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Back in January, I finally got around to watching the film Princess Kaʻiulani. It really got me thinking, as I expected it would, and I wrote most of what follows as I watched, pausing for stretches to write. … I think my thoughts have changed somewhat since writing this originally, but it represents therefore my continual process of consideration, exploration, and hopefully growth or progress.

I find it so difficult, since returning to the mainland, to feel like I am sufficiently sympathetic, sufficiently, I don’t know what the word is… politically aligned, I suppose. When I lived in Hawaiʻi, it was so easy to feel like I was on the right side, to feel like I was engaging with these issues every day, and learning from them, and growing. As someone doing Okinawan Studies in Hawaiʻi, it was so easy to feel that I could count myself as an anti-colonialist, anti-Orientalist ally, or whatever the right term may be. I felt I could consider myself fairly well-informed/enlightened, and on the right side of thinking about these things, even if not actively activist. One can certainly be a feminist without being a particularly actively activist – a descriptor of your positions, not of your activity – but is there an equivalent word for being anti-Orientalist, pro-indigenous, and such?

Today, of course, I still feel terribly sympathetic, and I feel I want to be more so. I want to believe that I can truly count myself as thinking, knowing, believing correctly on these issues. But ever since returning to the mainland, I find it much more difficult to do so.

I watch a movie like this one, and of course I’m terribly sympathetic for Hawaiʻi’s plight, and wholly opposed to the actions of the Americans. But I cannot help but worry if my sympathy is too superficial, too weak. And to worry if I am, in fact, still a colonialist/imperialist at heart, an Orientalist, or, worse. I want so much to change, or to feel that I have changed, and while I was in Hawaiʻi, I felt that I had. But I fear that I am, simply by being removed from it, sliding backwards. Even as I edit this post right now, rewriting what I wrote a few months ago, I feel much more hesitant to call myself a “champion” or “advocate” for anything… after all, who the hell am I, and what do I know? I lived in Hawaiʻi for only three years, and though surrounded by certain issues and discourses and whatever everyday, actually took very few real courses or seminars explicitly discussing Hawaiian history or indigenous issues.

I hear the drums and the chants in the film, and see the hula dances, and smile; I feel a jolt of happiness in my heart. But is this the happiness of an Orientalist, who loves it simply for being exotic? As much as I might wish otherwise, it is not, it cannot be, the happiness of a Hawaiian local, much less that of a Native Hawaiian, who can rightfully claim some sense of belonging, growing up within that culture. On the plus side, though, I’ve certainly come to have a negative gut reaction, too, when seeing performances that are Orientalist and potentially offensive… so, that’s something. And, though I hesitate to feel too proud of myself or anything, since it was just last week, but after reading Adrienne Kaeppler’s survey of Polynesian & Micronesian art last week, I do feel that I’ve gained a better understanding and a new appreciation for certain core elements of Pacific cultural attitudes – e.g. about the sacredness of objects. I’ve been terribly busy this quarter, but hopefully I’ll get around to posting thoughts about that book more fully in a separate post sometime soon.

When I was in Hawaiʻi, I felt okay about claiming some association; I may be a haole, and I may not have grown up there, but by virtue of living in Hawaiʻi, and being so warmly accepted by so many people and communities there, it felt only natural to feel some rightfulness in considering myself a member of a community… for months after I left, I felt like I still belonged. I felt like I still had a community, that I had changed and learned and grown in Hawaiʻi, and that I could rightfully consider myself associated with the islands. But, as the months have gone by, I find myself questioning more and more what right do I have to say anything, what right to consider myself a supporter, or an activist, or whatever the word should be. What right do I have to call myself a supporter when I feel so inadequate both intellectually, and emotionally, in understanding these issues, in feeling that passion, and most importantly, so inadequate in articulating the core, fundamental notions of indigenous rights and post-colonial activism? I follow quite a few feminist blogs, for example, which are so brilliantly written… and I don’t feel that I can speak so eloquently, so appropriately, to Hawaiian issues. I fear that in any attempt to say anything, I will say something wrong, or not say enough. I will leave out some crucial aspect, or I will not go far enough in expressing my support. Even just using words like “support” here, I feel like it’s too weak. There surely is a stronger word, but it doesn’t come to mind.

