'i made the cornrows: portraits of Black Nebraskans' by Katharen Wiese

i made the

Katharen Wiese

corn rows: PORTRAITS OF BLACK NEBRASKANS

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Acknowledgments This catalog is dedicated to all of the Lincolnites, as well as the past and present Black Nebraskans, who contributed their images, voices, and personhood to this body of work: knowing you has created space for me in the world to hold all that l am at once.

This catalog can be experienced virtually and with image descriptions for the visually impaired by going to katwiese.com/i-made-the-cornrows.

About Kiechel Fine Art in Lincoln, Nebraska Kiechel Fine Art, established in 1986, specializes in 19th-21st century American Art, Old Master and Contemporary prints, as well as regional and national contemporary art. We represent the estates of several notable artists and private family trusts. Our gallery offers the highest level of services including art consultation and certified appraisal.

We have placed work in corporate, private and museum collections worldwide. Working with private and corporate clients, we strive to build collections with current and future value.

Kiechel Fine Art, 1208 O St Lincoln, NE 68508, 402–420–9553 kiechelart.com, gallery@kiechelart.com

Katharen Wiese

i made the cornrows investigates intersectional identities among African diasporic Nebraskans.

i ntro duction Introduction and subsequent texts

by Katharen Wiese.

T

he history of Black art in America is a history of re-appropriation, protest, and infiltration: a history I am proud to be responding and contributing to, as I navigate my own identity as a multiracial Black woman. i made the cornrows is my first major solo exhibition, for which this catalog is named. The works observe intersectional identities among African-diasporic Nebraskans. The multimedia paintings and prints are generated in response to interviews and collaborative photo shoots, allowing the sitters to be both seen and heard. The artworks and corresponding audio recordings in the exhibit were created in hopes of bringing nuanced representations of Black identity to a wider audience.

Regardless of color or culture, many Black Nebraskans hear “You are the Whitest Black person I know,” meaning: you are either not what someone was hoping for or not what they expected. I did not always know I was welcome to own my Blackness, partly because I have fair skin and saw so few

yellow comes to represent contentment in the flux of decision 2

i made the cornrows

people like myself. In Lincoln, Nebraska my opportunities to explore my racial identity were limited to table talk: mom was chocolate milk and dad was regular. The message: Whiteness = normalcy.

In my undergraduate studies, I encountered paintings

by Kerry James Marshall depicting Black skin with an exclusively black palette, a fully embodied Blackness in Barkley Hendricks’ life-sized paintings, and Lorna Simpson’s photographic investigations of gender and media: subjects I’d longed to see in a museum space.

Among my introduction to Black contemporary art, I seldom found representation of multiracial Black life.

I did not always know I was welcome to own my Blackness.

The term “high yellow” was historically attributed to Black people with light skin, some of whom participated in discriminatory practices like the Brown Bag Test.* Yellowness, or this state of being between races and/or spaces, can mean colorism, can mean oppression, can mean ______, and that is the space I am most interested in: the point at which the body is still deciding what kind of body to be. In my work, Hunny, yellow comes to represent contentment in the flux of decision: a space where binary understandings of race and gender are undermined and made spectral.

* The Brown Bag Test is a documented discriminatory practice within Black communities in Louisiana, Historically Black Colleges and Universities, and social clubs of the 20th century. The test was designed within the African American community to exclude darker-skinned people by comparing their skin to a brown bag. While the test is no longer in favor, the practice of colorism, the prioritizing of lighter-complected individuals over darker-complected individuals is still globally practiced. To learn more, read The Paper Bag Principle: Of the Myth and the Motion of Colorism, by Audrey Elisa Kerr (2005).

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Murray’s, 2018, 26 x 26 in, oil on canvas

reflections on power 4

i made the cornrows reflections on power, 2018, 39 x 24 in, relief print on paper bag

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if a black woman is afraid of the dark is she afraid of a shadow or herself, 2019, 6.5 x 7.5 ft, oil, brown bags, magazines (1995–2019), and lights on panel

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if a black woman is afraid of the dark is she afraid of a shadow or herself The piece, if a black woman is afraid of the dark . . . (2020) is not formally included in i made the cornrows, but the works that follow are in many ways a response to the successes and failures of this seminal work. The central figure, model and activist Cydnee Mame, stands in as a representative for me as a multiracial Black woman navigating my own privilege. In retrospect, I found the equivalence I made between Cydnee and myself to be a diminishment of both our lived experiences: often something as simple as a difference in hair texture can determine the degree of discrimination or celebration one experiences.

