Division of Arts and Humanities

For ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� alumni, art is a family matter

Rachel Sauer — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 17:42:30 +0000

For ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� alumni, art is a family matter Rachel Sauer Fri, 09/11/2026 - 11:42

Rachel Sauer

In recent exhibits, renowned Colorado artists Tony Ortega and Daniel Salazar explore themes of Chicano experience, historical erasure, memory, mythology and the bonds of family

Tony Ortega and Daniel Salazar did not know each other growing up in Denver. They did not cross paths at the University of Colorado Boulder, even though many steps on those paths were similar.

They finally met through Denver’s Chicano Humanities and Arts Council, when the organization invited famed Mexican sculptor Francisco Zúñiga to Denver and Salazar and his wife, Maruca, a ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� MFA alumna, hosted a reception.

Maruca Salazar (left) and Daniel Salazar (right) in a Museo de las Americas gallery with their recently ended exhibit “Accidentally on Purpose – Pasó lo que tenía que pasar” celebrating 50 years of their activism and art. Maruca is a former director of Museo de las Americas. (Photo: Tony Ortega)

“That was really an era that brought artists together,” Salazar says. “And that was really also part of what we were experiencing and practicing at that time, because we were very much directed toward organizing and creating work and creating community, something that continued from our experiences at CU of organizing, working together, creating opportunities to create work and exhibit work and just making that part of our lifestyle.”

So, Ortega and Salazar met, and in that meeting there was recognition—of the inspiration to create, of activism and organizing, of El Movimiento, of art informed and inspired by history and heritage, culture and identity and, perhaps most especially, family.

Always family—in the making of art, in its display, in bonds of both birth and choice that have woven a creative tapestry across decades and been given form in the recently completed exhibit “Accidentally on Purpose – Pasó lo que tenía que pasar” at Museo de las Americas in Denver, celebrating 50 years of Daniel and Maruca Salazar’s activism and art; and in “Tres Voces, Un Corazón,” currently showing at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art.

“Tres Voces, Un Corazón” highlights the work of Ortega, his wife, Sylvia Montero, and their son, Cipriano Ortega. The exhibit, guest curated by Maruca Salazar, in part explores what is passed between generations and how even in families, identity does not have to mean identical.

And in both exhibits, themes of Chicano experience, Indigenous identity, historical erasure, memory, mythology, community and creating home—themes that in many ways began to find form for Salazar and Ortega as young activists and artists at ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ��.

The path to ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ��

Before they began to flourish as artists and activists in the Chicano cultural renaissance that grew in the 1970s, however, Salazar and Ortega were two kids growing up in Denver—six years apart in age but experiencing similar trajectories.

Let the muse move you

Cipriano Ortega and his band Los Lo Los will perform at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art at 6 p.m. Saturday.

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Salazar was born in Denver in 1952 and Ortega moved to the city as a young child from Pecos, New Mexico, and both were Baby Boomers who navigated their Mexican heritage as American boys who loved to run around and play sports and get up to things in neighborhoods where many of the adults acted as auxiliary parents.

Salazar was in one of the first graduating classes from John F. Kennedy High School and studied at Pamona College in California before losing his financial aid and dropping out to pursue work as a real estate photographer. However, “my brother five years older than I was had attended CU, and I used to go and visit him and marvel at what college life was like there. I was very intrigued by the Boulder scene in those days.”

Ortega, coming up six years later, remembers touring the ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� campus as a senior at East High School—inspired, in part, by a fascination with the football team’s lauded running back Bobby Anderson.

Even though Salazar and Ortega studied at ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� several years apart, they were there in the heady 1970s, when Chicano activism was gaining momentum and intensity on campuses across the United States. Both were involved with United Mexican American Students (UMAS) and the El Diario de la Gente student newspaper, and Salazar was an undergraduate student during the time of Los Seis de Boulder—when, over the course of 48 hours in May 1974, two car bombs killed six people, five of whom were ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� students or alumni, who were involved in El Movimiento Chicano social justice movement.

Cipriano Ortega (left), Tony Ortega (center) and Sylvia Montero (right) at their “Tres Voces, Un Corazón” exhibit showing through Sunday at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art. (Photo: Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art)

Not long after the tragedies of those days, Salazar traveled to Xalapa, the capital of Mexico’s Veracruz state, to study. It was a strange time to be away from Boulder, Salazar recalls.