On an intellectual level, I tell myself that Hawaiʻi, just like Ryūkyū or Japan or Korea, just like England or France, was a noble, rightful, proper kingdom unto itself, with its own history and traditions and should not be in any way regarded as lesser. So, I’ve got that. But, I see people all around me, who come from all over the world, calling one another “brother” and “sister” and sharing a connection, some kind of “fellow non-whites” connection, that I simply do not truly feel in my heart, much as I wish I did.

Statue of King Kamehameha I (r. 1782-1819) in front of Aliʻiōlani Hale, across the street from the ʻIolani Palace.

I can go forward, taking courses and reading books, and hopefully someday teaching my own courses and writing my own books, speaking of the nobility of the Ryukyuan and Hawaiian peoples, and decrying the wrongs done to them; I can teach my students that the US is, and was, an imperialist power, and that our government has indeed inflicted great injustices around the world. But, as of right now, at least, there is still a piece missing. If I hang a postcard of a Hawaiian flag upside down on my wall, I feel like a poser, or like I have no proper right to consider myself an ally, a supporter, on these issues. I feel like it’s too easy, like I’m not doing enough, like someone else is going to turn around and tell me I have no right, because I don’t appreciate well enough, or feel strongly enough… And, it’s certainly true that I have marched in no protests, written no diatribes, shouted no slogans.

I feel I wish I had people around me who could validate my attention to these issues, to tell me I do have the right to speak as a supporter of Hawaiian rights. Because it is far too easy, as a white American man from the mainland, as a student and an academic, to feel like I am simply giving lip-service, like I’m simply siding with the radical, liberal side as fashion or something, and not out of genuine feeling. Is that who I am? Sometimes I worry it is. It certainly is terribly easy to feel that one appears that way. … But, even to have a group to affirm that they see me as genuine, is that not itself self-serving, and selfish, and all too easy? And is that not flirting dangerously with problems of authenticity and the cliché of “I’m not racist – I have black friends”?

I’m not sure I’ve ever faced something like this in my life. I sometimes feel I cannot rightfully consider myself a supporter unless I go all the way. Truly all the way. To really immerse myself in cultural community, and to become truly active in political discussions and protests… To put aside all else and truly devote myself to activism in support of these issues – or elsewise, shut up and go home. I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered or engaged with issues that have such strong feelings of ownership as Hawaiian issues (or Pacific Islander issues more broadly). I never needed anyone from Japan to confirm for me that how I felt about, or spoke about, Japan was “right,” or if I did, I got past that long ago, but with Hawaiian (and to a lesser extent, Okinawan) matters, there is such a strong pushback against anything perceived to be offensive, and so – quite understandably, with good reason – it makes it very difficult to ever feel I’ve adopted enough, incorporated enough, of the proper pro-Hawaiian, pro-indigenous, attitudes and understandings. Not that I mean to place the blame on others; I do not mean to say “they” make it difficult. It just is what it is, and I find it so hard to navigate. I hope that in reading more about Hawaiʻi, and in taking seminars on indigenous issues, I might come to feel more secure in my understandings, in my positions, and in feeling a right to speak. But can a few books and a few courses be enough? I certainly feel I have learned and grown and changed a lot from the few courses I have taken in Hawaiʻi, and from the few things I have read. But, perhaps it is a fuller immersion that is required. But when, and how, will I ever get the chance to live in Hawaiʻi again for any extended period? And even if I do, will it all fade and weaken once I leave the islands again, as it has this past year and a half?

Right: Honolulu, seen from the air.
I watch this film, Kaʻiulani, and I want to feel that I understand better, that I feel deeper, than the average filmgoer because of my connection to Hawaiʻi. But do I? Do I really? Can I claim that? I know the names, and the very basic outlines of the history, better than your average filmgoer for whom these events, and the names Kaʻiulani, Kalakaua, etc., are completely new and unfamiliar. And I recognize ʻIolani Palace and Queen Emma’s Palace, and know something, too, of their histories, where the average filmgoer might see these spaces as generic, not understanding the great accuracy with which the film portrays these places (were they filmed on location? Or was it reproduced?). But, so what? Is that enough?

Do I truly have any real connection to Hawaii, that’s more than just something petty, temporary, and tenuous? Is it okay, or is it inappropriate, to claim that? How, and when, if ever, can I feel confident enough to make these claims? And if I cannot, then what?