I wondered what kind of work might have developed had I interviewed Cydnee and asked about her relationship to colorism, media, and beauty. I understand it as an act of exploitation to manipulate someone’s likeness without their grasping its use, as can often be seen in the propagandizing of the Black figure for political use.

Objectifying Black and brown bodies is commonplace and even celebrated in the history of Western art. i made the cornrows is an alternative to this process of imagemaking, in favor of treating the subject as a co-author in their own self-presentation.

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study for if a black woman is afraid of the dark is she afraid of a shadow or herself , 2019, 16 x 20 in, pencil, ink, letter press, and brown paper bag on paper

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i made the cornrows Miniature scale model for if a black woman is afraid of the dark is she afraid of a shadow or herself, 2019, 18 x 20 in, collage, ink, graphite, colored pencil, and alcohol markers on paper

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i made the

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corn rows:

i made the cornrows

P O RT R A I T S O F B L A C K N E B R A S K A N S

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undeniable presence Included on the right side of the painting is an excerpt from Kwame Dawes’ poem, IT IS NOT AS IF: For no one is blessed with blindness here, No one is blessed with deafness here.

And this thing we see is lurking inside the soft alarm of white people who know that they are watching a slow magical act of erasure, and they know that this is how terror manifests itself, quietly, reasonably, and with deadly Intent.

undeniable presence, 2020, 40 x 30 in, oil, and ink on panel

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Sister Act This painting is an ode to my own sister, who I grew up watching the movie White Christmas (1954) with. Sister Act parodies the movie, replacing the sisters who play musical performers in the movie with the musicians and activists, the Quann sisters. The Quann sisters wear the same cerulean blue colors made iconic by the film’s acclaimed song “Sisters” by Rosemary Clooney.

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i made the cornrows Sister Act, 2017, 30 x 43 in, oil on poster with handmade light frame

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our favorite was yellow (the Lovings)

our favorite was yellow (the Lovings), 2020, 30 x 40 in, oil, magazines, and census form on panel

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Katharen Wiese

water me

water me, 2021, 6.5 x 7 ft, relief prints and acrylic on linen

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i made the cornrows

All These portraits of Dwight Brown were the first works I created in which the sitter was both the subject and narrator of their experience.

In preparation for the following works, I shared the painting Icon for My Man Superman (Superman Never Saved Any Black People— Bobby Seale) by Barkley Hendricks and asked Dwight about navigating his identity as Black and Puerto Rican. Photographer nykelle All Black (a portrait of Dwight Brown), 2020, 40 x 30 in, relief print devivo captured Dwight wearing two handembroidered shirts of his own making. The resulting works possess the same graphic immediacy as Icon for My Man Superman . . ., and assert both Dwight’s Blackness and a refreshing masculinity garnered from his full hair, crop top and long tassel earrings.

Black Left: Hunny, 2021, 43 x 63 in, oil, resin, spray paint, gold leaf, and lights on panel

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Black IDs the Black Identities podcast and bringing voice to the subject

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In January 2021, I shared the first episode of the Black IDs (Black Identities) podcast, a miniseries asking various Black Nebraskans about the experiences and ideas that shaped them. The interviews informed photos, which informed the work you see in the show, making the subject’s voice a central part of the experience of the work. The early interviews started with questions about each individual’s relationship to their Blackness. I quickly realized this line of questions assumed they had already considered their relationship with their Blackness and that it was a significant part of their self-definition.

Instead I asked what ideas, activities, and beliefs shaped their understanding of themselves. Sometimes, people thought of Blackness as a major contributor to their self-definition, but more often they defined themselves by invisible qualities: relationships, spirituality, and culture. Communicating invisible realities challenged me to think differently about materials and space. Some of the interviews do not have accompanying works of art yet, but you will see the reference images that were taken in collaboration with those interviewed.

You can listen to the full interviews on Spotify by scanning the QR code below or using the link bit.ly/BLKIDpod.

Read the transcripts on my website: katwiese.com/blog-and-podcast.