“The aftermath of Los Seis and other events made things kind of tense, kind of heightened,” he says. “It was a period of a lot of political protest and activity, a lot of activism and organizing, so it was an interesting time to step away from what was happening in Boulder.”

Several years later, Ortega also studied in Xalapa, a natural progression of his Latin American studies and, in a way, to “see how Mexican I was,” Ortega recalls. “I think both Daniel and I ended up finding out how American we were.”

While studying Spanish, anthropology, history and other subjects, both lived with local families and “really integrated into Mexican society,” Ortega says, experiences that have informed his and Salazar’s artwork in various ways—from occasional experiences of feeling very Mexican in the United States to not feeling Mexican enough in Mexico, to navigating and claiming their Mexican heritage while exploring their Chicano identities. And in Salazar’s case, the time in Xalapa included meeting Maruca, the woman who became his wife.

‘Let the muse move you’

After graduating ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ��—Salazar in communications and Ortega in business Spanish and Latin American studies—both Salazar and Ortega pursued creative careers. Salazar worked in photography, journalism and filmmaking and Ortega, who earned an associate degree in fine art from the Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design in 1982 and his MFA from ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� in 1995, became a professor of fine art at Regis University.

And they both married artists and grew their artistic reputations in Denver’s vibrant arts community, so it’s only natural that art has been a language and lineage of family.

As organizers and activists, their art explores themes including immigration, gender roles, historical erasure and identity. And it has never shied away from topics that aren’t easy to face. “Accidentally on Purpose – Pasó lo que tenía que pasar” featured Salazar’s work Grand Poobah and Office Fairy Cut Through Red Tape, a digital photograph mural featuring a 1941 photograph of federal office workers to whom Salazar added a crown and fairy wings.

The piece was controversial enough when it was hung in Denver’s Wellington E. Webb Municipal Office Building that even The Denver Post editorialized against it on behalf of aggrieved government employees.

“Government employees didn’t like it very much,” Salazar recalls, “but I think most people’s experiences are with the red tape and feeling like they can’t do anything about it.”

“It’s meant as satire,” Maruca Salazar says.

And “Tres Voces, Un Corazón” includes Ortega’s work El Grito de Guadalupe, which portrays Our Lady of Guadalupe in a pose reminiscent of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Beneath her on the floor is a sculpture of baby Jesus in a cage.

“To be meaningful, art should represent and reflect the time we’re in,” Ortega explains, adding that art also is a medium for exploring and understanding identity.

“Tres Voces, Un Corazón” also includes Montero’s series “Gaan”—collages showing different aspects of southwest Native dance and reflecting both her Apache heritage and her training with the Martha Graham Dance Company.

Tony Ortega notes that while each of the three artists in the family work on different levels of their Denver home, and while each has a strong individual artistic identity, the threads of family are woven throughout “Tres Voces, Un Corazón.”

In Cipriano Ortega’s installation Lo Lo House, in which he and his band Los Lo Los will perform at 6 p.m. Saturday, one of his poems scrolls down a wall: “To build a house, to build a home. To build a house. To build a home. Let the muse move you.”

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Maruca Salazar and Daniel Salazar, American Me, 2000, mixed-media installation (folkloric dresses and photography)

Tony Ortega, El Vez, 2019, etching and watercolor

Daniel Salazar (left) and Maruca Salazar (center) with Daniel's work Grand Poobah and Office Fairy Cut Through Red Tape.

Sylvia Montero, They Came by Ships, monotype and collage

Daniel Salazar, Westside Dreams (National Chicano Dance Theater), 1979, print on fabric

(Left to right) Tony Ortega, Anton, 2021, digital photo on papel amate; Tony Ortega, Cipriano, 2024, digital photo on papel amate; Tony Ortega, Cheyenne, 2021, digital photo on papel amate

In recent exhibits, renowned Colorado artists Tony Ortega and Daniel Salazar explore themes of Chicano experience, historical erasure, memory, mythology and the bonds of family.