And, of course, all of these worries simply carry over into my pursuits in Okinawan Studies… I feel far fewer barriers in making these claims in Okinawa – I’ve certainly spoken with enough people in Hawaiʻi, both Okinawan & Okinawan-American students, as well as professors, and members of the local community, plus professors in Okinawa, and so I am able to feel much more comfortable and secure in allowing myself to claim some association with Okinawa, and to speak about Ryūkyū. But, the discourse of “authenticity” is powerful, and the doubts it inspires are powerful, and I simply do not know how to overcome them… though some have tried to reassure me that, at the very least, the fact that I’m thinking about these things, and worrying about them, rather than just striding in un-self-consciously, is an important start.


Some great blog posts today to reshare with you.

*Hyperallergic has a great post today on What Happens When Museums Return Antiquities?.

In summary, numerous museums in the US and around the world have now returned artifacts to origin countries, including Italy, Greece, Turkey, Afghanistan, Australia and Mexico. Many other demands are still ongoing. Through this blog post I learned that the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston just purchased a number of beautiful bronzes in 2012 from a private collector, which Nigeria is now claiming were looted from the Benin Kingdom in 1897. The Benin Bronzes are easily among the most famous instances of the looting of antiquities in conjunction with colonial(ist) violence, but the focus has largely been on the British Museum. Well, whether the MFA does end up returning the bronzes or not, I do hope I manage to make it to Boston to see them first – some of them are really quite incredible examples of the art of these people, the Edo of Benin/Nigeria.

Above: One of the Benin bronzes, at the Metropolitan Museum. Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

Hyperallergic’s post provides a nicely balanced treatment of the issue, noting that in many cases, when objects have been returned, they have not had any dramatically negative impact on the displays – in fact, in many cases, it has brought some great positives. Many objects returned to origin countries were in storage to begin with, and in many other cases, these objects leaving the galleries have created opportunities for other objects already in the collection to be seen. Most museums have no more than 10% of their collections on display at any given time (and that’s a high estimate), and so there’s no danger of empty cases. Plus, the goodwill created by returning objects has allowed museums to forge new relationships with the origin countries, creating greater opportunities for special loans and traveling exhibitions.

Of course, there is also the other side of the debate, and the debate does still continue. As James Cuno of the Getty Trust, and Philippe de Montebello, former director of the Metropolitan, have argued, calls for repatriation are less about rightfulness, culture, or history, and more about contemporary domestic politics within the origin countries, and political ploys to drum up nationalism. They have also pointed out the arbitrariness of the question of how far back in history we go – if the Ottomans brought artifacts from Lebanon to Turkey during the time when all of that was part of the Ottoman Empire, before there was ever an independent state of Lebanon, does that count as looting? And is there any moral obligation to return the objects?

The whole thing is complicated by the fact that, under US law, if a buyer purchases stolen goods in good faith, not knowing they’re stolen, he does gain legal title to the objects (imagine if someone came to your house and told you that your couch, your TV, your iPhone, whatever, were stolen, and so you’re under a moral obligation to return them; and you’re thus screwed out of hundreds of dollars); meanwhile, the law in most European countries states that when something is stolen, the original owner retains legal ownership, and no goodfaith sale can change that.

As you know if you’ve read some of my previous posts, I still remain very much on the fence on this one. There are very compelling reasons on all sides, both in terms of morality or rightfulness, and also in terms of practical repercussions. Thanks to Hyperallergic for another wonderful post.

A brilliant artwork I saw at the Asian Contemporary Art Fair (ACAF) in NY in 2008. Sadly, I do not know the artist. If anyone knows, do let me know, so I can credit it properly, please.

*On a somewhat related note, another Hyperallergic post discusses a new proposed law in New York State which would protect art historians & authenticators from being sued if they incorrectly assess an artwork. As a closely related article on the Art Newspaper explains, scholars have increasingly been hesitant to say anything at all about an artwork, effectively being silenced by the looming potentiality of a lawsuit. So, this is interesting.

An interactive panel at the Sackler Gallery at the Smithsonian, helping translate and interpret classical Chinese.

*Finally today, Lindsay Nelson of “Adventures in Gradland” offers her thoughts on academic writing responding to recent discussions in the New York Times and New Yorker about the style and accessibility of academic writing.