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between spaces, 2021, 26 x 26 in, oil, resin prairie grass, and spray paint on panel

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Coming from the South to Nebraska . . . we were really isolated . . . My encounter with Black culture was kind of split.

—Charlette

The following is from an interview I had with my mother, Charlette Harrington, portrayed here.

CH: Coming from the South to Nebraska . . . we were really isolated . . . I carry this passion for Southern food, Southern hospitality, plants and gardening and nature . . . I think this is because of my sister growing up and being a teenager during the late ‘60s, early ‘70s, and her influence on me, I became a bit of this hippie . . . But then I’ve got this side of me that very much loves this Afropunk scene . . . Some of it is just mind-blowingly fun and creative. And I love the creativity of how people design themselves, how they present themselves. Because it reminds me—I don’t think it’s the Massai tribe, but it’s a tribe that’s very close locale-wise to where the Massai are. The people there dress like nature.

They decorate themselves with paints and flowers and pods and grasses, all sorts of things in their hair, on their skin . . . just all over . . . they look like nature . . . So I relate to people who are believers, who have a love for the Creator. I relate to people who don’t like boxes, are nonconformists, but nonconformists with a love of people, not a rejection of people . . . that’s how I would describe myself.

KW: . . . I had never thought . . .“gardener” as an identity before just now really, or something that has formed the whole

We come from a long . . . [history] of Black people who have been determined to make space for who they are in the world.

And I think that is as much of Black tradition as anything.

—Katharen

family because of grandma . . . growing up as a farmer . . . She owns two properties that are right next to each other. So one property she grows a bunch of roses, and on the other she has kale and peppers.

And every summer I go there and help her garden, and it’s become something that is so precious to me when I think about the time I’ve spent with grandma. And also how I grew up even, like you would pay me a penny for every dandelion I picked from the front yard.

my inner beauty. And I think that’s what Carol Anne and her family taught me. It gave me this wonderful freedom to be Black. I didn’t have to be militant, I didn’t have to be a stereotype. I didn’t have to be anything but me and my internal beauty.

KW: Mmm. That’s a gift.

CH: I hope you edit all this stuff a lot. [laughs] I’m just talking.

KW: That’s a gift. No, you’re good. I think your responses are so thoughtful and that is really beautiful . . . Black culture is tactile. It really is. Like, it smells like something, it looks like something . . . I think about some of the food we grew up eating: green fried tomatoes and fried okra, and greens. And the food, not that ... you gave us, but the food that grandma brought with her from Alabama. Those CH: My encounter with Black culture food traditions I think of as something was kind of split. It was at first not that we’re really blessed to have taken understanding why those stereotypes part of. I wrote down some of those existed and why they were showing Black recipes. And then things that I wish that people always in this light. And then there I had, like I wish we had learned dances. I were these families, like Carol Anne’s, the wish we had learned some of the musical McWilliams, who were well educated, who traditions of Black culture. And that’s not were clean, who were loving, who were something that we have had necessarily. funny. And they gave me a different sense But I also think we come from a long . . . about not just who we were as a people, [history] of Black people who have been but who I was and who I could present determined to make space for who they myself as . . . I didn’t have to live under any are in the world. And I think that is as stereotype . . . I could be who I was and I much of Black tradition as anything. could define that for myself. And that my skin color, my skin tone was an accent to CH: Five dollars, no no no, five cents. I would pay you five cents . . . Then you picked 15,000. I’m sorry, you picked 1,500.

You picked 1,500, so I had to cut it down to pennies because I couldn’t afford you. [laughs]

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a woman made of language, 2021, 48 x 36 in, oil on canvas

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a woman made of language The following poem was written by my aunt, Janice N. Harrington, from her book Even the Hollow My Body Made Is Gone (2007). My aunt writes poetry and children’s books, inspired in part by her early life in rural Alabama and Nebraska. She is portrayed here in her home alongside her husband, Robert Parker. My aunt chose not to participate in a formal interview, but I am grateful to include her poem here with her permission and the generosity of BOA Editions.

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BENHAM’S DISK

by Janice N. Harrington

is a toy with patterns of black and white.

When it spins, the eye sees arcs of color.

1 Mutation Beside a rolling tire, a child skips, striking its side, a-tap, a-tap, with a green switch.

Italicized words express early Renaissance ideas, adapted from Alison Cole, Eyewitness Art: Color.

Over 90 percent of the matter in the universe is invisible.

