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J.J. Lankes (1884–1960) captured the spirit of agrarian America through his woodcuts. Active between the World Wars, he collaborated with poet Robert Frost and other writers to express an American vision of rural life centered on self-sufficiency and manual labor, apart from industrialization. His prints of barns, fields, and workers stand as a quiet record of a changing era. As a documentary filmmaker, I was moved by Lankes’s vision and by his friendship with Robert Frost and Sherwood Anderson. With J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia , I aimed to explore how his art and his dialogue with Frost, Anderson and others framed an American understanding of work, place, and purpose. J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia Early Life and Artistic Awakening Born on August 31, 1884, in Buffalo, New York, to a German-American working-class family, Lankes grew up in a city energized by the Erie Canal’s promise. After graduating as a junior engineer from the Buffalo Commercial and Electromechanical Institute in 1902, he worked as a draftsman, producing technical drawings for patents. A 1,000-mile canoe trip down the Mississippi in his early 20s sparked his artistic ambitions. By 1910, he was studying at the Art Students League of Buffalo under Canadian artist Ernest Fosbery. To support himself, he engraved designs on custom rifle stocks at a Buffalo firm. In 1917, Lankes borrowed an engraving tool and carved his first woodcut on apple wood, launching a career inspired by Renaissance German engravers and a global woodcut revival. His early works explored the tension between rural traditions and encroaching industrial progress. Championing the Agrarian Ideal Lankes’s art was shaped by the radical ideas of the 1910s. Influenced by progressive voices advocating for a freer America, he briefly contributed to left-wing publications, some tied to the Communist Party, though his son later suggested this was overstated, emphasizing Lankes’s shift toward individualism. His woodcuts became a manifesto for the Agrarian Republic, celebrating rural workers and landscapes. His reinterpretation of Jean-François Millet’s Man with a Hoe  transformed the socialist icon into a dignified symbol of American agrarian resilience. The Enduring Dialogue with Robert Frost In 1923, a woodcut in The Liberator  captivated Robert Frost, sparking a lifelong friendship grounded in their shared vision of rural America. Frost saw Lankes’s prints—depicting rolling hills, rustic farms, and stoic laborers—as visual echoes of his poetry. Lankes often sketched at Frost’s South Shaftsbury, Vermont, farm while the poet spoke. Of his estimated 1,300 woodcuts, 125 were directly inspired by or created for Frost’s works, forming a seamless dialogue between text and image. Key collaborations include illustrations for Frost’s New Hampshire  (1923). J.J.Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia Throughout the 1920s, Lankes forged creative partnerships with a vibrant circle of artists and writers, each amplifying his vision of a pre-industrial America. His collaboration with painter Charles Burchfield began in 1922 and deepened when they became neighbors in Gardenville, New York, by 1925. Burchfield sketched designs that Lankes meticulously carved into woodcuts, capturing the quiet beauty of small-town life or cosmic, nature-inspired themes—works like Carolina Village  (1923) among their eleven joint creations—despite both men’s disinterest in organized religion. With writer Sherwood Anderson, Lankes found another kindred spirit. His illustrations for Anderson’s Perhaps Women  (1931) brought to life the author’s belief that women could preserve human qualities lost to mechanization, most vividly in a woodcut of a woman on horseback leading a man on a mule. Visits to Anderson’s Appalachian cottage fueled Lankes’s imagination, yielding evocative prints of the Blue Ridge Mountains, later celebrated by Anderson in a 1931 Virginia Quarterly Review  essay. In 1929, artist Rockwell Kent commissioned Lankes to carve 25 designs for an advertising campaign honoring traditional industries like logging. Sharing Lankes’s anti-industrial ethos, Kent provided sketches for the Doremus Series, now preserved at Plattsburgh State University, paying Lankes a flat fee for his skilled carving. Lankes also illustrated a novel by Rock Bradford, delving into racial tensions and the displacement of manual labor by industry—a recurring theme that resonated deeply with his agrarian ideals.   J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker In 1925, Lankes journeyed to Europe—Germany, Italy, France, and the Netherlands—to sketch scenes tied to his German heritage. Returning to America, he settled in Hilton Village, Virginia, a coastal town largely untouched by heavy industrialization. This move immersed him in a pre-industrial South, inspiring woodcuts that documented rustic landscapes and laborers. His Virginia Woodcuts  (1930), a limited edition of 24 prints, crystallized this vision, capturing the region’s unspoiled essence. The Final Blows of Progress As magazines shifted away from illustration, commercial demand for woodcuts waned, dimming the revival Lankes had helped spark. His A Woodcut Manual  (1932) became the first comprehensive guide to woodcutting in North America. In 1932, Robert Frost secured him a position as an art professor at Wells College in New York’s Finger Lakes region, where he taught until 1940. Lankes found academic life uninspiring but completed works like Booklet of Woodcut Bookplate Designs  (1940). In 1943, he joined the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA), the precursor to NASA, as head of technical illustrating in Langley, Virginia, returning to his draftsman roots until 1950. During this time, he advanced his Pennsylvania Dutch Barn  series (41 woodcuts, published in the Journal of the American Institute of Architects ), which he considered his crowning achievement—though a planned book never materialized. The Cold War’s anti-communist fervor led to Lankes’s dismissal from NACA, possibly due to his earlier left-leaning affiliations. In 1951, he retired to Durham, North Carolina. A stroke in 1959 impaired his movement and speech. In 1960, shortly before his death on April 22, Robert Frost visited him in a Chapel Hill nursing home. Their final exchange—“goddamn