t-art magazine / volume 4 / fall 2024

Are Foreigners Everywhere? Critical Musings on the Venice Biennale • Before We Donated Libraries to Universities, We Donated Art to Institutions • Marie Laurencin’s Sapphic Paris • Raindrops, Dahlias, Home • Fading Film • Immersive Virtual Art

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volume 4

t-art

t-art magazine explores the intersections of art, technology, and culture, fostering dialogues to push the boundaries of art and design.

Editor’s Letter Welcome to the fourth volume of t-art magazine, a publication dedicated to bridging the gap between artists and innovators within the Penn community.

After three semesters of work and a brief hiatus, we are excited to reignite t-art and continue its mission since its founding in 2019: to amplify emerging artistic voices, offer critical insights on the art world, and cultivate a dynamic creative community at the University of Pennsylvania.

This issue explores the evolving intersections of technology, art, and design, challenging conventional narratives in the contemporary art world. In “Are Foreigners Everywhere?: Critical Musings on the Venice Biennale” and “Embodied Worlds, Immersive Art,” writers Greer Goergen and Leha Choppara dissect the frameworks and the curatorial decisions behind provocative exhibitions. Meanwhile, “Marie Laurencin: Sapphic Paris” by Dylan Grossmann offers a personal reflection on how feminist art shaped a new bond between mother and daughter. We also feature photography and experimental art from artists of the Penn community.

As you turn these pages, we invite you to consider your own place in the evolving landscape of technology and art; what does the future of their intersection mean to you?

Thank you to our incredible t-art team, whose dedication, patience, and optimism made this issue possible, and to Jessica Lowenthal and the Kelly Writers House for their unwavering support.

Lorraine Ruppert, Greer Goergen Editors in Chief

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Image produced on Midjourney and prompted by Sarah Yoon on 10/15/2024: “Cake with ‘t-art’ text in icing in the style of Wayne Thiebaud” 2

Contents Are Foreigners Everywhere?: Critical Musings on the Venice Biennale Greer Goergen

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Raindrops & Dahlias Emily Whitehead

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Pearl V Spencer Grogan

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Marie Laurencin: Sapphic Paris Dylan Grossmann

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Heart Girl Noelani O’Hare

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Embodied Worlds, Immersive Art Leha Choppara

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Taiwan Streets Joey Yu

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Before We Donated Libraries to Universities, We Donated Art to Institutions Dylan Grossmann

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Untitled Noelani O’Hare

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Are Foreigners Everywhere?

Critical Musings on the Venice Biennale

Yael Bartana, Light to the Nations, 2022-24.

Venice, German Pavilion.

Image Lorraine Ruppert.

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GREER GOERGEN

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isplaying Yinka Shonibare’s colorful life-size Refugee Astronaut (2015) and a suspended green neon sign reading “Foreigners Everywhere,” in front of a silver metallic textile from the Maori Mataaho Collective which spans both walls and ceiling, the entrance space at Adriano Pedrosa’s Nucleo Contemporaneo certainly primes the visitor for an innovative, multi-media experience.

The exhibition has brilliant moments and raises vital questions, yet at times reestablishes the art historical canon it seeks to dismantle, endangering the re-primitivizing of certain artists and favoring an essentializing rather than fluid identity structure. In the third room, the viewer is submersed in a mobile installation from an art collective, a social mediaesque constellation titled the Disobedience Archive, created by 56 artists and concentrating on political action and artistic practice – with two macro-sections Diaspora Activism and Gender Disobedience – which encompass Pedrosa’s representational goals.

Perhaps inadvertently, the videos all underscore certain currents of pathos and ethos – characterizing gender and queer struggles more victoriously than issues of migrancy and otherness. This trend, whether intentionally or not, sets up the rest of the Nucleo Contemporaneo, begging the question, what are the effects of proposing gender and queer liberation as celebratory, and projecting migrancy or foreignness as hopeless and violent? And is this provocation deliberate, or a side effect which speaks

to broader social issues? Additionally, the privileged circumstances of certain gender/ queer struggles arise in direct opposition to the harrowing depictions of colonialism and migrants which are to follow, which begets a third question, why are they all equally labeled “foreign,” and does this trivialize or level the diverse nature of experiences?

