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| David Byrne. Photo by Cora Wagoner* |
By
Jeff Arnal Making Space: The Work of Access in Experimental Music
Reflections from Big Ears on Democracy and the Avant-Garde
Across multiple traditions of creative practice in the twentieth and
twenty-first centuries, there is a recurring commitment to autonomy,
resourcefulness, and collective invention that transcends style and genre.
In the punk world, Michael Azerrad’s 2001 book
Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground
1981–1991
chronicled a generation of American underground bands that survived and
thrived outside mainstream structures by building their own circuits of
support: booking tours, releasing records on their own terms, and forging
direct relationships with audiences without corporate mediation. The book’s
title comes from a line in the Minutemen’s song “History Lesson Part Two”:
“Our band could be your life,” an invitation to listeners to see themselves
in the creative process and a declaration that meaningful art does not
depend on institutional sanction or approval. The Minutemen’s “jam econo”
philosophy carried this even further, a way of working that stripped
everything down to what was necessary, touring constantly, moving light,
sharing gear, and keeping production lean so the music stayed close to lived
experience. It fused punk urgency with a kind of jazz openness, a
disciplined but flexible approach to making and surviving on the road, where
interdependence and adaptability were not abstract values but daily
practice.
This punk DIY ethos connects backward and outward into other experimental
milieus. In 1970s New York, the loft jazz movement saw musicians transform
abandoned industrial settings into venues, rehearsal rooms, and recording
environments when commercial support was absent. Jazz artists such as
Rashied Ali, Ornette Coleman, John Fischer, Sam Rivers, and others built
performance opportunities with and for their communities. Earlier, the
Judson Church collective in downtown Manhattan brought together dancers,
composers, visual artists, and improvisers in a context that resisted
institutional hierarchy, privileging openness, chance, and intermedia
collaboration. In the 1960s, the Fluxus collective, with figures like George
Maciunas and Nam June Paik, enacted gestures that foregrounded event scores,
indeterminacy, and audience participation, making participation itself part
of the work. These moments, punk, free improvisation, and interdisciplinary
performance art, are not isolated facts but shared methods. They emphasize
resourcefulness, collective forms of support, boundary-crossing practice,
and the formation of contexts where participation is not pre-defined but
discovered in practice. Each tradition demonstrates that creative practice
does not wait for permission; it invents its own platforms, its own
audiences, and its own ways of circulating ideas.
Before going further, it is worth saying that there is not a single term
that holds all of this. Creative music,
contemporary classical
, noise, DIY, jazz, free jazz,
improvised music
, electronic music, avant-garde: each name points to
something real and each falls short. These labels carry histories,
communities, and also the weight of institutions and markets that shaped
them. I do not mind the term experimental music, and for the sake
of this piece I am using it as a kind of shorthand, knowing it has its own
baggage, its own history, its own residue. It feels less like a fixed
category than like a moving one, a way of pointing toward practices that
question form, resist easy definition, and stay open to change.
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Mary Halvorson with Tomas Fujiwara, Henry Fraser, and Dave Adewumi.
Photo by
Cora Wagoner |
The Audience Is Already Onstage
In experimental music, the audience is rarely an external body waiting to be
reached. It is already embedded in the work. The same people circulate
through multiple roles as performer, listener, organizer, label operator,
archivist, critic. These roles are not fixed. They rotate, overlap, and
collapse into one another, and in doing so they blur the line between maker
and receiver.
This is not unique in an absolute sense. From the work and ideas of Marcel
Duchamp onward, modern and contemporary art already unsettles the idea of a
passive viewer: Meaning is completed through perception and participation
rather than simple looking. But in experimental music the overlap becomes
more continuous and more social. It is not only that meaning is activated in
interpretation. It is that the same small networks are involved across the
full cycle of the work, from making and performing to documenting,
distributing, and sustaining it over time.
What emerges is less a separation between audience and artist than a shared
field of participation. The work is carried by the same relationships that
receive it.