it all,” said Frost, echoed by Lankes—captured their shared frustration with a changing world. Legacy J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia J.J. Lankes’s woodcuts preserve the soul of the Agrarian Republic, a vision of America rooted in simplicity and resilience. His art invites us to reflect: What can these stark, timeless images teach us about balancing progress with humanity? Explore Lankes’s work in collections like the Carnegie Museum of Art, Dartmouth College, or the newly donated Welford D. Taylor Collection at the University of Maryland Libraries (2025). For a cinematic deep dive, watch the 2019 documentary J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia  by Eduardo Montes-Bradley. Share your thoughts in the comments. Key Publications and Illustrations Virginia Woodcuts (1930) – Limited edition of rural scenes. A Woodcut Manual (1932) – First North American guide to woodcutting. Illustrations for Robert Frost’s New Hampshire (1923) and other poetry collections. Perhaps Women by Sherwood Anderson (1931). Booklet of Woodcut Bookplate Designs (1940). Wag-by-Wall by Beatrix Potter (1944). Timeline of Key Events Year Event 1884 Born in Buffalo, NY (August 31). 1902 Graduates from Buffalo Commercial and Electromechanical Institute; begins as draftsman. 1910 Studies at Art Students League of Buffalo under Ernest Fosbery. 1914 Marries Edee Maria Bartlett. 1917 Creates first woodcut. 1923 Friendship with Robert Frost begins; illustrates New Hampshire . 1925 Moves to Hilton Village, Virginia; European sketching trip. 1930 Publishes Virginia Woodcuts . 1932 Publishes A Woodcut Manual ; Frost helps secure Wells College position. 1933–1940 Teaches at Wells College. 1943–1950 Head of technical illustrating at NACA (Langley, VA). 1951 Retires to Durham, NC. 1959 Suffers debilitating stroke. 1960 Dies in Durham, NC (April 22). 2019 J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia  documentary premieres. 2025 Welford D. Taylor Collection donated to University of Maryland Libraries. Further Reading:  Eduardo Montes-Bradley. J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker, 30 min., 2019 Taylor, Welford Dunaway. The Woodcut Art of J.J. Lankes (1994). Osburn, Burl N. A Descriptive Checklist of the Woodcut Bookplates of J.J. Lankes (1937).

A Filmmaker's Quest In my upcoming film, based on Rita Dove's "Sonata Mulattica," a collection of poems devoted to telling the story of George Bridgetower, the author establishes the nature of the relationship between the young Black virtuoso and his mentor Joseph Haydn. Haydn, a composer at the service of Prince Nikolaus Esterházy, seems to have been a mentor to Bridgetower, one that she recognized with the affectionate label of "Papa Haydn." Esterhazy Princely Coat of Arms I wanted to know more about the type of relationship between Haydn and his employer to help me better understand the nuances of the class system within the workforce at the prince's castle—which could also serve as an introduction to understanding other connections between composers and their employers within that system of patronage that preceded the more independent labor forms that would inevitably follow after Beethoven. What I was able to learn is quite interesting and ultimately places Haydn as an equal laborer alongside the Bridgetower family. This discovery fundamentally reshapes how we should understand the world of classical music's so-called golden age. When Genius Wore Livery: Uncovering the Parallel Lives of Two Court Musicians In the gilded halls of 18th-century Austrian nobility, two musical stories intersected in the shadow of servitude. One was Joseph Haydn, now celebrated as the "Father of the Symphony," who spent nearly thirty years as a liveried servant-composer. The other was George Bridgetower, a violin virtuoso of African descent born into this same world of court servitude through his father's position, whose name has largely vanished from history's record. Their intertwined stories reveal an uncomfortable truth about classical music's foundations—it was built on the backs of indentured artists—while exposing how race created an insurmountable divide even among those who shared the world of servants' quarters and court hierarchies. The Contract That Bound Haydn Most classical music lovers know Haydn as a towering figure of Western culture, his 107 symphonies and 68 string quartets forming the bedrock of the classical repertoire. What they might not know is that for nearly thirty years, Haydn was legally a servant—a "house officer" in the court of Prince Nikolaus Esterházy in eastern Austria. The terms of Haydn's employment read more like an indenture contract than an artist's commission. He was required to wear servant's livery—a uniform—at all times when on duty, and he ate at the "officer's table," not with nobility, but with other high-ranking servants. His freedom of movement was severely restricted; he could not leave the estate without written permission from the Prince. As for his artistic output, he had to compose whatever music the Prince demanded, whenever it was demanded, and all his compositions became the Prince's property—Haydn couldn't even keep copies of his own work without permission. The contract explicitly instructed him to "conduct himself as befits an honest house officer in a princely court," leaving no doubt about his status as a servant rather than an independent artist. This wasn't a temporary arrangement or an apprenticeship. This was Haydn's life from 1761 to 1790, his most productive years as a composer. Every symphony, every quartet, every opera he wrote during this period was created under conditions of servitude. Enter the Bridgetowers In this same world of Austrian court culture, another story of servitude was unfolding. George Bridgetower's father was a servant of West Indian or African origin who worked in the estates of the Austrian nobility—possibly even in the Esterházy court system where Haydn labored. The father, known as John Frederick Bridgetower, served Prince Esterházy in Eisenstadt, occupying a position in the servant hierarchy not unlike Haydn's, but with one crucial difference: he was of African descent, described in contemporary accounts as a "Moor" or "African." It's worth noting that in the hiring practices of noble houses like Prince Nikolaus Esterházy's, there was often a deliberate pursuit of what they called the "exotic." European courts regularly employed people they viewed as curiosities—dwarfs, Black servants, Asians—to add "color" to their retinue of servants, creating a living display of worldliness and power for the amusement of guests. While we cannot know for certain, it's entirely possible that the Bridgetowers' employment was, at least in part, a response to this desire for a more eclectic and exotic assembly of servants—a troubling reality that would have shaped young George's experience from the very beginning. Young George Bridgetower, born around 1778 (when Haydn was already 46 and deep into his servitude), showed extraordinary musical talent from childhood. It's entirely possible that as a child in the Esterházy court environment, he might have encountered or even received guidance from Haydn himself—the established Kapellmeister would have been the natural mentor for any musically gifted child in that world, regardless of their background. Imagine it: the aging servant-composer, internationally famous yet still wearing livery, perhaps teaching or encouraging a young mixed-race prodigy who was also bound to the same court system through his father's servitude. George would eventually evolve far beyond these origins, becoming a violin virtuoso of extraordinary talent who performed across Europe. Beethoven was so impressed that he originally dedicated his "Kreutzer" Sonata to Bridgetower, performing it with him in Vienna in 1803. The two musicians were briefly friends, drinking and making music together—until a quarrel (allegedly over a woman) led Beethoven to re-dedicate the piece to Rodolphe Kreutzer, effectively erasing Bridgetower from one of classical music's most celebrated works. Las Meninas, Diego Velazquez: The Court's Living Ornaments   The Color Line in Livery Here's where the parallel stories diverge in heartbreaking ways. Both Haydn and Bridgetower's father were servants. Both families existed within the same restrictive court system. Yet their trajectories tell us everything about how race shaped destiny in 18th-century Europe. Consider the tragic irony: Haydn, the servant-composer who possibly mentored or at least knew young George Bridgetower in the Esterházy court, would die celebrated as one of Europe's greatest composers in 1809. By then, the 31-year-old Bridgetower, despite his virtuoso career and despite having premiered Beethoven's most challenging violin sonata just six years earlier, was already sliding toward obscurity. The Court's Living Ornaments | The practice of European courts employing people as human curiosities is immortalized in Diego Velázquez's "Las Meninas" (1656). In the lower right corner of this masterpiece stands Mari Bárbola, a German dwarf who served as a "menina" (lady-in-waiting) to the Spanish royal family. Her presence in the painting—positioned alongside the royal Infanta—reveals how normalized it was for European nobility to surround themselves with those they considered "exotic" or "different." Like the Bridgetowers a century later in Austrian courts, Mari Bárbola was simultaneously elevated by proximity to power and diminished by being treated as a curiosity. Her inclusion in Velázquez's painting, while granting her historical immortality, also forever marks her as part of the court's collection of human ornaments—a fate that would echo through European courts for generations. Haydn, despite his servitude, was able to build an international reputation while still in service, receiving commissions from other nobles and eventually from London concert promoters. His fame grew steadily, and he gained increasing freedom, especially after Prince Nikolaus died in 1790. When Haydn died in 1809, he was celebrated as one of Europe's greatest composers, with his servant status reduced to merely a biographical detail. His complete works were preserved and have been celebrated for centuries. George Bridgetower, despite transcending his father's servant status to become a renowned performer, faced a profoundly different reality. His extraordinary talent was repeatedly noted but treated as a curiosity—the "surprising" ability of an African to master European music. Despite his virtuosity and his own compositions, he never secured the kind of lasting recognition that Haydn enjoyed. His contributions to musical history were systematically erased or minimized. He died in poverty in London in 1860, largely forgotten, his story surviving mainly as a footnote while his actual music nearly vanished entirely. The Servant Composers The bitter irony is that in the Esterházy court, both Haydn and Bridgetower's father would have occupied the servant class—but even there, race created a hierarchy. When young George showed musical promise, he might have received the same training, possibly even from Haydn himself. But the outcomes were predetermined by race. Think about it: in the 1780s, Haydn was composing his Paris and London symphonies while still technically a servant. In that same decade, young George Bridgetower was likely learning his craft in the shadow of these same Austrian courts, his father a servant, his talent already evident. One servant's son with extraordinary musical gifts. One servant-composer who was among the most famous musicians in Europe. Their paths may have literally crossed in the palace halls. Yet Haydn's servitude was economic and social—barriers that fame could eventually overcome. For the Bridgetowers, servitude was compounded by race—a barrier that no amount of talent could fully transcend. Haydn's genius was eventually recognized as elevating him above his servant status. For George Bridgetower, his African heritage meant that even his evolution into a celebrated virtuoso and composer could never fully erase the racial marking that European society imposed on him. What This Means for Classical Music's Legacy Understanding that Haydn—the Franz Joseph Haydn—was essentially an indentured servant for three decades reframes our entire understanding of classical music's golden age. These weren't independent artists following their muses; they were workers producing a product for aristocratic consumption. The gorgeous symphonies we revere were composed by a man who needed written permission to leave his employer's estate. But recognizing the parallel fate of the Bridgetowers forces an even more uncomfortable reckoning. If Haydn could compose 107 symphonies while wearing servant's