Pedrosa’s assertion that “We are all foreigners” is sometimes tired and flat, as there exists the potential to diminish the very real, terrifying experiences of exiles, weakening the concept in affirming its uncontested universality.

However, just beyond Disobedience Archive, is a particularly compelling positioning of window bars and exteriors represented in mosaics, photographs, and three-dimensional statues, cultivating the “outsider” in the viewer themself, indiscriminately positioning them on the exterior. Through this emphasis, three artists are put in dialogue to create poignant narratives of the outsider – reiterating that we, the visitor, are foreigners too. The curatorial decisions in this room subvert the viewers’ understanding of their place at the biennale itself, one of Pedrosa’s 5

more successful approaches to his theme.

Kiluanji Kia Henda’s Geometric Ballad of Fear (2015), consisting of nine photographs capturing buildings’ facades through white painted window grates, documents protection and boundarymaking forms prevalent in the Global South.

Directly adjacent to this, in The Geometric Ballad of Fear (Sardegna) (2019), Kia Henda superimposes geometric patterns – which resemble window bars from the first series – over black and white shots of the Mediterranean coast in Sardegna. The cliffs and crashing waves seem unconquerable, unnaturally captured behind cages of geometric lines and shapes, places which are nowhere near windows. This juxtaposition between protection and permeability comes to life in Kia Henda’s A Espiral do Medo (2022) in the center of the large hall, a rusted metal structure comprised of railings taken from buildings in Luanna; remnants originally used to protect those inside, now rendered a transparent ruin. This mediation on the “outsider” and protection stands just before Dana Awartani’s Come, Let Me Heal Your Wounds. Let Me Mend Your Broken Bones (2024), a massive construction hanging from the ceiling, composed of vibrant yellow, deep orange, and pale beige fabrics, in which labors of restorative care express destruction in the Middle East. Through dialogue between the works, the discussion of the outsider and landscape points to larger themes of colonialism.

By positioning such a large and compelling piece in the context of the externality and vulnerability of Kia Henda’s works, and explicitly questioning who is denied or allowed entry to land or space, Pedrosa seems to further an argument on colonial possessions and subsequent destruction of land.

Awartani’s piece masterfully posits multiple meanings to the term “at risk,” as the textile material pieces, like the landscapes they represent, are also 6

vulnerable – in a sense the medium is the message, as contemporary consumption habits mirror the violence and destruction of landscape and people rendered visible in the work. Also in the space is Lebanese artist Omar Mismar, whose mosaic works represent scenes of damage inflicted in Syria and its cultural sites, reappropriate Classical traditions and subvert and reclaim the ancient tesserae medium to also capture contemporary, queer spaces. Interestingly, the resurgence and reworking of ancient Greek myth is raised again in the Lebanese pavilion, through a chaotic, multimedia remodeling of Princess Europa’s myth. Pedrosa positions Mismar’s Hunting Scene (Still from a YouTube video of a barrel bomb falling on Daraya) (2019-2020), as the first of his works, which depicts decimation through the heartshaped bars on a balcony, implicating the viewer as an observer of the violence, both protected and mocked by the metal pieces, and juxtaposing the speed of digital creations with the slow mosaic medium. The room artfully subverts the visitor’s understanding of land ownership, emphasizing the violence and destruction in claiming land and authority, and asserting the outsider-nature of everyone.

Dana Awartani, Come Let Me Heal Your Wounds, Let Me Mend Your Broken Bones, 2024. Venice, Arsenale.

Image Marco Zorzanello.

