What Goes Up When Art Comes Down?

As colleges and universities across the country have increasingly begun to reckon with divisive—and often racist—historical symbols on their campuses, traditional and long-visible works of art have been relocated from positions of prominence to dusty basement storage areas far from public view. In some cases, landscaping crews may have gone to work quickly grading and sodding away any trace of former monuments. At many colleges, though, the decapitated pedestals and rectangles of faded paint that remain serve as ghostly reminders of a complex past.

Until now, much of the focus of this work has been devoted to developing criteria for denaming buildings or removing artwork (some institutions, like Johns Hopkins University, have set up thorough and inclusive processes for evaluation). But surprisingly little attention has been paid to what comes next. When traditional oil portraits and classical statues come down, what goes up in their place? How can universities provide aesthetically inspiring environments for teaching, learning and research while at the same time nodding to—or even reckoning with—their institutional legacies?

At Columbia Law School, we have taken a proactive and experimental approach to campus art, which can serve as a model for how institutions might navigate these questions going forward.

Our process—which began in 2018 and accelerated alongside the nationwide movement for racial justice —started out like most others. We took an inventory of existing artwork, the overwhelming majority of which depicted white men in dark academic or judicial robes, and quickly got to work removing roughly half of the portraits that adorned our halls. We developed a set of guiding principles, resituated remaining portraits to locations relevant to their subjects and created museum labels that provided historical context.

Shortly after these interventions were implemented, however, it became evident that more work was needed. There were two main reasons for this. First was the issue of diversity: the remaining portraits continued to feature just a small number of women and persons of color. Second, where art was once displayed, the walls were now barren.

As we began examining options for new art, we found ourselves continuing to get hung up on the same issues that had gotten us into this position in the first place. Commissioning new portraits, even of subjects from a more diverse array of backgrounds, could burden future generations with similar questions of inclusion. Photographs, or other similar contemporary representations of individuals, wouldn’t inherently broaden representation. And it would be difficult to achieve community consensus around acquiring new works—even abstract ones—to become part of the permanent collection.

Instead, we looked to a model that was more common in the cultural sector—the artist residency. It might seem like an obvious choice, but it turned out that there were a surprisingly small number of such programs housed at non-arts professional schools. We saw an opportunity to push the limits of the existing campus art paradigm, as well as to engage our community around the art-making process. After an open call that yielded more than 400 applications from around the world, we selected Bayeté Ross Smith, a multidisciplinary artist based in Harlem whose work challenges traditional notions of identity, race and justice using photography, film and mixed-media methods. Over the 18 months that followed, Ross Smith mounted multiple exhibitions—and put on a range of events and programs—involving students, faculty and staff at every turn.

The benefits were undeniable, and the lessons we learned along the way can help other institutions looking to implement their own similar programs.

Cast a wide net in the selection process. When we issued the call for proposals, we very intentionally left the selection criteria very broad. Apart from a desire for work that touched on “notions of law and justice,” and a preference for an early- or midcareer artist with some ties to the geographic areas surrounding Columbia’s campus, we stipulated no other requirements. The result was an astonishingly wide range of applicants—from dancers to filmmakers, painters to performers—and, since those of us who were on the selection committee were not full-time artists or curators, evaluating their portfolios helped us to clarify our own preferences and desires for the program.

Go temporary, not permanent. At first, we thought we’d ask the artist in residence to create one or more pieces that would become part of the law school’s permanent collection. We quickly came to understand, however, that such a mandate would structurally exclude artists who worked in nontraditional media (e.g., dance or performance art) and pose thorny questions about ownership of intellectual property. Instead, we embraced temporary exhibitions. Not only did this prevent staleness (which was the main feature of the oil portraiture that had been in place for more than half a century), it also allowed Ross Smith to leverage work that was already in his portfolio while also working to create new pieces during his residency.

Involve the community. It’s typical for stakeholders to be involved in the ideation and selection processes, but the opportunities for engagement extend well beyond those initial phases. At Columbia Law, Ross Smith hosted events to guide community members through his work and help situate it within a broader context. Some of these programs coincided with the opening of particular exhibitions, while others—like a racial justice film series for law students—offered opportunities for engagement around artistic expression more generally. One of the most poignant examples of effective community engagement was Ross Smith’s “Our Kind of People” series, which featured multiple images of Columbia Law students, faculty members and staff dressed in different clothing from their own wardrobes. Seeing the faces of familiar colleagues on the walls helped to stimulate a much deeper and richer conversation about issues of identities and perceptions raised by the series than would have otherwise been possible.

Kevin Dale Photography for Columbia Law School. Courtesy of Columbia Law School.

Create and capitalize on artistic momentum. Beyond the obvious benefits associated with having an artist in residence, the impact of the program also permeated the operations of the law school. Administrators learned how to design and curate art exhibits, facilities operators became skilled at installing artwork, and faculty and students became increasingly interested in exploring connections between their teaching and learning and artistic expression. This year, Columbia Law celebrates the 100th anniversary of the graduation of Paul Robeson, the groundbreaking artist, athlete and advocate—and the tributes will include an expansive exhibit curated entirely in-house.

Apart from Columbia Law’s program, a small number of colleges and universities are experimenting with their own artist residencies. Other initiatives, like Stanford University’s public art program and the Philadelphia-based Monument Lab, offer equally innovative templates for stewarding and promoting campus art.

One thing is clear, though: simply removing existing artwork is only half of the equation. Assuming institutions don’t want to abandon the long-standing tradition of displaying art, they must think as strategically and holistically about what goes up as they do about what comes down.