interest in politics and governmental policies -- and concomitant coverage -- has risen since September, and artists are as responsive as the mainstream population to evolving events.

A national conference on the environment and a related eco-art symposium held in Pittsburgh last month presented strategies for artists interested in becoming activists, as well as a radiant example of the "new activist" that marks a major paradigm shift from the last great period of public outcry.

The turbulent birth of 1960s and 1970s social dialogue, sometimes referred to as the "culture wars," occurred against the backdrop of the distant and often unpopular U.S. involvement in Vietnam between 1965 and 1973.

While issues raised during that period have permeated public and private consciousness and actions since then, the fiery protests themselves subsided into glowing embers, kept alive by a few dedicated holdover individuals and nonprofits.

In recent years, the term "activist" has tentatively resurfaced at art panels. Participants have voiced a mix of renewed interest in addressing social and cultural problems, frustration that so many of those issues remain little changed after decades of awareness, and reluctance to adopt the last generation's model because, in retrospect, it was too absolutist.

Since September, more urgent attention is being given to what constitutes a democracy, and the characteristics of 21st-century engagement are beginning to take shape.

Some of these were evident at the Women Assessing the State of the Environment summit.

Strategies that arose from the Bridging the Binaries symposium included building alliances with organizations that can use artists' help; leadership development; generating a larger support base through education and use of low-tech media, such as radio; emphasizing "care" over "cure" to minimize mishaps, recognizing the limitations of framing solutions based upon ingrained perceptions; emphasizing the link between environmental and social justice, involving politicians in community art projects and sharpening speaking skills ("being on a panel becomes a secondary art form").

But the most remarkable insight came during the evening ceremonies to confer Chatham College's 2001 Rachel Carson Leadership Award upon Sandra Steingraber -- nationally recognized Cornell University ecologist, author, poet and mother, who gave the conference's keynote lecture on "First Environment: The Ecology of Pregnancy and Childbirth."

Preceding her was Liz Abzug, daughter of late U.S. Rep. Bella Abzug, who co-founded the Women's Environment and Development Organization in 1990.

In an animated, high-energy presentation, Abzug appropriately enumerated her mother's achievements in such areas as civil, gay and feminist rights in a strong-voiced, staccato delivery that resembled that of a stumping politician.

"Never hesitate to tell the truth, never give in and never give up!" she concluded, echoing her mother's style to audience applause and "Go Girl!" calls from her contingent, who chatted among themselves throughout the evening.

Steingraber began her talk, in a voice as soft, yet distinct, as the lighting around her, with the declaration that "women's bodies are the first environment for all of us."

And then, in mesmerizing rhythms and poetic phrasings of scientific fact -- "the uterus is an inland ocean with a population of one" -- she chronicled the biology of pregnancy and the dangers of environmental pollution to the developing fetus. Her passion was an incontestable amalgam of reasoned calm and natural order, a seductive ballet of right and left brain -- informing, insisting.

At times, she read from her latest book, "Having Faith: An Ecologist's Journey to Motherhood," published in October. It's a manual for species survival rife with meltingly beautiful observations that return life to its throne of mystery. Steingraber made the profundity of human life simultaneously real and symbolic, backed by the intellectual but not overshadowed by it.

Near the end of her delivery, as she read a birth passage, an attendant brought her crying infant son, Elijah, to the stage. Hardly missing a beat, Steingraber took the child and, in a subtle motion, began to nurse him from the lectern of the elegant Carnegie Music Hall as she finished her reading. Nothing could have seemed more natural.

In that moment, Steingraber became an icon of new activism, enlightened feminism and the principles of a free and democratic society.

The passing of the torch was evident in the contrast between the two speakers. The '60s model, which had served well, has become boring and predictable even within its bombastic cloak. The new presence was so unaffected as to be nearly invisible, but it had quiet eloquence. The standing ovation given Steingraber not only applauded her remarkable presentation but the intelligent, progressive and hopeful future that she epitomized.

Mary Thomas is the Post-Gazette art critic.