My thoughts on the subject, in brief, are simply this: some writers, especially some of the biggest-name writers – I’m looking at you, Foucault, Derrida, Bourdieau – are unnecessarily difficult to read. They do not explain themselves well, they do not say clearly and directly what they mean to say. They obfuscate. And even once their main idea is explained to you, it’s impossible to go back and find a choice quotable citable spot where they actually say it. BUT, most academics do not write like that. Yes, granted, there are jargon words we use, like discourse and performativity, but if you ask me, these are by no means employed in order to obfuscate, but rather in order to be clear and specific in what we mean to say. Regular everyday words can have a multitude of meanings – what do we mean by “performance” or “ritual”? In everyday language, we use those to mean all kinds of things, and we each have very different understandings of what they mean. But by employing jargon words, we’re able to much more specifically point to specific ideas, specific meanings. And, in truth, I believe that more people need to be more educated in the basics of feminist/gender theory, (post)colonialist discourse, (anti-)Orientalism, and certain other concepts. If we all were given a more solid basic foundation in these things in college, the majority of us would find academic writing a lot more accessible.

Anyway, I certainly appreciate where these critiques are coming from. But, let’s look the other way – we do still have the New York Times, among other publications, and most especially the Economist, which are still quite properly informative, dense with information, which don’t talk down to their readers. But so many magazines are becoming more and more a form of entertainment. Yes, the Internet age has brought a great many very informative, very well-written, and very properly intellectual blogs, such as Hyperallergic, and I do not mean to dismiss those. But, the big-name newspapers and magazines, like TIME, need to go back to playing a role in our society of really properly informing our citizenry. They need to stop trying to be more entertaining, more accessible, and need to go back to expecting, or demanding, that readers be okay with *gasp* being educated.

Yoshida Hatsusaburô

I’ve added a new image into the header rotation. It’s a map of the city of Kagoshima by Yoshida Hatsusaburô (1884-1955), from 1935, visible here on the website of the Maps Communications Museum.

Hatsusaburô’s maps are really something incredible, showing something rather resembling an actual bird’s eye view of what the city might have actually looked like, complete with topography and a few select examples of notable architecture. In a way, they’re the ultimate combination of modern realism of depiction (fine details, correct proportions) and pre-modern bird’s eye views, with nothing of modern abstract cartographic conventions.

You can see more of Yoshida’s maps on recent posts on Shinpai Deshou and Spoon & Tamago, and at the Maps Communication Museum website.

I’ve added a new link to the Theatre section over there on the right. Much thanks to Prof. K. Saltzman-Li for introducing us to this list of available translations of Noh plays, and to Michael Watson of Meiji Gakuin for compiling and maintaining it. The list includes all 253 plays in the active repertoire, plus a handful more. A powerful resource for anyone who has ever struggled to figure out which plays are available in translation, and where to find them.

And, though the interface is quite plain – it really is little more than a pageful of text, with some links – it’s actually a wonderfully useful resource. Not only does it have the list of translations of a play, but gives some of the basic information about each play – presumed author, schools actively performing it, and the category of the play – as well as, in some cases, a bit more commentary or links to secondary sources discussing the work. If even for nothing else at all, just having such a complete list, easily skimmable in romaji, is a great thing to have.

Watson also provides links to:

(1) an extensive bibliography of Premodern Japanese Texts and Translations, including many writings about Noh by Zeami, Zenchiku, and the like, along with numerous other works, from Muromachi monogatari to poetry collections, diaries, and histories.

(2) The UTAHI Hangyō bunko (半魚文庫) website (all in Japanese), which has pure text transcriptions of over 300 Noh plays.

Below: the stage at the National Noh Theatre in Sendagaya, Tokyo. I think. Please correct me if I’m mistaken. Photo my own.

The Tumblr blog When You Work at a Museum posts wonderful, hilarious gifs every day. Having worked at a museum, and being someone who hopes to work at one again, I love these light-hearted pokes at museum life.

A recent post kind of irked me, though. It is titled “The public program has been over for 30 minutes, but the entire audience is still hanging around for some reason.

I’ve worked at museums, and worked events, and I very much sympathize with and understand the desire to be done when you’re done, and to be able to close up and not be forced to linger on. Museum staffers work full days, 9-to-5, if not more, in addition to then staying late to prepare for, set up, and run these events. And for those in certain departments – e.g. Film, Performing Arts – they do this day after day, and of course they’re tired.