livery, how many symphonies were never written because their potential composers were excluded not just by class, but by race? How many George Bridgetowers disappeared entirely from the record? Between Patronage and Freedom Haydn, and later Mozart, stand as pivotal figures marking the transition between two worlds: the age of the artisan-composer bound to noble patrons and the rise of the autonomous artist. This shift was decisive in shaping what we now recognize as the modern conception of the creative individual. With Beethoven, the change becomes irreversible—he composes not for the court or the church but for a public audience. The concert hall replaces the palace, and artistic labor begins to detach itself from aristocratic command, giving birth to a new economy of creativity. This historical evolution also sets the stage for later debates about artistic independence and state patronage. The twentieth century, with its system of state commissions in the Soviet Union and its publicly subsidized orchestras, theaters, and film programs across Europe and Latin America, redefined once again the balance between artistic freedom and institutional support. These later developments deserve closer examination in a future study, tracing how the artist’s emancipation from servitude gradually became a negotiation with the state itself. The Music That Remains Today, you can easily find recordings of all 107 Haydn symphonies. His complete string quartets fill multiple box sets. His operas, though less frequently performed, are all preserved and occasionally staged. Of George Bridgetower's compositions, almost nothing survives. A few pieces exist in manuscript. His arrangements and performance practices are lost. The music he inspired—including his interpretation of the sonata Beethoven wrote for him—vanished with him. This isn't just about recovering lost history. It's about understanding that classical music's canon was shaped not just by genius, but by who was allowed to transcend servitude and who wasn't. Haydn's contract might have made him a servant, but his whiteness meant that history could eventually forget that fact. The Bridgetowers had no such luxury. Reclaiming the Narrative Rita Dove's "Sonata Mulattica" began the work of reclaiming George Bridgetower's story, imagining the life and world of this forgotten virtuoso through poetry. But there's more work to be done. We need to understand that the courts of 18th-century Austria were filled with servants making music—some in livery like Haydn, some, like the Bridgetowers, carrying the additional burden of racial otherness. When we listen to Haydn's symphonies, we should remember they were composed by a servant who couldn't leave the palace without permission. And we should ask: whose symphonies are we not hearing because their composers faced not just the chains of servitude, but the additional barriers of race? The music that survives tells only part of the story. The full story requires us to acknowledge that in those Austrian courts, genius wore livery—and that some livery was harder to remove than others. This post draws on recent scholarly analysis of Haydn's employment contracts and Rita Dove's groundbreaking work in "Sonata Mulattica" to explore the intersection of servitude, genius, and race in classical music history. This post draws on recent scholarly analysis of Haydn's employment contracts and Rita Dove's groundbreaking work in "Sonata Mulattica" to explore the intersection of servitude, genius, and race in classical music history.

Austin, TX - More than ten years have passed since I first worked with Rita Dove in what became one of the most intimate portraits I’ve ever had the privilege to make — Rita Dove: An American Poet . In that film, Rita’s voice lead us through the landscapes that shaped her imagination: Akron’s industrial horizon, the hymns of her childhood church, the sound of her father’s telescope extending toward the stars, and the quiet discipline of a young girl learning the cello. Every element of her story — her family, her music, her memories — resonated like distinct instruments within a larger composition about America, identity, and the making of a poet. Rita Dove and Eduardo Montes-Bradley Now, a decade later, I find myself returning to Rita’s world — this time through Sonata Mulattica, her collection of poems about the ordeal of George Bridgetower, the mixed-race violin virtuoso who once performed alongside Beethoven and for whom the “Kreutzer Sonata” was originally composed. Our new film, now in the development stage, will explore the same questions that have defined much of my work and that Rita herself has examined throughout her poetry: How does art cross boundaries of time, race, and geography? How do personal histories intersect with larger cultural currents? And how do we, as artists, give voice to those who were silenced or forgotten? The Roots of Collaboration When I made Rita Dove: An American Poet , what struck me most was how her creative process is inseparable from her lived experience. She spoke of how place defines consciousness — how the geography of her hometown, nestled between two rivers, shaped her sense of belonging and movement. She reflected on how her father’s work in the rubber factories of Akron became a metaphor for the American Dream, both its possibilities and its fractures. The poem “The Zeppelin Factory” emerged from those same landscapes of labor and noise, where progress and loss are often indistinguishable. In that same conversation, she described her earliest encounters with music — her first cello, chosen on impulse, its sound “luscious, something you could almost eat.” It was there that I first sensed the parallel between her musical and poetic structures: the rise and fall of emotion, the interplay of silence and rhythm, the improvisational energy she carries into language. Rita also spoke of her travels — her experiences in Mexico and Germany, each profoundly altering her understanding of identity and belonging. In Mexico, she encountered the liberating hospitality of a culture that received her not as a stranger but as kin; in Germany, as a young Fulbright scholar, she faced the complexity of postwar guilt and the awareness of being simultaneously American, Black, and woman. Both journeys shaped her poetics of empathy — a quality that continues to define her work and that we will bring to the screen once