Best Laid Plans
By Anza Jarschke
My mother used to tell me that the moment something bad happens is not the time to freak out—because you have to deal with it. I’ve always carried that with me. Years ago, I was trained in crisis intervention and became a crisis mental health counselor. Later, when studying Community Organizing in graduate school, I learned that crisis is an opportunity.
It’s no wonder I do better in moments of crisis than trying to find a parking spot or deciding what to cook for dinner.
The COVID-19 pandemic hit the United States, and, like so many others around the globe, my world shifted. I left work one spring afternoon, not knowing I wouldn’t see the inside of my office for nearly six months. My fear of germs wasn’t off the charts before, but my roommate worked at two grocery stores and I started dousing our home in straight vodka. My partner was emergency evacuated from living and working abroad in France on three-days notice and moved in with us in Reno. On top of everything else, roller derby practice was canceled the day I would have qualified for the home team, still yet to resume.
I stumbled over these hurdles and kept moving forward. This is an opportunity.
My professional work is as the Art Gallery Director at Sierra Nevada University (SNU), a small liberal arts college in Lake Tahoe. The galleries’ spring programming was far from done, and suddenly we had no physical access to art. Quickly, I started making plans. I made many, many, plans as I knew most of them wouldn’t end up working out.
I somehow managed, through the growing pains of trying to learn everything I could about live streaming and video conferencing, to take the rest of the semester’s programming online. (If you’re interested in that process and my tips and tricks, you can read Chris Lanier’s excellent essay on Double Scoop.) Despite my ability to make it work, after each event I felt less and less fulfilled by the prospect of “virtualizing” all my in-person exhibitions and events for the foreseeable future.
Since coming on board at SNU over a year ago, I wanted to reimagine the campus’ gallery programming. We inventoried our past artists and recognized a disproportionate lack in hosting artists of color, a rampant problem in nearly every corner of the art world. I want the galleries to serve and uplift my entire community, especially those who have been long underrecognized and excluded from these spaces.
On May 25, 2020, the world watched George Floyd be killed by Minneapolis police, the same way we watched Eric Garner die six years before. Time both paused and rewound. Cities around the world played host to demonstrations, protests, murals, vigils, and riots. Civil unrest blossomed with the newfound time and energy of so many Americans working from home, and the more than 13% who were unemployed at the time. Organizations, corporations, and institutions rapidly shared statements of solidarity and support, attempting to quell our broken hearts.
I channeled my own discontentment into drafting statements of what I believe the role of art institutions are, the ways roller derby needs to be more accountable, and why public land needs to be available for all people. I volunteered with a racial justice healing team. I wrote strongly worded letters about why I believed institutions were not acting with intention. A colleague and I were finally granted the opportunity to found and chair a JEDI (justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion) committee.
At a time when we parsed our lives down to the essential, this crisis cracked windows that I flung open to do more of the work I had been wanting to do.
With communities around the world unwell, I turned to the theory of community care. Nakita Valerio defines this as, “People committed to leveraging their privilege to be there for one another in various ways.” From my place of privilege as a Gallery Director, I circled back to the idea of opportunity and one question kept coming back to me. What does it look like to meet the needs of the community, rather than the needs of my programming?
The answer I found was simple: connection.
Honestly, my answer was informed by my own needs at the time. Regardless, I knew I had a platform and enough flexibility in my schedule to make some significant choices for the galleries’ programming. In the summer, I collaborated with the low-residency MFA in Interdisciplinary Arts to pull together a fantastic roster of virtual artist discussions that highlighted connectivity and the human experience (particularly grateful to Ayanah Moor, Julia Schwadron, and Matt Freedman).
For fall programming, I started with substantial goals. Unfortunately, the changing tides of the world dissolved multiple plans and projects. Around the same time, my budget faced a one-third reduction because of canceled state funding in response to the economic impacts of the pandemic. Again, I needed to readjust my plans. This was the time to respond, not panic.
One unassuming day, a friend sent me an Instagram post by the incomparable Alok Vaid-Menon, writer and performance artist. Due to the shutdowns and inability to perform in person, they shared their email to inquire about virtual engagements. With butterflies in my stomach, I asked ALOK to speak with my community, and their manager replied promptly with a yes. I momentarily swooned from excitement. Upon my revival, I reformulated my plans.
Here was my opportunity. I could connect my community with each other, as well as with outside folx through virtual engagements by bringing an inclusive range of artists that I wouldn’t be able to (financially or logistically) bring in person. Quickly, I typed out an email to Latinos Who Lunch, a podcasting duo who discusses everything from pop culture and art, to issues of race, gender, and class in Latinx communities. Previously, my budget couldn’t support bringing Latinos Who Lunch for in-person programming, but this time I asked about virtual. Again, I got a yes.
Pieces started falling into place. The virtual event with ALOK had nearly four times our average in-person attendees. In the hours and days following the event, attendees reached out to me with words of appreciation for such a meaningful evening. The plans for the Latinos Who Lunch conversation are contemporary, engaging, and—again—meaningful.
The world is transforming around us, and I am grateful to take cue and adapt to the new cultural landscape. While the solutions I have found may not remain effective for long, I’m learning to be more flexible and responsive to challenges faced. Through the collective grief and struggle of our greater communities, I acknowledge and bear the pain this crisis has caused for people around the world. Amid that pain, I also find gratitude for more opportunities to work towards addressing inequalities and marginalization.
I would be remiss to not share that this pandemic has been immensely difficult for me. While I have painted a picture of innovation and success, it has also been a time of heightened anxiety, valleys of depression, and a host of other challenges. As the pandemic endures, I have struggled to sustain my initial ambitions. This year has been a constant reminder that transformation is rarely glamorous.
In a time that is increasingly divisive and rife with misunderstandings, we require connection. When fake news and algorithms seemingly rule our life, we need to hear and speak deep truths. We need to be connected with people of all backgrounds and identities, to know we are not alone, but also that our experience is not the only one that exists. While the current situation demands our physical distance, it is essential to remember connection is possible regardless of proximity.
Screenshot of a Zoom program/Anza Jarschke.
Photo/Rewa Bush.
Borrowing from legacies and techniques of community organizing and community mental health, Anza Jarschke (they/them) is an interdisciplinary arts administrator utilizing an equity mindset approach. A California native, they have a variety of experience in the Bay Area arts scene managing an international artist residency, working for a non-profit art museum, and commercial art galleries. Holding degrees in Fine Arts, Psychology, and Social Justice and Community Organizing, their passion lies in supporting artists and bringing justice to the arts—and beyond. Jarschke has curated art exhibitions in California and Nevada, presented and published psychological research relating to gender and memory, and teaches undergraduate courses ranging from social justice and sustainability to art history and artistic professional practices.
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