The next room contains a series of large screens, Bouchra Khalili’s The Mapping Journey Project, (2008–11), which physically and symbolically traces individual migrants’ journeys, recording their hands as they sketch lines and discuss their movements across borders. Circular viewing benches accommodating almost two people accompany each screen but are distinctly awkward and uncomfortable. At first annoyed, I soon realized this was a factor of the installation itself; the viewer’s bodily discomfort is juxtaposed with the stories projected in front of them. I believe the artist is one who tackles the exhibition’s political queries directly. The basic maps could come from any American elementary school classroom, their colorful geographies hauntingly contrasted with the peril the migrants describe. However, I found The Constellation Series, celestial representations of the journeys, completely fell flat – cheesy and meaningless, they strip the expeditions of importance and memory, romanticizing and trivializing the dangerous stories into dreamy spaces. In what seems to be a specific subversion of the artist’s hand, it is interesting to consider how Khalili’s documentary aesthetics and deskilling is considered a formal idiom, and the juxtaposition of a certain “deskilling” of the Western art praxis in conjunction with the legibility of “primitive” painting.

The question of “primitivism” – and distinction between “artmaking and making” – looms large over the show, leaving the viewer to ask themself, does the work here reaffirm beliefs on textiles as crafts or elevate them within and expand the artistic canon? The movement of textiles from earlier classifications into the contemporary art world is now clearly accepted, but pieces here are not all successful; for example, Antonio Jose Guzman’s Orbital Mechanics (2024), in which a cacophony of sounds accompany draped blue textiles, does not necessarily speak to its stated

Bouchra Khalili, The Mapping Journey Project, 2008-11.

Venice, Arsenale. Courtesy of Bouchra Khalili.

function of exploring intercultural structures of connection across the Black Atlantic. Additionally, the specific focus on identity seems to contradict the concepts underpinning the show, that people and ideas are fluid and moving, and that foreignness is everywhere, a naive essentialism.

By insisting on the newness of every artist and listing out essentializing “facts” of their identity in each wall text, the curators take away from the art itself. Although these artistic inclusions are a significant step in the right direction, at times the curators limit the potential for expanding the art world and reestablish the artist and art as outsiders to tradition, prohibiting them from seamless ideological entry. This reinforces a canon rather than dismantling it – “this is the first time the work of (insert name) is presented at Biennale Arte” is repeated innumerably. Because art helps us to deny assigned bodies and geographies which work as tools for authorities that be, the repeated emphasis on identity markers does not always serve Pedrosa’s exhibition well. Xiyadie’s display exemplifies this obsession with categorization, as he is described as “a father, farmer, gay man, migrant worker, and artist,” and who has four large 7

works of papercuts depicting graphic, phallic scenes of the artist’s queer awakenings and love, which ultimately seem less about the artist’s identity markers than complex musings of shame, guilt, and bliss.

Effectively, the show begs the question, is the artist’s identity more important than what they produce, as the geolocation of artistic voices can merge with political embodiment to virtualize artist positions. In this vein, Pedrosa fails when he includes a work for the sake of the themes it touches on or what the artist’s identity encapsulates. For example, Ahmed Umar’s Talitin, The Third (2023) records the artist performing a Sudanese bridal dance alone, floating amidst a black screen, purportedly reclaiming the practice after he was excluded for his gender. Not particularly intriguing or utilizing the video’s format to its full extent, the piece leaves the viewer unsatisfied, but checks a box regarding fluidity and gender identity, while not powerfully subverting or revolutionizing anything. Another work which completely missed the mark for me, a commentary on gender which completely lacks conceptual subtly, was Barbara Sanchez-Kane’s Prêt-a-Patria (2021), a fiberglass and steel sculpture of three militarily outfitted men connected vertically by a giant gold pole, whose gender identity is “subverted” by the inclusion of feminine products like lingerie and make-up. When fluid identity and artistic queering are relevant to a specific piece, such as Shalom Kufakwatenzi’s Under the Sea (2023) which uses the materiality and dynamics of loose fabric to beautifully and subtly mimic queerness, the significance is almost drowned out by the emphasis attached to identity in all the other works.

This identity-fixing rings especially true in Italians Everywhere, a somewhat kitsch take on the

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Biennale’s overarching framework. The installation contains dozens of works by Italian diasporic artists, both contemporary and historical, with each work floating on a stand of glass, the painting’s information written on the reverse. Pedrosa intentionally makes spatial movement intrinsic to the room, literalizing the concept that we must revisit and reexamine history – the viewer looks at a work, moves past it to read the information, then returns once again to the front of the piece.