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Top image: The pieces (left to right) Anton, Cipriano and Cheynne by Tony Ortega

CU historian offers view on how 9/11 changed the Middle East

Brad Worrell — Wed, 09 Sep 2026 17:28:57 +0000

CU historian offers view on how 9/11 changed the Middle East Brad Worrell Wed, 09/09/2026 - 11:28

Bradley Worrell

Twenty-five years after the terrorist attacks, Middle East expert John M. Willis says 9/11 did not fundamentally reinvent U.S. policy in the region but it did remove political constraints and accelerate changes

If there is one misconception about the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks that University of Colorado Boulder historian John M. Willis would like to challenge, it is the idea that those attacks fundamentally reinvented U.S. policy in the Middle East.

Willis, whose research focus is on the modern Middle East, was living in Yemen on a Fullbright fellowship when the 9/11 attacks occurred. He recalls attending a town hall at the U.S. embassy a few days later, where he asked the ambassador if the U.S. would present its evidence for who it saw as being responsible for the attacks and if it would seek to build international community support for any actions it would take. He says the ambassador responded bluntly that the U.S. would not wait to respond.

That idea, as later articulated in more detail by the George W. Bush administration, was that the U.S. could react unilaterally—and preemptively—against any perceived threats, Willis says. Rather than following the established rules-based international order, Bush’s declaration put forth the idea “that the U.S. presented itself as above or beyond international laws,” he adds.

John M. Willis is a ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� history professor whose expertise is in the Middle East.

Officially, that represented a new policy for the U.S., but Willis says conservative think tanks had been laying the groundwork for such a change for at least two decades prior to the terrorist attacks.

‘Global War on Terror’

The first phase of the American response to the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center in New York City and Pentagon in Washington, D.C., focused on Afghanistan, where al-Qaeda had established its base under Taliban protection.

For many Americans, the invasion of Afghanistan appeared to have a clear objective: dismantle the organization responsible for the attacks and prevent future acts of terrorism. But Willis argues that the U.S. government’s response quickly expanded into something much broader.

He says the idea of a “Global War on Terror” evolved beyond al-Qaeda and became a framework for understanding a wide range of international challenges. Terrorism, he explains, became the central lens through which policymakers viewed the Middle East.

Willis says that broader approach helped pave the way for the 2003 invasion of Iraq—even though there was no evidence linking al-Qaeda and the Arab dictatorship.

Long before the 9/11 attacks, Willis says influential neo-conservatives associated with the Project for a New American Century had been advocating for a more muscular U.S. foreign policy, particularly in the Middle East. After the first Gulf War, many prominent neo-cons argued that defeating Saddam Hussein’s regime would create a “massive domino effect in the Middle East that would lead to the emergence of liberal democracy, free market capitalism and so on,” Willis says.

He adds that neo-con ambitions did not end with Iraq, noting that in the months following 9/11 President Bush described America as being in conflict with an “Axis of Evil” that included Iran.

In the days following 9/11, Willis says using language like Axis of Evil and Global War on Terror made it nearly impossible for Americans to challenge the direction in which the country was headed.

How

How have anti-Muslim backlash and stereotypes affected Muslim Americans in the 25 years since 9/11? ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� researcher Lori Peek asks how a nation of hundreds of millions of people from different backgrounds can live together, understand one another and build a shared future.

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“If you think back to that period, it was really difficult to speak against this idea of the Global War on Terror. It was a really constrained rhetorical and political environment if you were opposed to U.S. military intervention,” he says.

Unintended rise of Iran

Perhaps one of the great ironies of the post-9/11 era, Willis says, is that efforts intended to strengthen American influence in the Middle East by overthrowing the Iraqi government instead helped Iran expand its power in the region.

The removal of Saddam Hussein, a Sunni Muslim, eliminated one of the most important rivals of Iran, a Shia-majority country. In the political vacuum that followed, Shiite parties and movements—many of which had longstanding ties with Iran—gained prominence in Iraq, Willis says.

“By around 2003, when we have the first beginning of a democratic process in Iraq following the U.S. invasion, it was clear to every policy specialist that any new government would be dominated by Shiite political parties,” he says. Unfortunately for the United States, its leaders weren’t listening to what those policy specialists had to say at the time, he adds.

This development, Willis argues, illustrates the difficulty of predicting how major interventions will reshape regional politics.