At venues like Roulette, a Brooklyn nonprofit performance organization that
grew out of the late 1970s downtown loft scene, and Issue Project Room, a
Brooklyn-based venue for experimental and durational performance, this
overlap is not incidental. Rhizome DC, a Washington, DC experimental and
community arts venue known for presenting improvisation, electronic music,
and interdisciplinary performance in an intimate, artist-run setting,
operates less like a venue and more like a switching station. Downtown Music
Gallery, a long-running New York record store and informal hub for
experimental and improvised music, functions as a living archive, a place
where circulation and memory coexist. The audience is not something to be
developed or expanded in the abstract. It is already present, already
participating, already shaping what the work becomes.
This condition has historical precedent. The Association for the Advancement
of Creative Musicians (AACM) in Chicago in the 1960s, free improvisation
circles in London, the 1970s New York loft scene, and punk basements in
California all formed around informal, self-made settings where music
existed outside institutional permission. These were not separate audiences
so much as overlapping communities of players, listeners, and documenters,
often the same people moving fluidly between roles. What appears from the
outside as a limited audience is, from within, a dense and active network of
participation, a self resonating circuit in which production and reception
continuously fold back into one another.
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| Tyshawn Sorey. Photo by Ryan Clackner |
A Turning Point in Listening
Any attempt to understand this field passes through John Cage and his
4’33”
, a work shaped as much by Zen Buddhism as by the radical propositions of
Duchamp. Cage did not simply expand music; he removed its center. Sound was
no longer something organized solely by the composer. It was already
present, already happening, already available to anyone willing to listen.
What Cage opened was aesthetic and conceptual but also social. By removing
hierarchy from sound, he destabilized authority over who gets to make music
and how it is received. Pauline Oliveros extended this into what she termed
Deep Listening, grounding it in attention, embodiment, and
collective practice. Julius Eastman insisted on presence, naming, and
identity within experimental composition, making clear that sound is never
separate from the conditions of power, visibility, and survival that shape
it.
David Tudor collapsed performance and composition into generative live
systems, shaping environments in which sound was emergent and collective.
Laurie Spiegel used early computer music to expand access and participation,
anticipating the distributed, system-driven approaches that are now
commonplace. Alvin Lucier made listening itself a material, revealing space,
resonance, and time as active forces in perception. Artists like Daphne
Oram, Wendy Carlos, Maryanne Amacher, and Laurie Anderson helped define
early electronic and multimedia approaches, building tools and conceptual
frameworks that reshaped expectations about sound, audience engagement, and
temporal experience.
Time-based, transmedia, and durational practices also exemplify this
openness. Works that unfold over hours or across extended processes, like
Alvin Lucier’s I Am Sitting in a Room, where repeated playback
allows architectural acoustics to gradually replace spoken language with
resonance, or Maryanne Amacher’s City-Links and
mini-sound series
, where psychoacoustic tones are composed to be completed by the listener’s
nervous system and the acoustics of specific sites, treat sound not as fixed
material but as something activated through time, perception, and
environment. Pauline Oliveros’s multi-channel sound environments extend this
further, grounding listening in attention, embodiment, and collective
presence. These works demand sustained attention and situational awareness.
They challenge conventional performance boundaries, blurring distinctions
between composer, performer, audience, and environment itself.
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Isaiah Collier plays Coltrane with Dave Whitfield, Conway Campbell, and
Tim Regis.
Photo by Andy Feliu |
Earbuds, Art Centers, and the Concert Hall
The geography is now fractured. Music and other sounds circulate through
overlapping systems that no longer align neatly with older distinctions
between underground and institutional contexts. A track can move from
Bandcamp to independent radio to a performance in another country within
days. Distribution is now widely available. Tools that once required
studios, labels, promotional channels, and of course the financial resources
that sustained them are increasingly shared.
At the same time, listening has become stratified. Earbuds create intensely
private encounters with sound. Art centers frame work through curatorial
context. Concert halls place it within historical lineage and institutional
authority. These contexts overlap constantly. A work can move among them
without changing form, only context. Small, locally rooted communities
continue to invent their own practices and spaces, becoming microcosms of
experimentation that circulate back into broader networks.