To make a purple dye, crush Purpura patula snails in a black cauldron.

On the phone, her niece exclaims, “Yesterday I was white but now I’m black.”

Maggots floating in yellow broth.

Purple flowers are symbols of mourning in Ixmiquilpan.

For brown paint, seventeenth-century artists ground Egyptian mummies to powder.

Tomorrow, grind a memory to dust.

Compare its color to an old lampshade’s.

In the next moment, a chromatophore’s mutation may alter everything.

Wear a white rose if your mother is dead.

Evolution: mottled moths on a grey chimney.

In China, white is the color of mourning.

The moonlight weeps.

Six blind men cannot see an elephant.

Roll a pomegranate against a hard surface.

Perforate the skin: suck.

Garnets of juice roll down your chin. Let them.

Mulatto: of mixed breed, from the Spanish for mule.

Anything that cannot reproduce itself.

Vision is born of violence. All your memories are mulattos.

In Mammoth Cave, a woman opens her hand.

Inside her palm—more darkness.

Evolution: a child born the color of mourning.

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2 About Light

In sixth grade, Sister Amata said that without light, there is no color; everything is black.

Bright and clear colors reflect the beauty of God’s creation.

Her father never let her wear red.

Mixed colors, being corrupted, are inappropriate for expressions of divinity.

Light: what we each absorb, what we reflect.

In Pippin’s Man on a Bench, a man rests easy on a red bench, his arm angled and draped against red slats, his foot stretched out and crooked, just a man restin’ easy on a red bench.

No one sits beside him.

Her father said, only niggers wear red.

i made the cornrows

3 Chromatophore A pigment cell, esp. one capable of changes of form or concentration of pigment, causing changes of color in the skin.

Beside an abandoned mine, rhubarb stalks push through black dust.

With slaked lime and vinegar, I could paint your skin.

With burnt bone and chimney soot, I could paint a woman weeping.

4 Color Blinded Hydrangea require acidic soil to change color.

In Urbana, a woman throws her wardrobe away.

The chart says her season is winter; pastels are inappropriate.

A jump rope with green handles and a long-legged girl.

Say, a jumpin’ rope and a long-legged girl.

Bumblebees see hues and patterns invisible to the human eye.

Open your eyes! Open your eyes! Open both eyes!

Chromatic: 1. Of or pertaining to color or colors.

2. in music, utilizing freely the half-step interpolations in the diatonic scale.

My hand rests against the ridge of my husband’s hip.

A brown hand, dark knuckled, it lies there exposed.

In a Jewish cemetery, a man tosses a trowel of sand.

A scale of notes slides from each grain, grief’s descant: yellow sand falling into an open grave. The man weeps.

I love you. Why camouflage tenderness?

My niece calls and exclaims, “Guess what.

Yesterday I was white but now I’m black.”

Let a red bench stand for a man’s life.

Sit him upon it, throw his arm back against its red slats, sprawl his legs outward. Squint a little and look.

See? A body caught in barbed wire. A body on the edge of no man’s land and the wire is red, red, red.

Salt, tenderness, heat, and insubstantial light: the skin’s vocabulary.

Tomorrow, without race, we will go like blind men searching for elephants.

Say we’re all jumpin’ rope with that long-legged gal.

Say we’re all twirling a green-handled rope, waitin’ a turn with that long-legged gal.

The insufficiency of vision: what haven’t you seen?

A blind man holds an elephant’s trunk, crying aloud “We have reached paradise. O Eden’s black serpent!”

Credit: Janice N. Harrington, “Benham’s Disk” from Even the Hollow My Body Made Is Gone. Copyright ©2007 by Janine N. Harrington.

Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of BOA Editions, Ltd., www.boaeditions.org.

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both eyes open I do a lot of assemblage and collage . . . which is how my identity is . . .

Taking these separate parts of myself that feel completely opposite and incongruent and trying to fit them together.

The following is from an interview I had with artist, naturalist, and organizer, Joelle Wellansa Sandfort, portrayed here.

. . . the act of creativity is a spiritual practice . . . looking at a lot of the creation stories, the world is in this continual process of creation. And as we are created, and we come into the world, we also have this drive to create, and to have something come through us out into the world and manifest itself. And so I think that creation itself is kind of spiritual.