I appreciate the curatorial work to recreate this movement physically and symbolically through history, insisting on the necessity of this framework in the future. Although, I think this technique would be more successful if the works were more thought provoking and the theme more compelling than Italians Everywhere, which seems again to trivialize the “outsider” and critically locates fixed identity at the center of an artist’s work and life. If those in the Italian diaspora fled, migrated, or chose to

Barbara Sanchez-Kane, Prêt-a-Patria Khalili, 2021.

Courtesy of Barbara Sanchez-Kane.

leave, Pedrosa is inadvertently demolishing their personal histories and the fluidity of their identities, forcing the artists and art into a specific category to meet the qualifications of his show.

The final room of the exhibition completely submerges the viewer before they exit. Wang Shui’s beautiful etchings cover the entirety of the windows – but are almost drowned out by a gimmicky LED structure at the back of the room, emitting low hums which don’t entirely convey any meaning but supposedly meditate on the dematerialization of identity. This last room feels – literally and symbolically – like a shot

in the dark, a last-ditch attempt to ground the exhibition aesthetically in “contemporary art,” using a piece that looks and feels innovative at first glance. I don’t mind the juxtaposition between the dark installation and subsequent emergence and rebirth into daylight, but I wish the visitor was left with a more powerful piece, one which concentrated on the show’s political messaging or awed the visitor with its artistic endeavors. In light of the overarching materiality of the show – dominated by textiles and paintings – the decision to leave the viewer with an alternative form feels out of place; an attempt to showcase the curator’s contemporary eye for novelty.

Wang Shui, Lipid Muse, 2024. Venice, Arsenale.

Courtesy of Kurimanzutto.

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Raindrops 2024 Emily Whitehead @emilywhiteheadphotography

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Dahlias 2024 Emily Whitehead @emilywhiteheadphotography

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Pearl V 2024 Spencer Grogan @aporiaura 15

Marie

Laurencin

Sapphic

Paris

Dylan Grossmann

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his past Penn Parents weekend – between our gluttonous meals in Center City – I decided to entertain my parents by taking them to the Barnes Foundation, to show them the walls that cure my worst days on campus. Off we went to my refuge; I had practically memorized my route to view my favorite pieces, but my comfortable monotony was broken by Barnes’s sparkling new exhibition. “Marie Laurencin: Sapphic Paris,” turned my trite family outing, along with my understanding of modern art, upside down.

Immediately captivated by the exhibition’s drawing point “Laurencin’s World Without Men”, my mom and I stepped into the

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sapphic, ultra-feminine life of Laurencin. A jovial ambiance enveloped us as we viewed Laurencin’s self-portraits. I was enthralled by how she captured her changing self view through her chronological portraits, how her depictions not only followed the fluidity of her artistic voice but established her aura as deeply feminine, nearly ethereal. She skillfully highlights the most nuanced facets of her identity in each portrait – her suspected Creole heritage to her lesbianism – grappling with herself through a canvas medium.

Born in Paris as an illegitimate child to politician Alfred-Stanislas Toule, Laurencin had abundant access to a renowned art education. In 1904, she entered the Académie

Marie Laurencin, Woman Painter and Her Model (Femme peinte et son modèle), 1921. Oil on canvas.

François Odermatt Collection. © Fondation Foujita / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris 2023.

Humbert where she met fellow students George Braque and Francis Picabia, who introduced her to Pablo Picasso. In 1907, she became a part of Picasso’s artistic circle and joined the ranks of the top Cubist artists.

The Cubist works shown at the Barnes were captivating in their dazzling femininity.

Laurencin’s cubism was lush, dainty, and gentle in relation to her male counterparts.

The female subjects of her works are shown in obvious relations, only the sharpness of the cubist style to subtle the sapphic undertones.

I believe Laurencin’s works Le Bal élégant, La Danse à la campagne, and Two Women at Piano are decisively the pieces that warrant the name on the exhibition’s letterhead “Sapphic Modernity.”