Entry is no longer the central barrier, and this shift is visible in how
certain works and practices now travel across these overlapping systems. For
example, albums released independently on platforms like Bandcamp often
circulate first through artist-run or listener-run channels before moving
into independent radio ecosystems such as WFMU or NTS, and from there into
live performance contexts that include both DIY venues and major
international festivals. Live coding and algorithmic performance practices,
as developed in communities like Algorave, similarly move between informal
club spaces, academic research contexts, and large-scale festival
environments, with the same core work shifting meaning depending on framing
rather than changing materially. Likewise, sound-based installations by
artists working in both gallery and performance contexts, such as Janet
Cardiff and George Bures Miller’s walking audio works, circulate between
museum presentation, headphone-based individual listening, and site-specific
public activation, depending on where and how they are encountered.
What emerges across these examples is not a single unified system, but a set
of porous circuits where production, distribution, and reception no longer
align in stable ways. The same work can be private and collective, informal
and institutional, local and transnational, often within the span of its own
circulation.
The question is how to maintain meaning in an environment of near-infinite
production.
Experimental music doesn’t wait for permission to take shape. It builds its
own systems and its own audiences through the structures it creates and the
people who gather around it. The audiences who show up for events like Big
Ears reflect this. Big Ears draws tens of thousands of visitors each year,
with a substantial portion of its attendees coming from outside Tennessee
and from across the country and beyond. Many visitors commit multiple days
to listening, dialogue, workshops, talks, and community programming, seeking
connection, discovery, and deep engagement rather than passive
entertainment. Some attendees are cultural professionals, curators,
programmers, and label representatives whose presence signals that this
field operates across overlapping scales, at once local, translocal, and
networked. This expanding and engaged audience underscores that
participation in the field is shaped by curiosity, commitment, and
intentional cultivation, not solely by commercial logic or passive
consumption.
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| Maria Chavez, Greg Saunier, Shahzad Ismaily. Photo by Jess Maples |
Democracy Without Filters
When experimental music is described as democratic, it is not a claim that
sits in one place. It moves through the field itself, through artists
describing how they work, through presenters and curators trying to account
for forms that do not fit institutional expectations, and through critics
and listeners trying to find language for practices that are already
happening before they are named.
What it tends to point toward is not equal representation in any simple
sense, but something closer to distributed authority inside the work. Equal
representation suggests balance in who is present or visible. Distributed
authority describes how decisions actually happen in real time, how form is
shaped through response, interruption, listening, and adjustment among
performers, and sometimes listeners and organizers as well. It is not that
everyone has the same role, but that no single role fully determines the
outcome in performance.
In improvised music, and especially in lineages connected to the AACM, this
becomes a lived practice rather than an idea. Structure emerges through
interaction rather than being delivered from above. A piece is not executed
so much as negotiated in time. Roscoe Mitchell’s ensemble work, or the
intergenerational networks around artists like Tyshawn Sorey or Tomeka Reid,
make this visible as a sustained practice of listening and recalibration
rather than a fixed model of participation.
Across the broader field, including at events like Big Ears, this produces
something closer to interdependence than symmetry. Artists move between
roles as performers, composers, and organizers. Audiences are often deeply
embedded in the field itself, sometimes including other musicians whose
presence is part of what supports the work. Attention circulates across
these roles rather than resting in a single center.
Value does not disappear in this system. It stops being universal and
instead forms through repetition, proximity, and sustained engagement within
specific communities of practice. What counts is not fixed in advance but
built over time through shared listening, shared risk, and continued return
to the work.
This form of democracy exists in tension with the world around it. At a
moment when broader systems feel fragile, exclusionary, or in some cases
actively regressive, experimental music offers another model. Not utopian,
not pure, but functional. Small, interdependent communities form around
sound. People organize their own platforms, define their own values, and
maintain practices collectively over time.
At the same time, it is not clear that these formations are simply
democratic in any straightforward sense. They operate more as situated or
practiced forms of democracy, where participation is real but shaped by
access, knowledge, proximity, and time. What can feel open from the inside
often looks quite different from the outside, where the same formation may
appear specialized, coded, or difficult to enter without prior context or
connection.
The history of the AACM makes this tension legible. It emerged as a response
to exclusion from dominant cultural and economic systems, creating a space
where Black experimental musicians could define their own artistic and
organizational terms. That autonomy required building its own structure, its
own set of expectations, and its own forms of accountability. The aim was
self-determination, but self-determination also meant drawing boundaries in
order to sustain a shared practice over time.
