The Power of a Blank Screen
Artists teach us to dream
A reflection by Nikiko Masumoto
One day last October, I broke a rule signing into yet another virtual gathering. Early in the pandemic when most of my human interaction shrunk into boxes on screens, I made a well-intentioned rule: Never show up without being present, even on a screen. But after nearly eight months of distance and virtual spaces, my dedication to presence began to falter.
I was failing in my pledge when I signed on to a video plenary session of an ArtPlace summit seven minutes late, with breakfast still uneaten and precariously balanced near one side of my laptop, opposite a formidable to-do list which brought a whole lot of anxiety with it. Did I really have time for this online summit right now? Should I sign off and just march through my tasks for the day? What would I miss out on if I left? I couldn’t decide. So, I attempted to sneak in simultaneous work on email while listening to the session (even though I knew better: No one can do something else and listen in full presence).
Thankfully, my plans were foiled by two artists and a blank screen. What transpired next was a profound restoration of my imagination and the sacred act of dreaming.
As we emerge from unprecedented loss and illness both from a virus and the disease of inequity in this country, we need to dream. We need to dream of futures not yet arrived at, possibilities for healing and reconciliation, visions of peace and the world we deserve.
As the video feed opened, I caught the end of introductions, and the first pair of artist speakers appeared on the screen: California artist Mark Valdez and his East Coast colleague Marty Pottenger. They started their presentation without fuss by asking for the first slide. The two artists immediately began to poetically describe a photo on the slide, only I couldn’t see it. The screen was blank. I felt awkward and worried something was wrong, and it wasn’t just me. A few people tried to be helpful by typing “The slide is blank” and “We can’t see anything” in the live chat box. But the two speakers continued unfazed.
They described in great detail and reverence an “image” of artists whose work and lives demonstrated an essential power of art. They named artists who blazed trails of creativity, dissidence, and liberation. Victor Jara. Simin Behbahami. Bob Marley. Miriam Makeba. Fanny Lou Hammer. Thousands of people at a Black Lives Matter protest. They noted that some of these artists paid a great price for giving us their art as they spoke / speak truth to power. They spoke with love and admiration describing how these artists remind them of the power of artists and art to call us into justice and proclaim longing for freedom and healing.
By the second “slide,” I finally understood what was happening. The anxiety I initially felt when I assumed there was a technical mistake at the sight of the first blank slide changed. My anxiety subsided into warmth, wonder, and imagination. I stopped eating my breakfast. I could not move my attention from the screen; I was entranced by the exercise of imagination.
Without looking at an actual image, I populated their descriptions with my own imagination. I filled the blank screen with faces, moments, signs, and people who I’ve been inspired by — both known and strangers. People whose expressions of humanity tapped into a sacred longing for California that I hold dear: How can we be a home for all people?
Their final slide was an “image” of the future. Mark and Marty shared their dreams of the future which included a thriving planet saved from climate disaster by healers, leaders, peacemakers. Mark described a signing ceremony of some kind of declaration of stewardship and radical love. Then, I can’t remember if the artists described it or if it came from my imagination, but I dreamed this future of women, transwomen, and nonbinary people of color leading the way. I began to weep.
Staring at a blank screen was never more profound. In all the “holding it together” and “being strong” during 2020 and into 2021, I had not allowed myself to imagine what I hope for in the future. This wasn’t a blank slide show; this was a canvas for our collective imagination.
My most fervent wish (that I know I draw from and share with many) for the months ahead is that we do not attempt to return to any kind of “normal.” Instead, I wish that we invite, resource, and make way for artists and culture bearers to nurture our imaginations back to health.
As we emerge from unprecedented loss and illness both from a virus and the disease of inequity in this country, we need to dream. We need to dream of futures not yet arrived at, possibilities for healing and reconciliation, visions of peace and the world we deserve.
Dear reader artist, as you are now in this essay and taking in my words, what are you seeing on your blank canvas?
When you think of the past, of ancestors, creators, artists, or culture bearers who have informed and fueled your life with wisdom, who are they? Can you trace the outlines of their faces? Can you gaze into their eyes? How do they appear, what are they doing, what have they gifted to you and to us?
When you think about today, the state we find ourselves in, who is offering their inspiration? Where are your artist communities? Who are you drawing power from? What flows of creative energy are you a part of? Who do you want to remember from this time? Who is challenging you to dream differently? Where are you finding visionaries and leaders? What are you grateful for today?
When you think of California’s future, what do you see? What do you hope for? Whose voices and needs do you hold central? What does celebration look like? What does achievement look like? What does healing look like? How are you appearing in this future? What is your most sacred dream? What do you need to get there?
In the isolation, anxiety, and difficulty of these last many months, I rediscovered the power of dreaming because of the gifts of artists and a blank slide show. Artists are the most qualified trainers, exemplars, and teachers of imagination. I like to think of imagination as a muscle: We have to use it, to work it, to challenge it in order that it might grow strong and serve us best. Artists and cultural workers are essential to our future: We cannot dream without them, without us.
My most fervent wish (that I know I draw from and share with many) for the months ahead is that we do not attempt to return to any kind of “normal.” Instead, I wish that we invite, resource, and make way for artists and culture bearers to nurture our imaginations back to health. We cannot move forward into better, healthier, more just and equitable futures without the power of dreams. It requires skill, power, and audacity to dream and imagine. With art and creativity, we can dream together.
In California, I like to think of our state as being full of more dreams than any other. Together we are almost 40 million. What do our dreams look like, taste like, smell like, feel like? There is no better way to move forward than to pursue our wondrous and impossible dreams. The blank slide is ours to create.
ABOUT NIKIKO MASUMOTO
Nikiko Masumoto (she/her) is an organic farmer, memory keeper, and artist. She is Yonsei, a fourth-generation Japanese American, and gets to touch the same soil her great-grandparents worked in California, where Masumoto Family Farm grows organic nectarines, apricots, peaches, and grapes for raisins. She activates her facilitation, leadership, and creative skills as a performer and leader in the following organizations: co-founder of Yonsei Memory Project, team member of Center for Performance and Civic Practice re-imagining group, board of trustees of Western States Arts Federation, board of directors of Art of the Rural, and perennial volunteer change-worker. Her most cherished value is courage and most important practice is listening.
Learn more at www.masumoto.com and www.yonseimemoryproject.com.
DREAM is California’s newest arts and culture magazine, published by the California Arts Council, the state’s arts agency.
The annual publication features voices and stories from across the state, sharing a glimpse into the depth of impact of creativity and cultural expression in a region as large and diverse as California. The premier issue explores what it means to dream, introducing artists and culture bearers from communities throughout the state.
Visit www.arts.ca.gov/dream for more information.
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