I think, my own fear, in some senses of bringing up these really politicized potentially topics through my work, there’s part of me that just wants to have that freedom to just make whatever JWS: I’m interested in intention, presence feels good and not have to focus on that. and connection . . . I’m trying to use my But the last couple years, I’ve been having faith as a tool to learn more about the more ideas that are centered on my world. And to learn more about others. heritage, and just trying to explore that Something that is really important to through the creative process. So I have me, and has been in the last few years in ... some ideas for some performance pieces my spiritual journey, is spending a lot of that I’d like to be doing in the future, time in nature . . . the otherness of these . . . KW: How do you think your art has been that kind of integrate this feeling of the plants and animals that I can’t necessarily related to you kind of navigating your own in-between spaces I guess that I directly communicate with, but just personhood or your own identity? Or has experienced a lot in my life more directly. learning and gaining a sense of creativity your own processing of that manifested But I do think a lot of my processes kind and connection from that. And then itself in your work and how? of mimic that. I do a lot of assemblage there’s almost like a restorative aspect and collage and sewing and weaving. So to that process, which makes it easier JWS: Oh I think a lot of different ways. everything that I do is taking separate for me to connect with other people, I think I really struggled to know the things and putting them together, which because I’m an introvert. And so it’s really balance . . . I feel this drive sometimes to is how my identity is . . . Taking these hard for me to have that energy to make art that is identity driven. But also, separate parts of myself that feel connect with others . . . it’s almost this when I was in college, I think there was completely opposite and incongruent well that I can draw from to have this this pressure to not go that route from and trying to fit them together. professors and kind of like underlying sense. I know that there’s a sense of peace, underlying everything in that sense tone of you shouldn’t do that. And also,

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i made the cornrows both eyes open, 46 x 60 in. oil and marbled paper on canvas mounted on canvas

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Note: The following interviews are accompanied by reference images for forthcoming works of art. Photographs were made in collaboration with those interviewed.

Well, I am my favorite canvas.

I am my first canvas.

The following is from an interview I had with business owner and nail artist Imagine Uhlenbrock, pictured right.

IU: Well I am my favorite canvas. I am my first canvas. I was an only child until I was sixteen. A lot of people ask me how I got into nail art. I started painting my own nails when I was four years old because it was something I could do by myself. And now that I am getting older, making it important as an act of self-care . . . The most liberating thing you can do is love yourself. The most radical thing you can do as a Black person is prioritize your joy . . . there are so many systems in place that are supposed to keep us down . . . Being miserable is the status quo. So the most radical thing you can do as a Black person is be joyful.

Reference image from a photo shoot with Imagine Uhlenbrock in preparation for future work, Katharen Wiese, 2021

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You let them know who you are instead of them defining it for you.

Reference image from a photo shoot with Addis Browne in preparation for future work, Katharen Wiese, 2021

The following is from an interview I had with business owner, hair stylist and mother, Addis Browne, pictured above.

AB: What I wish now that I would have had—but at the same time I really didn’t want it as a kid—I wish I had representation just of Black women looking and living different than whatever stereotype I thought in my head. I think being in Lincoln Christian and literally there were . . . five minorities, or five not white people, there in the whole school, but I loved it. My parents were like “you should go to East [high school], you would thrive there.” They wanted me to go to a public school. I was just so content and I was thriving at Lincoln Christian and loving it, so even though I didn’t have that kind of representation, even though I didn’t have that at that time, I think even if they would have tried to get me to be more

culturally connected, I don’t think I was interested because at that time I was interested in just trying to fit in and be what I saw, you know. ...

AB: In my twenties when I needed to start seeing some representation there was Instagram and there was Facebook and even for me, it’s just I know that I help represent another type of Black woman that I didn’t have, for my daughter or any other Black girl. ...

AB: Ultimately, what Samara, as a woman, and also a Black woman to just—and it sounds so cliché because I feel like a lot of moms, like a lot of people, just want this for kids—to know their value. What I see

in her is she is just this ferocious lioness right now and strangers will come up and be like “she gots this energy,” you know, or people will see a picture and be like, “I don’t know her but I feel like she is just so strong.” I just hope she doesn’t lose that. I have been reflecting on ways in my early childhood and adolescence when I kind of gave up my power and I just lost my own standing on things —ultimately I didn’t know my value, I didn’t know what I could bring: what I could bring in a relationship, that I didn’t have to take that kind of shit, you know like all the stuff. So you know that is what I wish to instill in her: that when anyone questions anything about you, that you know where you stand, you know and you can let them know, with kindness and sometimes with curse words if you need [laughs] you let them know who you are instead of them defining it for you.