What emerges is not a contradiction so much as a condition the field lives
with. These communities are democratic in the sense that authority is
distributed and participation matters, and they are also selective in the
sense that they depend on sustained engagement, shared language, and forms
of labor that are not equally available to everyone. They are built through
relationships that deepen over time, and that depth itself naturally
produces thresholds.
In that sense, the question is not whether these spaces are democratic or
exclusive. They are both, and they have to be. Their openness is real, but
it is not abstract. It is shaped through practice, maintained through
participation, and continually negotiated in real time.
Engagement in this practice is not a solution to isolation, fragmentation,
or exclusion within the field or outside it. It does not resolve the uneven
access that shapes who gets to participate, who has the time and resources
to stay engaged, or who is able to move through these networks with any
consistency. Those conditions remain in place, and in some cases they are
reproduced inside the very structures that are trying to work differently.
What these small communities do instead is something more limited and more
specific. They create working methods inside those conditions. They build
situations where people can actually show up for each other, listen,
collaborate, and take shared risk over time. They make room for forms of
relation that are harder to maintain elsewhere, but they do not remove the
larger structures they are operating within.
In that sense, music in this context is not a fix. It is closer to a
practice of rehearsal. A way of testing how people might organize together
under real constraints, without assuming those constraints disappear. It is
infrastructural in a quiet way. It builds relationships that can hold,
sometimes loosely and sometimes tightly, but always under pressure from the
conditions around them.
Seen this way, the value is not in resolution. It is in continuity. In the
ability to keep making and listening together, even when nothing about the
broader situation is settled.
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| Caroline Shaw. Photo by Cora Wagoner
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A Music That Builds Its Own World
A consistent thread across these practices is the way experimental music
builds its own systems of relation, rather than relying on existing ones.
The AACM emerged in Chicago in the mid-1960s as a self-organized collective
that created its own concerts, education programs, and distribution networks
out of necessity. The model of self-determination it developed has been
extensively documented by the musician and scholar George Lewis, who has
written and composed deeply on improvisation, technology, and Black
experimental practice. Within this tradition, the bassist and composer
William Parker understands music as inseparable from daily life, a
continuous practice of listening, responsibility, and community. The
saxophonist Charles Gayle speaks openly about the difficulty of sustaining
that life, maintaining artistic commitment and material survival in
conditions that are often unstable or indifferent. The drummer, visionary
artist, and polymath Milford Graves approached improvisation as ritual and
healing, a way of aligning body, rhythm, and spirit through sound as lived
process rather than performance. Cecil Taylor, pianist, composer, and free
jazz pioneer, treated music as energy in motion, a system of forces rather
than fixed forms, framing each performance as something alive in the moment,
never repeatable in the same way twice.
Miles Davis insisted on transformation, urging musicians: “Don’t play what’s
there, play what’s not there,” a directive that emphasized invention over
replication and placed responsibility on the performer to imagine new
possibilities in real time. Herbie Hancock framed creativity as inseparable
from life itself, and contemporary artists like Caroline Shaw and Tyshawn
Sorey continue this line, moving fluidly across forms, genres, and
ensembles, demonstrating that commitment and attention, not labels, define
experimental practice.
In practice, these ideas are not abstract. They are enacted through the
music itself. In works like George Lewis’s Voyager, a computer
system improvises alongside human performers, creating a shifting sonic
environment in which no single agent controls the outcome. Authority is
distributed, and listening becomes an ethical act. Each participant must
respond, adapt, and make space for others in real time. Similarly, the
broader AACM approach treats composition and improvisation as collective
problem solving, a way of modeling social interaction through sound. Early
AACM statements made this explicit, asserting that musicians could determine
their own strategies for political and economic freedom through collective
organization and creative practice.
Throughout these examples, one sees a consistent thread. The work is not
simply musical. It is infrastructural, social, and ethical. It creates
spaces in which community, improvisation, risk, and care coexist. Each
artist reminds us that experimental music is sustained as much by belief,
practice, and labor as by sound itself.
The DIY ethos of the late twentieth century required building infrastructure
from scratch. Bands created their own circuits, economies, and audiences.