again in Sonata Mulattica . Revisiting the Continuum In many ways, this new film is an echo and an evolution of the earlier one. Rita Dove: An American Poet explored the making of a voice — Sonata Mulattica examines how that voice reaches back through history, giving sound and dignity to a musician who, like so many others, was erased from the canon. The project aligns closely with my ongoing interest in artistic legacies and hidden contributions — from the Piccirilli Brothers who carved America’s marble ideals to the forgotten composers, sculptors, and artisans whose work shaped our shared visual and sonic heritage. Sonata Mulattica For Rita, Sonata Mulattica was an act of recovery through poetry; for me, this new film is the continuation of that recovery through image and sound. Together, we hope to build a cinematic bridge between the worlds of poetry and music — between Dove’s verse and Bridgetower’s violin, between the concert hall and the page, between memory and imagination. A Circle Completed It feels profoundly meaningful to reunite with Rita after all these years — to extend the conversation that began in Rita Dove: An American Poet into a new creative horizon. Much has changed since we first filmed together, but the essence remains: a shared belief that art — whether written, sung, or filmed — has the power to make history visible and to make the invisible resonate. As we prepare for the next movement in this collaboration, I find myself thinking of something Rita said during our first interview: “I need to feel why I’m standing right where I am at that moment. I need to feel how I fit on the earth.” It is perhaps the most honest definition of artistic purpose I’ve ever heard — and it continues to guide me, as filmmaker and listener, into this new work we are creating together.

Norberto Ramirez, director From the Altiplano to the Page: Jesús Ramón Vera, The Poet Who Sifts Noise In 2004 I had the privilege of producing a film on Jesús Ramón Vera , a celebrated poet, writer, and devoted comparsero from Salta, Argentina. Vera’s life and work offer a fascinating journey across the cultural frontier of Northwest Argentina, blending high literature with the deep, collective traditions of the Andean highlands. Director: Norberto N. Ramírez Producer: Eduardo Montes-Bradley Cinematography: Alejandro Millán Editing: Juan Pablo Lepore Sound: Leonardo Garibaldi Country: Argentina Language: Spanish (with English subtitles) Running Time: 47 minutes Production: Heritage Film Project / INCAA Filmed in: Salta, Argentina The Making of a Poet Born in Salta in 1958, Vera’s earliest memories are rooted in the rural landscape between Rosario de la Frontera and La Merced, filled with the sounds of bulls and the work of his father, a horse tamer ( domador de potros ). His literary journey began early, reading the Brothers Grimm and fairy tales like Hansel and Gretel and Alibaba and the Forty Thieves from the collection Mi Cuna Encantada around age eight or nine. By 13 or 14, he was already attempting to write, motivated partly by boredom and a deep admiration for Pablo Neruda’s imagery. Vera sees his writing not as an optional pursuit but as his appointed “role and office” within the game of life . He entered formal studies in literature somewhat reluctantly, fearing that systematic learning might “kill the poet.” Instead, much of his real education came through long conversations with poets, musicians (like Dino Saluzzi ), and artists in the bars of Salta. It’s clear he belongs to a special place. Salta is widely regarded as a cradle of poets . The great Enrique Molina once cited Salta and Andalusia as the two most poetic cities he had ever encountered, noting the singular image of General Arenales’ statue in Salta being surrounded by women instead of cannons. The Path of the Comparsa For Vera, poetry and the vibrant cultural tradition of the comparsa de indio are inseparable. The comparsa —a traditional carnival group—is more than just a parade; it represents both a way of life and a mode of cultural resistance. This living tradition integrates various arts, including visual design, dance, and poetry through the regional coplas (folk songs). Vera emphasizes that the comparsa keeps alive the value of the collective subject over modern individualism. This lesson is embodied in Chiroliano —singing and dancing to raise funds before the parade—where the collected money must be repartido en partes igual (divided equally) among all participants. As Vera notes, this ritual teaches the ethics of community without the need for textbooks. The atmosphere of the carnival, particularly in the carpas (tents), is a powerful mixture of joy and sorrow, life and death. These spaces are where people hear traditional poetic music— bagualas and vidalas —connecting the present generation to an ancient indigenous substrate ( sustrato indígena ) that nourishes the poetry of the region. In essence, the carnival allows everyone to become the artist ten nights in the corso , protagonists in their own society. The Ocean, the Seashell, and the Noise How does a writer survive in a world saturated with distractions? Vera offers an extraordinary metaphor for his creative process: “Poetry is the ocean, and the poem is the seashell with which one hears the sound of that ocean.” Writing, he explains, is a battle against ruido (noise). Noise manifests as ripio —filler or excess words. His constant process of rewriting and refining ( cernir , to sift or strain) serves as a discipline of purification. Vera sees himself as a colador (strainer), filtering through the noise that surrounds and attacks him. For Vera, images and inspiration come from the unconscious, the onírico (dreamlike). His dreams often bring forth scenes of travel and memory—a train ride, or walking behind his father. He also insists that poetry and politics are inseparable, for writing is a social act. In one poem dedicated to Ernesto “Che” Guevara , he writes: “Ser pobre sale caro” — Being poor is expensive. This vision of writing as an act of social responsibility aligns with his lifelong honesty—knowing one’s limits, and devoting oneself entirely to the journey of creation. As he faces mortality, a companion since his early twenties, Vera remains grounded in the act of estar —being fully present. Watch the Film We invite you to watch the complete documentary and experience Jesús Ramón Vera’s voice firsthand.