As we walked further, a small frame hung solo on the wall of the following room (an anomaly for the Barnes Foundation), flanked

by Laurencin’s poem “The Sedative” and the description of her exile, The Prisoner II was a sobering contrast to the girlish femininity of her earlier works. While married to the German baron and artist Otto von Wätjen, she became a German national and lost her French citizenship. In reaction to WWI, she was forced to leave France, residing in Spain for five years. As being a Parisian woman was so deeply critical and foundational to her understanding of her identity, she spent her exile uninspired and in agony. The Prisoner II captures her deep despair, her lifeless portrait looking out from behind a chainmail curtain. Again, a testament to the fusing of her identity and her artistry.

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Upon her return to her life in high society Paris, women involved in the same upper-crust Parisian circle as Laurencin commissioned her to immortalize themselves. Her portraits hung in a room fittingly titled Women Supporting Women, composed of impressively high society women such as steamship enterprise heiress Lady Cunard and Paris socialite Baroness Gourgaud.

Most famously, her portrait of Coco Chanel shows the women’s-wear icon in a toneddown fashion, strikingly dissimilar to her historical other portrayals. Laurencin’s selfassured nature bled into her portraiture.

As she depicted herself, she showed her subjects as they were, not who they were largely perceived to be. Finally, her portrait of beauty tycoon Helena Rubinstein, landed Laurencin’s work a spot in the most prestigious collection of modern art at the time — that of the sitter herself.

The prominence of “Marie Laurencin: Sapphic Paris” long outlasted our family outing to the Barnes Foundation; for the remainder of the weekend, Laurencin’s work filled the conversations and thoughts of my mother and I — reeling in the celebratorily feminine world Laurencin created for us. To a quick onlooker, her exaggerated femininity may have been just that, but open-minded viewers saw the underlying connection to queerness and womanhood. When you step into the exhibition, you step into Laurencin’s life, and you feel like you know her intimately after — the triumph of an artistic career.

Top: Marie Laurencin, Women with Dove, Dove, 1919. Centre Pompidou – Musée National d’Art Moderne, Paris. © Fondation Foujita / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris. Photo: Jacques Faujour / CNAC/ MNAM, Dist. RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY. Bottom: Marie Laurencin, Portrait of Mademoiselle Chanel,, 1923. Centre Pompidou – Musée National Chanel d’Art Moderne, Paris. © Fondation Foujita / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris. Photo: Jacques Faujour / CNAC/MNAM, Dist. RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY.

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Heart Girl 2024 Noelani O’Hare @13noenoe 20

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teamLab Borderless (rendering). © teamLab. 22

Embodied Immersive Leha Choppara

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eander through scenes from worldfamous artists, step into a matrix of lights that extend into an endless void, or put on a VR headset that puts you at the center of it all. This is immersive art, a polarizing term most people would react to with either strong appreciation or disdain — there is little in-between. Yet, no matter one’s opinion on the medium, the rising popularity of immersive art is undeniable.

Perhaps the most (in)famous instance is the Van Gogh “Immersive Experience,” where the post-impressionist master’s work is blown up and projected onto an exhibition space, accompanied with atmospheric music, animation, and curated scents. Though art critics disparage immersive exhibits as vapid and uninspired, museums are taking note of

Worlds, Art

their success and artists are finding ways to innovate and create in the medium.

The highest profile immersive art exhibits are those that display the most commonly recognisable artists, the likes of Van Gogh, Kahlo, Monet, and Klimt. They’re set up to be family friendly, parsing artworks into easily accessible formats and revamping them with special effects. A large part of them is exactly that— their scale. Entering the space swathes you in the art, and the whole affair is made out to be a spectacle.

Despite ticket prices as high as $30 for the Monet Experience — which may seem excessive when compared to the €13 to see actual Monets at the Musée d’Orsay —

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visitors continue to flock to these exhibits.

For reference, just one of Culturespaces’ Paris venues (an immersive experience company) accounted for over 1.4 million visitors .

Along with Culturespaces, teamLab and Superblue are similar organizations running these spaces across the globe, and often

In fact, the increase in popularity of immersive art is likely to be a manifestation of a greater general shift towards creating photo ready moments for visitors. The trend may have begun with the Rain Room at the Barbican in 2012, an art installation that used motion sensors to allow one to walk through a downpour without getting wet. Crowds clamored to experience it, and other museums started looking for

David Hockney, Bigger & Closer (not smaller & further away), 2023 (installation view).