Now much of that infrastructure is readily available. Anyone can record,
release, and distribute music. What once depended on studios, labels, and
the logistical weight of physical circulation now exists in more immediate,
dispersed forms, often built from tools that are widely shared and
relatively easy to access. This shift lowers the barrier to entry, but it
also changes the conditions of attention. The question is no longer only how
to make work visible, but how to sustain it in a field where everything is
already moving.
This changes independence. It lowers the barrier to entry while raising the
difficulty of sustaining attention. The challenge is no longer access but
continuity, how to keep going, build relationships, and make work that
persists over time. What looks like freedom in this context is never
separate from the conditions that hold it up. It is made in the ongoing work
of rehearsal, organization, care, and return. Freedom is tied to labor, not
as constraint but as the steady practice through which anything shared or
lasting is actually made.
Despite fragmentation, certain traditions remain active as methods.
In Europe, Stockhausen and Xenakis expanded composition into systems and
architecture, shifting musical thought toward structure, spatial form, and
process. Roscoe Mitchell treats ensemble practice as ritual, where form
emerges through sustained collective attention. Anthony Braxton extends
composition into language and philosophy, building frameworks that move
between sound, notation, and conceptual structure. George Lewis integrates
improvisation, history, and computation, connecting experimental practice to
technological systems and shifting histories of agency.
Other currents move through spirituality and transcendence, from John
Coltrane to Alice Coltrane, reappearing in contemporary practices that merge
sound with devotion and expanded states of listening. The downtown continuum
extends through artists like Laurie Anderson, where performance, media, and
narrative fold into one another, while diasporic and global traditions
reshape the field through ongoing exchange, translation, and return.
These are not fixed inheritances. They remain in motion, carried forward
through practice rather than preservation.
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| Wild Up: Arthur Russell's 24 to 24 up. Photo by Taryn Ferro
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A Living Cross Section: Big Ears 2026 and Other Festivals
What this looks like in practice can be felt in the density of Big Ears
2026. Not as a lineup, but as a temporary ecosystem where histories,
communities, and practices intersect.
The presence at the festival of John Zorn and the Masada projects connects
decades of composer-performer networks to artists like Ikue Mori, Ches
Smith, and Brian Marsella, who move fluidly across improvisation,
composition, and electronics. The AACM lineage continues through Roscoe
Mitchell, Tomeka Reid, and collaborations with Tyshawn Sorey and Jeff
Parker, extending the AACM’s foundational commitment to collective
self-determination, original composition, and the integration of
improvisation with structured and experimental systems. Emerging from
Chicago in the 1960s, AACM artists not only redefined approaches to timbre,
form, and instrumentation, but also built their own institutions,
performance spaces, and educational models in response to structural
exclusion. That legacy persists as both sound and method: a practice
grounded in artist-run infrastructure, interdisciplinary experimentation,
and the understanding of creative music as a social and cultural force.
Another cluster forms around artists connecting Chicago, Los Angeles, and
global scenes through figures like Carlos Niño, Nate Mercereau, Josh
Johnson, and Isaiah Collier. Their work intersects with artists like Sam
Gendel and Shabaka, linking spiritual jazz, ambient practice, and
contemporary improvisation.
Composer-performer ensembles sit alongside artist-driven projects where
composition and improvisation are inseparable. Artists move between
configurations across the festival, appearing in multiple contexts. This is
the network made visible, built through ongoing collaboration rather than
isolated work.
Global traditions are integral to this context. Carnatic and Hindustani
music, Ethiopian jazz, Gnawa, and cross-cultural collaborations unfold
alongside experimental pop, folk, noise, and large-scale multimedia work.
Artists like Laurie Anderson and David Byrne extend the field outward by
translating experimental practices into more widely accessible forms,
connecting them to broader audiences and cultural contexts without fully
abandoning their underlying complexity. Their work operates as a bridge,
making experimental approaches legible across disciplines and publics, while
other performers remain committed to more intimate, durational, or deeply
situated practices. Electronic and computer music legacies from the likes of
Laurie Spiegel, David Tudor, and Alvin Lucier continue to inform new
generations.