Where are we today? What does documentary filmmaking look like now? What are the conditions for people creating and watching films in this time of dizzying change? The Future of Documentary Filmmaking I believe we are living through a profound transformation—comparable to what printing once meant for writers or radio for musicians. The internet has removed nearly every barrier that once stood between artists and audiences. When I started out, seeing certain films, or accessing archival footage, required travel, patience, and expense. You needed to physically locate a copy, borrow a reel, or negotiate access to a vault. Now, everything—almost everything—is just there. A vast, living archive of humanity at our fingertips. The barrier to entry is gone. Anyone, anywhere, can make and share a film. This democratization is revolutionary, but it also creates a new challenge: how to be seen and heard in the noise. The responsibility of the artist has expanded. Like composers, filmmakers must now master the entire chain of production—from conception to editing, sound, distribution, and communication. The filmmaker is no longer just a storyteller but also a publisher, marketer, and archivist. Reflections on the Age of Independence This new independence can be exhilarating. It means no intermediaries telling you what your film should be, how long it must run, or which stories are “viable.” You can make the work that needs to be made. But independence also means self-discipline, consistency, and the ability to connect directly with an audience—an organic audience, not the captive one of festivals or institutions. The Future of Documentary Filmmaking The Future of Documentary Filmmaking is here , and the opportunity is immense. We can speak across borders, build communities of curiosity, and reimagine how memory and truth circulate. But the work demands a routine, a sustainable practice, and a kind of faith—the same faith composers once needed when creating music that might never be performed. This is a golden age, though not an easy one. Filmmakers must think like anthropologists and engineers at once—curious, methodical, endlessly adaptable. What matters now is not prestige but presence, not gatekeepers but connection. I recently attended a lecture by Canadian composer Samuel Andreyev on The History of Western Music , where he addressed the very challenges artists face today—the collapse of old hierarchies, the rise of new technologies, and the uncertain future of creative autonomy. His reflections on the evolving role of composers deeply resonated with me, as they mirror the condition of documentary filmmakers. Like composers, we must now assume responsibility for the entire creative and communicative chain: conceive, produce, distribute, and connect. Andreyev’s optimism about the future of art—rooted in independence, authenticity, and curiosity—is one I share. Ours is an age of boundless access and creative freedom. The challenge, and the privilege, is to use it wisely.

Across the 19th century, artists on both sides of the Atlantic were asking the same question: What does a nation sound like? While Americans like George Bristow struggled to define a voice independent from Europe, composers in Italy, Germany, and the newly forming states of Central and Eastern Europe faced parallel challenges. The age of revolutions and unifications — from 1848 to the 1870s — was also the age of cultural nation-building. Music, literature, and painting became instruments of self-definition. Rip Van Winkle by John Quidor (1829). When we speak of forging an American musical identity , it’s important to remember that the United States was not alone in this pursuit. The nineteenth century was a time when much of Europe was engaged in a similar struggle — the effort to merge regional, linguistic, and folk traditions into unified national cultures. Italy, fragmented into duchies and city-states since the fall of Rome, would not achieve political unification until 1871 , almost a century after American independence. Germany, too, remained divided into independent principalities until 1876 . Throughout the 1840s, revolutions swept across Europe, displacing intellectuals, artists, and musicians — many of whom sought refuge in the United States, where they lived in a state of national orphanhood . From the Editing Room Nation-Building and the Search for Cultural Identity In this context, Antonín Dvorák’s call for American composers to “look inward” takes on deeper meaning. Dvořák himself belonged to this generation of European Romantics — composers who turned to folk melodies, native legends, and local rhythms to define their national voices. His advice to his American students was not an exotic suggestion but an extension of what he and his peers were already doing in Europe. Seen in this light, George Frederick Bristow’s decision to compose an opera based on Washington Irving’s “Rip Van Winkle”  was not provincial but prescient. Long before Dvorák’s arrival in New York, Bristow had already intuited that the stories and sounds of America itself — its literature, landscapes, and vernacular idioms — held the key to an authentic musical identity. Bristow’s Rip Van Winkle  can thus be understood as an early act of cultural independence — a parallel to what Verdi, Smetana, and Glinka were achieving in their own nations: transforming myth and folklore into art, and in doing so, defining what it meant to belong  to a place through music.

