News & Views
Cultural Amnesia and a Creative Alternate Timeline
We like to think of history as something behind us, a trail of moments stretching backward, growing smaller with distance. But that’s not how time works—not in a cosmological sense, and not in a practical one either. The past isn’t gone; it still exists. It is layered beneath us, influencing the present, shaping every decision we make, lingering in the structures we build, the systems we uphold, the stories we tell—or choose not to tell. If we could step outside of time, we’d see it all at once, the past and present folded together, indistinguishable. We operate as though history is something separate from us, as though it is finished, but it is happening now, and the choices we make—or fail to make—will be part of it forever.
The arts and culture sector holds the stories of our past. Museums and historical sites are tasked with preserving the evidence. Writers, researchers, and philosophers interpret meaning. Artists translate history into feeling. And yet, for all this work, the hardest truth remains: we forget. Not because the information isn’t available—although one could argue it is sometimes strategically repressed—but because remembering requires action, and action requires discomfort.
This moment in which we are living will be studied. Historians will document how it transpired. Museums will curate and collect artifacts that represent it. Artists will create works reflecting on our participation. So, the question we must ask now, as artists, historians, curators, and stewards of culture, is: What role do we play in making sure history is not just recorded, but heeded?
Signs & Tension
Every era of rising authoritarianism has had its signs. The scapegoating of marginalized groups, the erosion of truth, the demand for loyalty over integrity. Later, when the consequences become undeniable, people always ask, How did we not see? But the truth is, the signs are always visible in real-time. It is just easier to dismiss them as exaggerated, as alarmist, as something that couldn’t possibly happen here.
In northern Michigan, we don’t live in a bubble, even if it sometimes feels like we do. We are home to a rich and complex history—Indigenous communities whose stories predate the country itself, small towns shaped by waves of immigrants, industries that both built and depleted the land. And our present is just as layered. A region of lakeside wealth and rural poverty, of deeply conservative spaces and progressive enclaves, of neighbors who see the world in vastly different ways. The undeniable tension has remained under the surface for a long time, but now seeps out.
For those of us working in arts and culture, this presents a challenge. Our work is not just about preserving stories, but about ensuring they are felt—resonating in the present, reminding us of what happens when complacency takes hold. It is not enough to maintain a historical site if its lessons go unspoken. It is not enough to fund the arts if we restrict their ability to provoke. It is not enough to mine the deep wells of philosophical curiosity if it's only self-satisfying.
Two-Edged Creativity
Throughout history, art has been a tool to resist forgetting. It has challenged power, amplified silenced voices, and reminded us what happens when societies abandon their integrity. But creativity has also been exploited to distort memory, to rewrite stories in favor of those in control.
What happens, then, when art and history themselves are manipulated? When cultural institutions are pressured to align with a singular ideology? When funding is threatened unless certain narratives are erased? When artists, researchers, and historians feel the weight of risk in telling the truth? These are not hypothetical questions—they are realities we must face now, as guardians of culture.
Right here, in our own towns, we feel it. Our cultural nonprofits face thousands in lost funding if they refuse to comply with discriminatory orders. Museums weigh how to present complex histories without alienating visitors or funders. Artists question whether speaking too boldly will cost them opportunities they rely on to feed their kids.
Glitch in the Timeline
We can choose to act now. Art and culture are not just reflections of history; they are forces that can shift its course. So what can we do today?
For artists, it means defying the pressure to create only what is safe and expected. For historians and curators, it means telling hard truths—resisting the urge to soften the past for the sake of comfort. For community members, it means engaging—supporting the institutions that hold these stories. What little federal funding still exists for arts and culture may very likely disappear altogether. Now is the time to write big checks.
None of us can change the course of time, but together, we can choose to be a force that bends it in the right direction.
This article was originally published in the Traverse City Record Eagle, March 21, 2025