But, at the same time, whether as staff or as a visitor, I find that very often I want to talk to others about the experience, to maybe meet others who share my interests, and to otherwise participate as a member of a community. Going to an event and leaving immediately afterwards without talking to anyone is not a way to be or become a member of a community, or a “scene” (e.g. “the NY contemporary art scene,”). Now, I know that museums often cannot afford to provide food & drink (and the labor of setting it up & taking it down) for a reception after every single event, but, all I’m saying is that those events where I got to meet new people, reconnect with familiar faces, share my reactions or thoughts, share in my interests with others, maybe get to ask the staff/curator/performers questions. There’s nothing like a museum event to make you feel like you’re “in,” like you’re a part of something. And there’s nothing like getting kicked out of a museum event with no opportunity whatsoever to talk to anyone about it, to make you feel like you’re an absolute nobody, like you are not, and never will be, a member of any kind of inner circle with that institution.

Tumblr user librarykris responded “From my opinion as an audience member, the measure of how good something is is how long I want to hold on to the experience and stay in the space.” To which the OP responded with some comments I’ll address a bit below. But, there’s more to it than that. I think there is another side of this – it’s not just about wanting to savor the experience, or to have the experience itself last longer. It’s also about wanting to talk to others about it, sometimes especially wanting to talk to the staff, the speaker, the performers. It’s not just about engaging with the art, or the ideas, the presentation, but it is also about engaging with a community, feeling one is a member of the Museum of [insert name here] community, an active, engaged, included member of some circle, some group, some community. It’s about feeling that one is engaging with, or be(com)ing a part of, the art world.

An art opening at the Y Center Gallery in Honolulu, May 2010.

The OP then also says “The above attitude is especially annoying when inconsiderate jabronis think that a museum is the same place as a bar, club, cafe, etc.” How is a museum /not/ a place for such things? Have you never been to an exhibit opening? A museum is precisely the place for such things. Think about the stereotypical art gallery opening. Think about the conversations you have at such an event. Think about how it feels to engage in such an event, to be enjoying art and mingling with others who also love art, to feel like you’re part of a community, an art community, part of the art world in whatever way.

People who love Edo period painting, or contemporary Chinese art, or whatever it may be, all together in a room together all at one time, drinking wine and eating cheese and crackers and talking to one another about the art? People who know me, who remember me, who actually want to talk to me about these topics? I want in. /That/ is the museum experience I’m looking for. The lecture/performance/screening is just the first half – I want to get to know these people; I want to hear what they have to say, their insights and impressions, their recommendations of other shows and artists and events. Think of all the people you’ve met as a museum professional, the wonderful interactions you’ve had, the intense conversations about art or theatre or travel or cultural politics, the recommendations and suggestions and introductions you get from your coworkers on a regular basis. Even just as an intern, I have gotten to see artworks up close, to meet big-name artists, to talk with curators, collectors, and others and have great, stimulating conversations – this is what we get to do behind the scenes at the museum, or in the halls of academia, but there are tons of others – collectors, fans, museumgoers – who want that experience too. And if we show them a lecture, or a show, and then just kick them out, we are only providing half of that.

So, yes, I know better than most just how long hours you work. I know you’re tired, and I know you have to do it all over again the next day (or the next week). And I do very much sympathize. But, running an event and getting to relax afterwards and enjoy the reception, talk to people, be a member of those circles, is the best part of the job (that is, so long as the high-roller donors aren’t obnoxious pricks). Unless, that is, you prefer paperwork and coordinating logistics for a fun event over the fun event itself?

Look, I know what kinds of conversations go on behind closed doors, and we do all need to let off a little steam sometimes. But, please don’t go ranting in public (on the Internet) about your patrons being inconsiderate ignoramuses. We are not just randoms. We are not merely patrons or visitors, filling seats. We are not the anonymous masses, to be simply ushered in and then ushered out. We are artists, students, scholars, collectors, aspiring museum professionals, or just avid museumgoers & lovers of culture – in short, many of us are precisely the same kind of people that you, as a museum professional, as a lover of culture yourself, should want to mingle with, relax with, chat with. You might be surprised at who you’ll meet, the connections you’ll make, the conversations you’ll have. After all, isn’t that what a museum is all about? A space for people to come together and be part of something special, to feel welcome in a space where we can share in our love of art & culture.