New York City, January 29, 2026 --- On January 29 I will be joining a panel of scholars at the Forging an American Identity conference this January in New York City. The conference opens Wednesday, January 28, at Geffen Hall, Sidewalk Studio, Lincoln Center , and my participation will take place the following day, Thursday, January 29 , at the Elebash Recital Hall at the Graduate Center, City University of New York. New York City | Upper West Side The panel will bring together some of the most distinguished voices in the field — Katherine Preston, Douglas Shadle, John Graziano, Leon Botstein, and Barbara Haws — for a conversation exploring how composers, performers, and institutions have contributed to shaping the idea of an “American sound.” At Lincoln Center: Forging an American Musical Identity My participation comes as an immediate extension of my current work on the feature documentary Arcadia: The Search for an American Musical Identity , a film that began as an inquiry into the life and music of George Frederick Bristow and has since evolved into a broader reflection on how the United States came to define itself musically. The film, written and directed by me and produced by Heritage Film Project , is being developed with support from The Joseph and Robert Cornell Memorial Foundation and the Documentary Film Fund . As I continue to work on Arcadia , joining this panel feels both humbling and invigorating — a chance to share ideas and learn from colleagues who have spent years examining the same questions that now animate this film: How does a nation find its sound? And what does it mean for that sound to speak of liberty, diversity, and imagination? I look forward to the exchange and to sharing further developments as Arcadia moves toward completion.

In the museum at Cannes, I paused before a painting by Henri Léopold Lévy , a biblical tableau rendered through the visual language of nineteenth-century Orientalism. The accompanying label explained how Lévy, a Jewish artist trained in the French academic tradition, turned to subjects from the Old Testament as a way to navigate the Christian cultural mainstream and gain recognition from the State. Yet beyond these historical considerations, what drew my attention was the quality of light—the filtered luminosity through which Europe imagined the East. Henri Léopold Lévy As the exhibition text reminds us, for the intellectuals and artists of 19th-century Europe, travel to the Orient became a true rite of passage. Until the 1850s, such journeys were perilous adventures, but the inventions of the industrial era—railways, steam navigation, and the telegraph—made these distant lands increasingly accessible. Tinco Lycklama à Nijeholt (1837–1900), a Dutch aristocrat, was among the first of these “tourists” driven by a passion for the exotic. From his travels through Iran, the Near East, and Egypt, he brought back an exceptional collection, which he donated to the City of Cannes in 1877. Indeed, the text goes on to explain that this fascination with ancient civilizations and Arab-Persian culture gave rise to a romantic current— Orientalism —through which artists and writers projected visions of a dreamlike or experienced East. Standing in that gallery, surrounded by these works, I began to see Tiffany’s story not as an American exception but as part of this larger continuum of European longing and rediscovery. Emile Vernet-Lecomte (1821-1900) and Pierre Tetar Van Elven (1828-1908) Louis Comfort Tiffany’s own journey to North Africa and the Levant was not a decorative curiosity but a form of artistic initiation—a modern counterpart to Lycklama’s voyages. Immersed in Islamic architecture and the chromatic structures of glass and tile, Tiffany absorbed a vocabulary of pattern, translucence, and geometry that would later define both his designs and Laurelton Hall , his Long Island residence. The sensibility he brought home to America was not imported wholesale but transformed through the prism of personal experience and technological modernity—the same forces that made the East newly accessible to European travelers. This fascination with the “Oriental” extended beyond the visual arts. Decades earlier, George Bridgetower —a prodigious mixed-race violinist—had been presented to the courts of Europe adorned in turbans and silks, his costume amplifying the sense of the extraordinary. His father, a man of strategic imagination, understood that exoticism carried cultural currency in an age hungry for novelty. When Thomas Jefferson heard the young musician perform in Paris, he admired his virtuosity—but one wonders to what extent the perception of brilliance was refracted through the lens of race and difference, the same fascination that would later color American responses to Tiffany’s Orientalism. Field Notes: On Oriental Light Across painting, music, and the decorative arts, the exotic functioned as a field of projection—a way for Western culture to measure itself against the imagined other. Lévy’s brush, Tiffany’s glass, Bridgetower’s bow: each transformed foreignness into beauty, light, and sound that spoke as much about the Western imagination as about the East it sought to evoke.

