arsRSS home ArsRSS read feeds

Database Search: 0.005191 seconds  ? 
7. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
9. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
10. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
11. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
12. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
13. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
20. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
22. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
23. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
24. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
25. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
26. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
33. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
35. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
36. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
37. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
38. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
39. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
46. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
48. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
49. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
50. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
51. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
52. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
59. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
61. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
62. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
63. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
64. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
65. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
72. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
74. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
75. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
76. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
77. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
78. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
85. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
87. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
88. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
89. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
90. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
91. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
98. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
100. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
101. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
102. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
103. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
104. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
111. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
113. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
114. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
115. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
116. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
117. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
124. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
126. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
127. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
128. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
129. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
130. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
137. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
139. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
140. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
141. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
142. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
143. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
150. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
152. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
153. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
154. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
155. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
156. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
163. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
165. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
166. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
167. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
168. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
169. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
176. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
178. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
179. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
180. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
181. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
182. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
189. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
191. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
192. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
193. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
194. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
195. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure
202. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: Artist Magazine Annual Art Competition - Online
Over $3,000 in total prizes. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
204. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: LAB19 Contemporary art prize - Rome, Italy
5000,00 Euros in awards. Deadline: Jul 1, 2021
Enclosure
205. Source: Art Competitions provided by Artshow.com
Item: 2021 Miami University Young Sculptors Competition - Oxford, OH
$10,000 Yeck Purchase Award; $2500 Second Place Award; $2000 Third Place Award. Deadline: Jun 30, 2021
Enclosure
206. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Remembering a powerful woman
Date: 4 June 2021, 3:00 am
Five years ago my courageous mother died... this is my eulogy from that day:
When my father died last year, I began his eulogy by noting that another oak had fallen.

This morning, around 1:25AM, Ana Olivia Cruzata Marrero de Campello, his wife of over 60 years, and my beloved mother, passed on on the day of her 97th birthday.

If my father was an oak, then my mother was an equally strong, but also very pliable, and elegant tree.  When hurricanes attack the main lands of the world, the strong tall trees often fall, but the pliable ones, like plantain trees, always give with the wind, and survive the storms, and thrive in the drenching rains.

My mother was like a an aged plantain tree, not only immensely strong and pliable, but also giving and nurturing.

Like many Cuban women of her generation and her social-economic background, she had never worked for a living in Cuba, and yet within a few days of our arrival in New York in the 1960s, she was working long hours in a sewing factory, putting her formidable seamstress skills, honed in the social sewing and embroidery gathering of young Cuban girls, to use in the "piece work" process of the New York sewing factories.

As soon as we saved the money, one of the first things that my mother bought was an electric sewing machine - a novelty to her, as she had always used one of the those ancient Singer machines with a foot pedal.

I remember as a child in Brooklyn, that women used to bring her fabric and a page from a magazine with a woman wearing a dress. Without the benefit of a sewing pattern, my mother would whip up a copy of the dress that was more often than not probably better made than the original. As the word of her skills spread, so did her customers and soon she was making more money working at home than at the factory - but she kept both jobs.

I once noted to her that I admired the courage that it must have taken  her to leave her family and immigrate to the United States. "We didn't come here as immigrants," she corrected me. "We came as political refugees, and I initially thought that we'd be back in Cuba within a few years at the most."

When the brutal Castro dictatorship refused to loosen its stranglehold on her birth place, she became an immigrant, and from there on an American citizen from her white-streaked hair down to her heel bone (that's a Cuban saying). Like my father, she loved her adopted country with a ferocity, that I sometimes feel that only people who have been bloodied by Communism can feel for a new, free homeland.

As as I've noted before, Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.


I remember as a teenager, once I started going out to parties and things at night on my own (around age 16 or so), that my mother would wait up for me, sitting by the third floor window of our Brooklyn apartment, where she could survey the whole neighborhood and see as far as the elevated LL subway station a few blocks away, to watch me descend the station stairs and trace my way home.

My mother was always fit and, as once described by my father, "flaca como un fusil" (as slim as a rifle). She was strong and fast. She was also quiet, but never silenced, and when needed, could and would command attention.

My mother was always well dressed and superbly coiffed. When we'd go to parties and events, women would always ask her where she'd gotten that dress! The answer was always the same: she'd made it!

At least once a week, to my father's dismay, and in spite of his demands that my mother stop it, she'd get her hair done at the nearby peluqueria (hair dresser).

My dad knew, and respected his limits with my mother. 

I remember one time that my father and I were returning from shopping at the supermarket, dragging one of those wheeled folding carts that could carry four full paper grocery bags. It had been snowing, so the Brooklyn streets were wet and muddy.

When we got to our apartment my father opened the door. He then stood there.

"Go in!" I demanded.

"We'll have to wait," he said gloomily, "Your mother mopped the floor and it's still wet." This giant, tough, street-brawling Galician then looked at me sheepishly, "I'd rather walk through a mine field than step on your mother's wet floor."

I learned a lesson there.

She used to delight in telling stories how, as a child, she would often win the horse races that kids staged around the small country towns where she was raised in Oriente province, where her father was a Mayoral.

"I almost always won," she'd say, and then would add: "Even though I was a skinny girl."

Once, in her seventies, back in the days where you could actually accompany people to the departing gates at airports, we were escorting my oldest daughter Vanessa, who had come to visit, and we were running late. As we got to the airport, we ran to the gate, and to everyone's surprise, Abuela got there first. I still remember how delighted my daughter was that her grandmother could still run like a gazelle.