Photo: Justin Sutcliffe. Courtesy of Lightroom, London.

work together with museums that want to draw in visitors. My first exposure to immersive art was as a child when I went to teamLab’s Future World exhibit in Singapore’s Art Science Museum, and it blew me away.

At the time, the interactive floor displays and AR sections seemed revolutionary to me.

However, looking back, I think it is more accurate to say that the exhibit was a stunning performance rather than an art exhibit. The art felt manufactured to be “Instagrammable.”

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something similar for their own spaces. Now, a large part of the rise of immersion could be due to the perfect mix of increased consumer preference for social media friendly displays, rapidly improving optic and audio technological capability, and a jump in availability of cheap, central real-estate due to the pandemic.

David Hockney’s Bigger & Closer (not smaller and further away) exhibit, which was under development for three years and opened last

February, is unique from most other immersive art experiences in that it uses art from a living artist. It has met mixed critical reviews, but still sees a large number of visitors. Refix Andol’s Unsupervised, a larger than life screen that creates displays with AI based on the MoMA’s extensive collection, has been derided as a glorified lava lamp, but is consistently popular with people coming to the museum. I believe these are examples that show there exists a disconnect, as there has always been, between what the average person finds fascinating and beautiful, and what the critical art world

determines to be sufficiently meaningful. That being said, the immersive nature of the medium means that appraising art in an engaging way is discouraged. It is much harder to consider an artwork critically when the line between performance, art, and self blurs in an immersive experience. However, it is restrictive to think of the medium just in terms of how easy it is to critique it. Immersive experiences break the mold of the sterile art gallery, and create spaces where people can simply exist alongside and participate in the art.

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Taiwan Streets 2024 Joey Yu @josephyu12

Before We Donated Libraries to Universities, We Donated Art to Institutions

Anne and Jerome Fisher Fine Arts Library, 1890. © University of Pennsylvania.

Dylan Grossmann 28

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n inquisitive mind strolling down Locust Walk may wonder how buildings on campus got their respective names. What motivated those who endowed such tremendous contributions to the university? For some, personal gain, notoriety, and remembrance seem to be the central impetus for donation. Colossal donations to powerful institutions as a means to achieve personal gain and honor is not new, but before libraries were donated to universities, art was given to religious institutions.

Notably, Christianity functioned for a large part of history as the nerve center of self-focused donation. In accordance with the Catholic Indulgence system, immortalizing oneself through religious artworks paid for one’s ticket to heaven. For example, the Scrovegni Chapel built in 1305 by Italian painter and architect Giotto was commissioned by Enrico Scrovegni, whose conscience was weighed down by his and his late father’s sin of usury.

After Italian poet Dante inscribed Scrovegni’s father into the inner ring of the 7th circle of hell in his famous poem The Divine Comedy, Scrovegni built the chapel to re-orient himself in the eyes of God. The Chapel is organized by three registers of fresco depicting the story of Christ. Above the chapel’s entrance, a kneeling Enrico is pictured giving the building to the three Mary’s, aligning himself with the side of the blessed in the last judgment scene. He placed himself in heaven through his financial contributions.

However, including donors’ names was not exclusive to Catholic art and existed long before the 14th-century Scrovegni Chapel. This is seen as early as the 12th-century Hindu basalt carving, God Vishnu with Goddesses Lakshmi

and Sarasvati. At the base of the piece, a Sanskrit inscription indicates that it was a gift to the Hindu temple and gives the donor’s name. Beside the inscription is a small portrait of the donor and his wife. Like Scrovegni who put himself among the divine, this donor gained favor with the Hindu temple by putting himself among Hindu Gods.

The sculpture’s subtractive carving out of the hard basalt depicts the Hindu God Vishnu, the “preserver of the universe”. To Vishnu’s left stands his sister Sarasvati; the patron goddess of knowledge and the arts, she plays a vina, a stringed instrument and also a distinguishing attribute. On the right, Vishnu’s consort Lakshmi holds a fly-whisk. She is the goddess of prosperity, wealth, and purity.