It happened over a BLT at a 1970s diner on First Avenue and 53rd. The place still carries that faint hum of the city before cell phones—chrome, cracked leather seats, and the low murmur of people who look like they've been coming for decades. Lisa Ackerman sat across from me, someone who has spent her life saving the world's beauty in brick and stone. She once led the World Monuments Fund and the Kress Foundation , and now advises at Woodlawn Cemetery . She speaks about preservation the way others talk about poetry—with affection, detail, and a sense of duty. Between bites of my sandwich, Lisa told me about Colonel James A. Gray , the founder of the World Monuments Fund. She described him as a man who solved problems with quiet boldness—the kind who didn't just raise money but took action. In 1965, he founded what became WMF after pursuing ideas that seemed audacious at the time, like stabilizing the Leaning Tower of Pisa. In 1968, he arranged to bring an Easter Island moai to New York's Seagram Building to remind the world what was at stake—heritage, memory, humanity itself. Colonel James A. Gray Listening to Lisa, I felt I was getting closer to Gray, as if his story had crossed the table with the ketchup and coffee refills. The way she spoke of him—decisive, selfless, a little audacious, larger than life—said as much about her as it did about him. Lisa traced the arc from Colonel Gray's bold beginning to how the World Monuments Fund grew into a global network of preservation—from those early days at Lalibela to the transformative gift from Robert Wilson , who challenged WMF to raise money abroad as well as in the US, resulting in hundreds of projects across the globe. She spoke about Ethiopia and Easter Island, places where the work became real. The World Monuments Watch launched in 1995 with American Express as founding sponsor, broadening the movement and its public. Under her stewardship decades later, those efforts found a new rhythm. Lisa served as Executive Vice President and then Interim CEO from 2018 to 2019, stewarding projects across dozens of countries and giving the Watch its clear, pragmatic voice. She helped shape the modern WMF—not only restoring what time had damaged, but ensuring that preservation itself became a living, evolving discipline. We also talked about tomorrow's premiere of The Piccirilli Factor at the Calandra Institute, and about the Tiffany windows at Woodlawn. There's a certain symmetry there: marble and glass, both shaped by light, both testaments to collaboration and endurance. Listening to Lisa connect these dots is like watching a map light up. The coffee went cold, the city roared on, and still the conversation lingered—one more reminder that the past survives not only in stone, but in those who know how to protect it. And yes—the BLT was excellent. Postscript: An hour after writing this, I walked to the corner store for a bottle of water and found myself face-to-face with a campaign for the 60th anniversary of the World Monuments Fund on a bus stop near my place in Brooklyn. There's something about this work—it finds you when you're paying attention. Or maybe it's always been there, waiting to be noticed, like the monuments themselves.

John Freeman Gill's recent New York Times article, " How Six Italian Brothers Shaped the Story of New York ," brings to light the tale of the Piccirilli brothers, whose remarkable craftsmanship altered the streetscape of New York City. Their enduring legacy, spanning from the 1890s, is a testament to the profound impact immigrants can have on a city's cultural and architectural evolution. Gill's article begins by highlighting the ubiquitous presence of the Piccirilli brothers' sculptures in New York. From the Alexander Hamilton U.S. Custom House to the George Washington figures on the Washington Arch and the lions guarding The New York Public Library, the Piccirillis' artistry is woven into the very fabric of the city. The New York Times. October 15, 2023 These six Italian immigrants, including Ferruccio, Attilio, Furio, Getulio, Masaniello, and Orazio, were more than just skilled artisans. They were also accomplished sculptors in their own right. Their studio in the Bronx served as a hub for creating original works and executing the visions of renowned sculptors like Daniel Chester French. What's remarkable about the Piccirilli brothers is that they played a pivotal role in translating the visions of sculptors into stone, a skill vital for monumental projects like the Lincoln Memorial. The brothers' contributions extended beyond mere craftsmanship; they were integral to the art production ecosystem, transforming plaster models into magnificent stone sculptures. Eduardo Montes-Bradley, a filmmaker, recognizes the Piccirilli' extraordinary talents and is working on a documentary titled "The Italian Factor." Montes-Bradley aims to shed light on the brothers' exceptional artistry and pivotal role in shaping the city's public art. Through this film, he seeks to portray the Piccirilli not as unskilled laborers but as gifted artisans who left an indelible mark on New York's cultural landscape. Eduardo Montes-Bradley. By Brittainy Newman for The New York Times The story of the Piccirilli brothers is not just a tale of craftsmanship; it's a testament to the enduring impact of immigrant talent on the city's identity. These artists, with their roots tracing back to the Italian Renaissance, were instrumental in establishing New York as a center for art production. They worked with sculptors like Daniel Chester French and left their mark on countless monuments and sculptures throughout the city. While traditional sculptors of the time sent their plaster models to Italy for translation into marble, the Piccirillis revolutionized the process. They provided a local solution, allowing sculptors like Mr. French to see their visions come to life in New York. Their studio resembled the studios of the great Italian masters of the Renaissance, making New York an epicenter of artistic production. Attilio Piccirilli, in particular, was a sculptor whose art evolved from the academic figurative style to a more modernist approach. His works, such as "The Joy of Life," showcased his willingness to experiment and move beyond the confines of American sculptural tradition. The New York Times. October 15, 2023 In a poignant turn of events, Attilio's sculpture "The Outcast" reflects the brothers' experiences as Italian immigrants during widespread anti-Italian sentiment in the United States. The statue speaks of the artist's alienation despite his success and wealth, a feeling many immigrants can relate to. Gill's article is a captivating tribute to the Piccirilli brothers, whose contributions to New York's art and culture deserve to be remembered. It's a reminder of the transformative power of immigrant talent and the enduring legacy of artists who left their mark on a city and a nation. In the words of Attilio Piccirilli, "It is when you bury one you have loved in a country’s soil that you realize you belong to that soil forever." The Piccirilli brothers have become an indelible part of New York's rich cultural tapestry, and John Freeman Gill's article honors their legacy.