When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, and thus my parents decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

They spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

The mostly Cuban-American families that lived over the years in that apartment loved my mother, and would always tell me stories about my mother, ever the nurturer, bringing them food when she knew that they were going over tough times, or riding the buses with them, just to show them the routes.

This week, when I arrived in Miami, already somewhat knowing that this was approaching the end, I saw her with tubes coming out of her mouth and her eyes closed. When I spoke to her she opened her eyes, and in spite of the visuals that my eyes were seeing she somehow still managed to look strong. 

I showed her photos and movies of her grand children, and talked to her for a long time.

I thanked her for having the courage to leave her motherland and afford me the opportunity to grow as an American.

When she was being extubated, a young woman came into the room with a guitar and played and sang the haunting free prose of Guajira Guantanamera (The peasant girl from Guantanamo); a most fitting song, since my mother was from Guantanamo, and she came from strong Cuban peasant stock.

"Guajira pero fina (A peasant, but a very refined woman)", noted a neighbor and loving caretaker. 

The song, which can start with just about any prose, started with the Jose Marti poem:
 Yo quiero, cuando me muerasin patria, pero sin amo, tener en mi tumba un ramo de flores y una bandera
I want to, when I die, without my motherland, but without a master, to have on my tomb a bunch of flowers and a flag.
She died without a master, a strong and pliable woman who not only gave me the gift of life, but also the gift of freedom.

And as my mother died in her sleep in the early hours of the morning, in the capital city of the bitter Cuban Diaspora, all that I could gather to say to her was mostly the same that I said to my father when he passed last year: "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Mami... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children, and happy birthday in Heaven!
Enclosure
207. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: Things that are not OK - and I'm going to start calling them out
Date: 10 April 2021, 1:00 am

One of the most common ingredients of the artworld, and sometimes a formidable tool for emerging artists to build a resume (if you want to know what it is sooooooo important that you develop a valid and sustainable artistical resume, then you need to take my next "Bootcamp for Artists" seminar) is to respond to call for artists, art competitions, etc.

There's always a set of deadlines.

A deadline for entries to be in - the most important deadline for the artist.

A deadline for the hosting entity to respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

A deadline for delivery of accepted artworks

A deadline for pick up of exhibited/unsold artwork at the end of competition (if local delivered)

Three of the four key deadlines fall on the artists - and generally speaking, if you miss any of the first two (entry deadline and delivery deadline), then you are OUT!

If you miss the last deadline, there's often a daily "storage charge" until the artwork is picked-up.

One thing that I have been noticing more and more lately, is that hosting venues are often - anecdotal data seems to indicate most of the time - Missing THEIR deadline to notify artists and respond with notifications of acceptance or rejection.

This is not only unprofessional, but puts an extra burden on the shoulders of the artists, who may only have a tight window for decision-making related to the submitted artwork.

What is up with that? Why are we allowing the hosting venues to simply (often without a reason) go silent as deadlines pass and then ad hoc notify artists?

I have been on the jurying end of this process dozens if not hundreds of times, and thus as the poet Marti wrote: "I know the monster well, for I have lived in its entrails."

Enclosure
208. Source: Daily Campello Art News
Item: New Corcoran Director
Date: 8 April 2021, 6:41 pm

Here's the announcement:

Corcoran community,

I’m very pleased to announce that the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design at the George Washington University has named Lauren Onkey as its next director. Lauren most recently served as the Senior Director at NPR Music, where she led a team of journalists, critics, video, and podcast makers and provided the editorial vision in creating innovative cross-platform music journalism. She will begin her director role at Corcoran on July 12. 

The goal of the Corcoran’s search committee was to find a strategic leader with the vision and experience to guide Corcoran into the future. Lauren’s lifelong commitment to the arts as an educator, music scholar, museum professional, presenter and producer makes her the right leader for our school. 

Throughout her career, Lauren has dedicated herself to the arts, cultural studies, education and civic engagement, and she believes that innovation and diversity are the key to growing our vibrant, creative community of cultural leaders. With over two decades of experience ranging from directing NPR Music's team to developing and managing a museum's award-winning education and community programs as the Vice President of Education and Public Programming at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, Lauren is poised to lead Corcoran’s future growth. She will help increase our school’s impact and visibility and foster student success.

During her tenure at NPR, Lauren worked with NPR's newsroom and robust member station network to expand the impact of NPR Music and continue positioning public radio as an essential force in music. At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum from 2008-2015, Lauren led divisions such as Education, Library and Archives, Community Programs, and Visitor Services to provide programs, classes, and visitor experiences that engaged a broad audience in the history and significance of rock and roll music. 

At the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Humanities Center at Cuyahoga Community College in Cleveland, Ohio, which provides civically-engaged humanities education to a large and diverse population of community college students, Lauren led the creation of curriculum and programming and developed strong community partnerships that provided students with opportunities for experiential learning. Lauren also spent fourteen years teaching at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, specializing in popular music studies and postcolonial literature. Over the course of her career, she has published many articles in literary studies, popular music studies, women's studies and pedagogy.

I know Lauren is excited to meet our DC community members at the Corcoran. We will share additional details in the weeks to come about her arrival. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming Lauren and her husband to our community!

Thank you,

Kym Rice

Interim Director

Corcoran School of the Arts & Design

The George Washington University

Enclosure