The three gods together comprise the Trivikrama form of Vishnu. The Trivikrama emphasizes the giant form Vishnu took as he conquered the three worlds of the sky, earth, and underworld and was popularly depicted during the Pala Period (8th to 12th century). The inclusion of the donors in this sculpture elevates them into the divine three worlds and ordains them as god-like.

Since Martin Luther’s anti-indulgence 95 Theses book, and the general disenchantment of religion in our modern world, the all-consuming need for salvation through financial indulgences has flattened out. People still donate overwhelmingly to institutions of power, but the breadth of such institutions has expanded. University of Pennsylvania students interact with these donated majesties every day through their use of campus libraries.

The red Venetian gothic building, part cathedral and part fortress, Fisher Fine Arts Library was designed by acclaimed Philadelphia architect Frank Furness in 1891. It was named the “Furness 29

Building ‘’ after the architect. However, after a sixyear $16.5 million restoration project completed in 1991, the Furness building was renamed to Anne and Jerome Fisher Fine Arts Library, after the pair who financed the building’s renovations.

In the same way that Giotto’s work is named for Scrovegni, Fisher’s monetary ddddddonation overshadowed Furness’s artistic one, renaming the library in regards to fiscal contribution.

The Fisher’s donation solidified a precedent for which one can rename someone else’s contribution through mere overpowering of funds. In religious works, patrons gave artists capital to create something for them, but with the Fisher’s donation, their money took something from the artist who did the creating.

Jerome Fisher graduated from The Wharton School of Business in 1953, and is one of Penn’s most generous donors, financing the Quad Renewal Project (Fisher-Hassenfeld College House) and the Jerome Fisher Program in Management & Technology, among others. A graduate of the University, by donating to his Alma Mater he immortalized himself as a name and legend of the very place that made him one. By inscribing his name into Fisher Fine Arts Library through his financial contribution, he places himself into the foundation of the institution, the same way Scrovegni and the Hindu Donors did centuries ago.

Another Penn institution, Van Pelt Library designed by Architects Harbeson, Hough,

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Livingston, & Larson and built-in 1962, was dedicated to Charles Patterson Van Pelt Library in 1962. It was named in memory of a University associate trustee’s son, David Van Pelt, who was a donor to the library’s construction and which was paid for mostly by Pennsylvania state funds.

Charles Van Pelt was killed by gunfire in September 1952, and while he was a Harvard student at the time of his passing, his father canonized him at his own Alma Mater – forever engraving his legacy into the University of Pennsylvania. Van Pelt gave back to his University to grieve and honor his deceased son, further driving the notion of donation as divine catharsis.

So why are people driven to contribute so largely to institutions so much bigger than themselves?

Because, in buying into religious and now collegiate institutions, they buy themselves a place within the institution and make themselves larger. Whether motivated by a desire for honor or ordination from the divine, people continue to enthusiastically finance institutions; the University of Pennsylvania will see many more libraries and buildings erected, because it’s a precedent that was set thousands of years ago, a precedent society still deeply respects.

Charles Patterson Van Pelt Library, University of Pennsylvania, 1962. Photo: Roy Frank Larson (American, 1893–1973). Gelatin silver print, 10 × 7 13/16 in. National Academy of Design, New York, NY. Object no. 104-A.2.

Submitted for NA diploma presentation, October 7, 1963.A

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Untitled 2024 Noelani O’Hare @13noenoe

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t-art magazine Editors in Chief Lorraine Ruppert Greer Goergen Editorial Directors Greer Goergen Anjali Dhupam Creative Directors Lorraine Ruppert Sarah Yoon Operations Director Crosby Collins Finance & Relations Director Leha Choppara

Writers Greer Goergen Dylan Grossmann Leha Choppara Raphael Englander Sydney Kim Camille Brown Editors Kayla Karmanos Greer Goergen Anjali Dhupam Artists Emily Whitehead Spencer Grogan Noelani O’Hare Joey Yu

Discover more on Instagram @t_artmagazine Support for t-art magazine has been provided by the Kelly Writers House 34

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exploring the intersections of art, technology, and culture.