"Simple awareness is the seed of responsibility." — Jenny Odell

Walking is one of the best ways to build a relationship with where you live; but it requires paying attention. The more you walk through your community with a sense of attentive awareness, the more you begin to notice. This is an important step for feeling a sense of responsibility towards it. By slowing down and noticing, you begin to see your city from a different angle. And this can make you a better neighbour.

Rather than getting caught up in internet debates or social media's shallow form of social justice, attune yourself to what's going on in your own neighbourhood. Who is it designed for? Who is being excluded? Where are resources going and why? Who benefits from the way things are designed, and who is paying the price for it?

Did you know that our brains miss about 50% of what's happening in our peripheral vision when we're moving in a vehicle? Cars are a terrible way to really get a sense of how a community is designed. To truly get to know where you live, you gotta take a walk.

This week I was listening to a conversation with Chuck Klosterman on a Grateful Dead podcast/gameshow called Guess The Year.

To clarify, I have never gotten into the Grateful Dead and this is not a podcast I had ever listened to before. They are a complete blindspot in my musical tastes. I do, however, quite enjoy Klosterman's deep dives into various pop cultural niches. So I was excited to hear where this might go. As it turns out, Klosterman is also not much of a deadhead, something he admits to several times in the episode. He does spend some time making the case for why they are in his top five list of the greatest American bands. Where things do get interesting is when they shift into a conversation about whether you should be able to separate the art from the artist. It was a topic that they were sort of circling around throughout the whole thing, touching on the current way in which an artist's political views seem to matter so much to fans. Klosterman started to make the argument that it should be possible to be apolitical, suggesting that when he began doing music criticism, it was expected that you would be able to weigh the music on its own merit without letting who the artist is as a person influence your opinion.

Okay, I have some thoughts.

Nothing is ever truly neutral. We all act and create from a place that is deeply intertwined with our experiences and who we are as people. This includes our political or ideological beliefs.

Recently, I was reading a 2017 article on Death From Above 1979 that was responding to the (now old) controversy around their bass player, Jesse Keeler's, affiliation with Gavin McInnes, an alt-right figure. Fans (including myself) were frustrated and disappointed to learn about this. However, the author of this particular article notes that none of this should have been shocking and that this sort of men's rights politic has been a part of their brand since the beginning. Fans (especially male ones) had just been unwilling to notice it. But those political views becoming more public shines a backward light onto some of their more 'colourful' lyrical choices that may have just seemed silly at first listen ("where have all the virgins gone?") and even reframes the aggression within the music itself.

I guess my point is that context matters. You can't pretend like it's not there.

And this was always true. Critics have long loved to frame the way artists use their real-world trauma or suffering as a catalyst for their art. Regardless of whether that was the artist's intent. If a musician grew up in poverty or as a refugee or suffered abuse, we have no problem imprinting that onto their music. Maybe Klosterman is saying that pure criticism should avoid that, but I think it's naive to suggest that most criticism ever actually did or imply that this is a new problem as a result of some 21st century obsession with cancel culture or something (my words, not his).

Perhaps what is new is that the free pass that had been extended to primarily male and usually white (though not exclusively) artists has been somewhat revoked. And their art is being reevaluated retroactively in light of their beliefs, their affiliations, their actions, and yes, their politics. I'm not suggesting that we have this all figured out or that every criticism is entirely fair, but I do think it's reasonable to let criticism of the artist influence your criticism of the art.

The question that maybe we're asking here is, is it okay to stop listening to someone because I disagree with their politics or belief system? Or, can I continue to enjoy an artist even if it turns out they're a shitty person?

And I think that the answer to both of these is yes; but the choice is as subjective as the enjoyment of the art itself. While drawing some hard lines may seem more obvious than others, most of this falls into a murky grey area that might vary artist to artist. I can listen to the Smiths, even if it's become a lot harder to enjoy them after learning about Morrissey's anti-immigrant stance. Yet, I haven't picked up my Art Angels record ever since Grimes started dating Elon Musk. I do, however, still enjoy M.I.A., despite her increasingly polarizing opinions. Though admittedly I don't hold her quite as highly as I used to.

Complicated people can make great art. And sometimes the artists we admire turn out to be pretty terrible. Of course these things are going to colour our relationship to their work. I think what matters more than trying to hold to some unbiased judgment is an attempt to be fair. I think it's fair to consider who someone is when trying to interpret what they create. Nothing happens in a vacuum.

This is probably why they say don't meet your heroes.

Just picked up Donald Fagan's 'The Nightfly' on vinyl and I love everything about it.

If you've never heard it, check out I.GY. It's the kind of song I imagine myself playing as a DJ at some smokey, neon-saturated club.

Oh, I used to DJ. Just weddings and the odd work event, but it was fun nonetheless. I remember one time playing a Donna Summer song while a lone older woman danced unashamedly, arms out, cocktail in one hand. That's the sorta vibe this song gives me.

I just finished the final book in Tana French's body of work (so far) and I don't think I've ever so voraciously enjoyed a bunch of novels before.

If you haven't read (or heard of) Tana French, she writes murder mysteries set in Ireland. At times they even flirt with horror. The mysteries are compelling, but her character writing is even better. She writes in the first person and is particularly skilled at writing an unreliable narrator. The book I saved for last, the Witch Elm, did this in a way I will be thinking about for a while. It was a takedown of white, male privilege that unfolds in a slow burn throughout the book. It had me questioning my own life at times in some real introspective ways.

The book confronts you with questions of whether or not you can trust your own memory on how certain events played out, especially when it comes to assumptions of how those events may have affected other people. My own adolescence is somewhat wrapped up in a haze of generalizations and a certain degree of distance or detachment. Like the narrator, at times a lot of my memories feel unmemorable. This book challenges the assumption that others, particularly people less inoculated by privilege, experienced things the same way.

I've been thinking quite a bit about how we discover and engage with media over the last few days (see my previous thoughts on this here), and it got me reflecting about my personal collection of books that is scattered, with varying degrees of intentionality, around my home. I'm pretty sure every room contains a small (or large) assortment of books in some corner, cabinet, shelf, or carefully stacked atop surfaces to catch the interest of someone sitting nearby. As I took some time to pay attention to these piles, I realized just how strange my book collection really has become.

There's the shelf in my bedroom that holds everything from fantasy series to Russian classics to short story anthologies to folklore. There's the pile on my subwoofer of deep dives into specific albums I like (including one on Celine Dion's Let's Talk About Love). There's a bookshelf in my living room with bird and animal studies, oral histories, essay collections, and bordering on what might be considered too many books on mushrooms and foraging. My office (which is only about the size of a large closet) contains all my so-called higher interest books (read: boring), ranging from history, theology, sociology, tech-criticism, economics, urbanism, design, and more. There's even a small collection of various editions/translations of The Hobbit sitting above my record player.

My tastes in books are wide and eccentric, and they have arrived here in all manner of ways. I have haphazardly picked up books from places I have visited and deliberately tracked down certain books because they piqued my interest at a certain time. Friends and family members have gifted me books they thought seemed like something I'd like. Other books hold sentimental value in some way (like a couple I was given from a professor who made an impact on me).

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't think an algorithm can ever really capture this sort of collecting. While it can distill all of this into suggestions for me to buy something else, it can never replicate the various motivations behind the acquiring of those books. It can't replace human thoughtfulness.