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I think it's really about creating space, I really do.

When I work through my art, I'm trying to create space.

And for Sister Time, she's creating a path for this deaf, Black narrative.

The following is from an interview with artist, activist, and educator Artie Mack, portrayed here. The conversation begins with a discussion of Artie’s illustrated story of a super-powered Black deaf family and a specific artwork illustrating the origin of this imagined world.

KW: I really love the story about Auntie Time. She’s dancing. You talk about how she can’t stop moving . . . and she can’t hear anything. She’s like dancing to her own music or whatever it is that she’s hearing. And as she’s dancing, she kicks over time the sands of time . . . the sun is following her, and this is why the world spins. So you’ve created a creation story.

And the creation story is created by this sort of accident . . . I see this ongoing narrative in your work of both broken things, and disabled people being like the source of life, and the source of new worlds, which is so—it’s beautiful. That’s beautiful.

So I just want to know, for you personally, or just thinking about your world, like how has your deafness opened up

possibilities for you? And how has your relationship to your deafness changed throughout your life? And because there’s kind of like a parallel I’ve seen between these characters. They’re like a reflection of your experience in a way too. And so I’m curious about that moment, does that mean something to you specifically?

AM: . . . I think when I reflect and think about my relationship with my deafness, especially in that piece and just in my art in general, it’s . . . almost . . . like that breakthrough connection . . . when you think about the piece and how time shifts when the glass has been broken through her movement, and through her rhythm, I think what it was really about is . . . claiming space. The broken glass to me is . . . representation of being kept inside something, and once you sort of break that then things can start moving. I’ve always struggled with my deafness my entire life. It’s always been something I’ve struggled with, not because it made my life harder for me, but because of how I interact with people and people making life harder. The physical sensation of

Sister Time or Aunty Time moving, is really about not caring about what’s going on around you, and just being able to break free.

And for me, in that picture, there’s this sense of freedom because I love to dance.

And I know that a lot of people think that deaf and hard of hearing people can’t dance, that we can’t listen to music and we can’t respond to rhythm. I would argue that because of our relationship with sound, we’re actually a lot more sensitive to vibration and impacts. And so, of course, we feel it, you know, it’s a very intense thing for me. And so I think, going back to what I was talking about, like the cooking and the education and the dancing, I think that’s just how I feel alive, I think. Yeah, really, when I create these mythologies and all of these Black women who are shaping the future for the contemporary characters. I think it’s really about creating space, I really do. I think it’s just about . . . When I work through my art, I’m trying to create space. And for Sister Time, she’s creating a path for this deaf Black narrative.

Left: Reference images from a photo shoot with Artie Mack in preparation for future work, Katharen Wiese, 2021.

Graphic treatment of images by designer Adria Chilcote.

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Conclusion When I was fifteen I walked into my fast-food job with a section of cornrows above my left ear. Upon arriving my coworker announced, “Oh my God, you are Black,” like my Blackness needed to be performed to be real. This catalog is for the young woman rolling up to dinner with strangers to have their first inquiry be, “What are you?” It is for the others struggling to belong to a them or an us.

My blackness needs no announcement. I made the cornrows, they didn’t make me.

Colophon This catalog was designed by Adria Chilcote and printed in Lincoln, Nebraska, March 2022. adriachilcote.com A note on the fonts used in this catalog This catalog uses many variants of the Freight collection of fonts for the majority of the text. Originally drawn in 2005 by Black type designer Joshua Darden and expanded several times over, the Freight collection of typefaces is renowned for its historical innovation and ongoing popularity.

HWT Lustig Elements, a revival of Euclid originally designed in the 1930s by Alvin Lustig, is used for large titles. It is a part of The Hamilton Wood Type Collection (HWT). The classic designs in this collection are based on scarce printed specimens and actual wood type from the historic artifacts at the Hamilton Museum.

Recent Grotesk, designed by Eric Olsen, is a contemporary family of typefaces with influences that start with 19th century wood type and travel through into present day.

It is used for smaller titles in this catalog.

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