Underlying all this are shared support systems. Labels, independent radio,
critics, archivists, venues, and informal networks. What emerges is not
diversity as a surface condition but interconnection as a lived reality.
Different histories and identities are not parallel. They are entangled.
The scale of the gathering reveals a dense layering of infrastructures that
support the work. Labels function as archives and distribution networks.
Radio creates continuity across generations. Writers and critics trace
lineages and create context. The same names appear across projects not as
repetition but as evidence of relationship.
Festivals make this visible. They compress what is usually dispersed.
The Vision Festival nurtures a long-term community. Founded in 1996 and held
annually in New York City, typically in June, the Vision Festival brings
together multiple generations of improvisers, dancers, poets, and visual
artists within a self-organized, artist-run framework. Big Ears creates a
temporary environment of openness, particularly in a region where that
openness is not guaranteed. In Tennessee, where cultural policy has moved to
restrict forms of expression, including attempts to ban drag performances,
the presence and success of this kind of gathering is not neutral.
From a southern perspective, this carries a particular weight. In places
like Western North Carolina, and in the longer shadow of the Deep South I
grew up in, cultural life has often been shaped by distance from major
institutional centers, by uneven access, and by the way communities build
meaning without relying on sustained formal infrastructure. In that context,
gatherings like this do not simply add another cultural option. They briefly
reorganize what public life can feel like.
Audiences move between radically different forms within a shared
environment, not as isolated encounters but as a kind of collective
attention that is not always available in everyday life. What matters is not
contrast for its own sake, but the experience of proximity itself, of being
in a place where different histories, practices, and ways of listening can
sit beside one another in real time, and where that co-presence becomes a
kind of temporary commons.
What emerges is not a single narrative but a field of relations. Aesthetic
questions remain open. What matters, what lasts, what holds attention over
time, these are not settled questions. But the scale of activity itself is
significant. The number of artists, practices, and connections forms
something like a laboratory, a testing ground where ideas about sound,
community, and value are constantly being proposed and revised. It is
uneven, sometimes overwhelming, but it is alive.
What holds this field together is not agreement, but participation. Artists
become audiences. Audiences become organizers. Organizers become archivists.
Agents, curators, and promoters facilitate movement across contexts. The
system does not stabilize into a single structure. It circulates across
contexts, practices, and communities. Experimental music is not defined by a
fixed audience. It is defined by those who choose to engage with it, to
carry it forward, and to listen deeply enough for it to matter.
Despite its density, what is described here is only a partial record of a
wider field that is always in motion. There are informal settings that never
get documented, scenes that flare up and dissolve, small labels that
circulate quietly, artists who step away and others who continue under
difficult conditions. There are also networks of relation that shift
depending on where you stand, and forms of labor that remain largely
unmarked even as they hold everything else in place. Attention is never
evenly distributed. Participation is always shaped by geography, by access,
by race, gender, class, and ability in ways that no single account can
resolve.
None of this completes the picture. It simply returns it to the conditions
in which it is already unfolding. What holds is not resolution but
continuity, the ongoing fact of the work as it moves through different
registers, across places, through different hands. The field is not
something to be finished or fully seen, but something partial, contingent,
and in process. It is entered partway, listened to from within, and left
while the motion continues.
---
Jeff Arnal (b. 1971) is a percussionist, curator, and arts
organizer based in Asheville, North Carolina. His work moves across
performance, writing, publishing, and organizational practice within
experimental music, shaped by long engagement with artist-built
infrastructures. Since the 1990s he has performed internationally, including
duos with Charles Gayle and appearances at venues and festivals such as Big
Ears Festival, Blurred Edges Festival, the Vision Festival, Issue Project
Room, and Roulette.
He currently works in projects including Chrononox with Camila Nebbia,
Dietrich Eichmann, and John Hughes; a trio with Bonnie Han Jones and Ken
Vandermark; and Drum Major Instinct with Curt Cloninger. Since 2016 he has
served as Executive Director of the Black Mountain College Museum + Arts
Center, where he has expanded exhibitions, performance, publishing,
residencies, and research in dialogue with contemporary artists and
scholars. He studied with Stuart Saunders Smith and Milford Graves, and
holds degrees from the University of Maryland and Bennington College.
*All Photos courtesy of Big Ear