Language Log had an interesting post a few days ago discussing the shifts towards Standard Mandarin versions of placenames becoming standard. In short, not only is Hong Kong – known as Hong Kong to countless English and Cantonese speakers – referred to as Xiānggǎng by Mandarin speakers, but now Xianggang is beginning to become more widely recognized as the standard & official placename.

Thinking about this, along with the examples of Tibet (Xīzàng 西藏) and Kashgar (Kāshí 喀什), I can’t help but think that there is an issue here of not only, not simply, pronunciation (i.e. pronouncing the native local name in a Mandarin way), but truly an issue of the Sinification and erasure of local and minority cultures and identities. There’s a reason some people take it very seriously that Hawaiʻi be spelled and pronounced correctly, and indeed a few days ago there was some significant tension in the Hawaii State legislature when Rep. Faye Hanohano presented in Hawaiian, and refused to translate into English, Hawaiian being an official language of the state, though not nearly as typically used or as widely spoken as English. Similarly, there are those who insist on Aotearoa instead of New Zealand, or Uchinaa instead of Okinawa.

I do think this is a serious issue in colonial/post-colonial discourse, and a serious issue in Chinese policy – the Sinification of Tibet and Xinjiang is no accident, but an intentional scheme to normalize the inclusion of these territories and their people within China. But, that said, it’s not as if this is not a common phenomenon throughout the world – we have Cardiff instead of Caerdydd, for example. Of course, we also have countless examples of places being called something different in a different language – España vs. Spain, Deutschland vs. Alemania, Zhong guo vs. Chûgoku, Nihon vs. Riben – but, the key difference here is the denial of local/native people’s ability to determine the standard referent for their own place. Or, is it?

Okinawa seems a sort of half-compromise, where you have placenames like Haebaru which are neither a fully Okinawan version of the placename (Feebaru) nor a fully Japanese pronunciation of the characters – Japanese doesn’t do baru, so a fully Japanized version of the placename would be Haehara. Similarly, Iriomote uses the iri pronunciation from Okinawan, rather than the fully Japanese reading Nishiomote, but also doesn’t go so far as to call it by the Okinawan name, Iriumuti. To name just one example, we have places like Naha and Shuri pronounced in a Japanese or Japanized manner (rather than Naafa and Sui), but then there are also places like Kochinda 東風平, which almost bears its traditional Okinawan placename (Kuchinda), rather than any attempt at a Japanized reading, such as Kochihira. I wonder how these half-and-half placenames came about.

But, in any case, I’m getting a bit off-track. What do you think? Is this just a matter of Mandarin speakers pronouncing things the best they can, and foreign sources (such as the Encyclopedia Brittanica) simply recognizing a genuine shift in word usage? Or is there validity to the (neo-)colonial political concern of erasure of cultural diversity and denial of recognition of cultural identity?

As we near the end of the academic quarter (my school runs on Fall, Winter, Spring schedule, rather than Fall + Spring semesters), things are getting super hectic. So, I don’t expect I’ll be doing any real updates for another couple weeks still. But, in the meantime, I’ve gone and updated the title banners and such!

The new background is a photo I took last summer at Shikinaen, the former vacation palace of the Ryukyuan royal family. What do you think of it? I’m a little undecided. I tried a few different shots of the sea, or of banana leaves, but the blues & greens seemed too bright, made the blog look too bright and light-hearted, so I’m trying out this slightly darker, rougher image.

Thanks to all of you who voted and commented and helped me decide what new name to take for my blog. I think this change has been long overdue. The URL remains the same – http://chaari.wordpress.com – until I can figure out how to change it without losing all my previous posts. So, for now, it’s a purely cosmetic change, I suppose – just the title.

I’m not sure there’s much to say in this post that I didn’t already say in the previous post, as to where I’m getting the phrase “nubui kuduchi” from, and what it means. For a very brief summary, and a nice video, check out the previous post.

I don’t intend to be changing at all what I post, or anything much else about the blog. This will continue to be a space for me to talk about art history and cultural issues, to review exhibits I’ve gone to or books I’ve read, to share about my all-too-rare traveling exploits and adventures, and the like.

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