Meanwhile, for Sunni-led Gulf monarchies such as Saudi Arabia, Iran’s strengthened position was a source of deep concern.

“The 1979 (Iranian) revolution was a popular revolution that unseated a monarch supported by the U.S.,” Willis says. “And in the 1980s, there were a number of local movements within the Gulf regimes’ own Shiite populations inspired by Iran, including Saudi Arabia and Bahrain. For the longest time, Gulf states had seen Iran as an exporter of revolution, so the rise of the Shiite-led government in Iraq made that threat palpable.”

Two key developments

Meanwhile, the U.S. was not the only government taking action in the Middle East following 9/11 in the name of combating terrorism. Willis says many Arab states quickly recognized that by presenting domestic opposition groups as terrorist threats they could justify crackdowns while avoiding international criticism.

“Effectively, it gave the green light to massive waves of repression across the region,” he says. “Gulf states could not only get U.S. support, but also military and financial aid to combat terrorism when it was, in effect, combating domestic enemies. So, it effectively worked against any form of democratic reform or democratic culture.”

The result, Willis contends, was the strengthening of authoritarian governments across the region.

Beyond the optics of standing with Arab governments pledging to fight terrorism, Willis says the U.S. was in no position to criticize those countries because it directly benefited from those relationships. Specifically, some Arab governments like Jordan helped the U.S. infiltrate al-Qaeda while others hosted CIA-operated “black sites” where security services sought to extract intelligence from al-Qaeda prisoners in ways that would have been illegal in the U.S.

Willis says one of the other key developments that indirectly resulted from 9/11 was that, with Iran’s increased influence in the region following the overthrow of Saddam Hussein in Iraq, the existing relationship between Israel and the Gulf countries was effectively brought out into the open.

“I think the U.S. relationship has stayed roughly the same with the Gulf states, with minor exceptions, but I think it did help cement the relationship with Israel and the Gulf states,” he says.

The ‘Arab Spring’ challenge

If the 2003 Iraq War revealed the unintended consequences of intervention, Willis says the ‘Arab Spring’ that gained momentum in 2011 exposed the limitations of a regional order built primarily on security partnerships.

An Arab Spring protest in Egypt. The movement exposed the limitations of a regional order built primarily on security partnerships, says ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� scholar John M. Willis. (Photo: MidoSemsem/Shutterstock)

He argues that many U.S. leaders underestimated popular frustration throughout the Middle East. That’s because those leaders, Republicans and Democrats alike, tend to equate a country’s leadership with its citizens, when none of the authoritarian governments in power are popular with their citizenry, he says.

In countries such as Tunisia and Egypt, mass movements demanded political reform, greater accountability and expanded economic opportunities. Protesters demonstrated that public opinion remained a powerful force despite oppression, Willis says.

He says the Obama administration had an opportunity to support the 2011 Egyptian revolution that supplanted Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, a historic ally of the U.S. and Israel, but opted not to. Instead, it tacitly endorsed the military coup in 2013 that removed the Muslim Brotherhood from power.

For Willis, the Arab Spring revealed a fundamental contradiction in U.S. policy.

“Promoting democracy or human rights has never been a priority for the U.S. in the Middle East. It simply hasn’t,” he says bluntly. “If we go to the post-World War II period, when we really see the emergence of the U.S. role in the Middle East, it was about Cold War alliances and concerns; it was the domination of energy resources and military alliances meant to marginalize the allies of the Soviet Union in the region. Post-1967, it was about the strong alliance with Israel more than anything. So, we really don’t see a concerted effort to promote democracy or human rights.”

Willis says he believes U.S. policymakers still have not learned the lesson that security arrangements with Arab governments could prove fragile when the underlying grievances of those countries’ citizens remain unresolved.

A legacy still unfolding

More than two decades after 9/11, Willis believes the consequences of America’s actions after the terrorist attacks continue to shape the Middle East.

He is not confident that the U.S. has learned any lessons from its past military intervention in the region based on the Trump administration’s decision earlier this year to join Israel in launching a sneak attack on Iran, seeking to overthrow the Islamic republic’s government by eliminating its top leadership.

Willis says such an action reflects a mindset that has persisted since 9/11: that American military power alone can successfully manage the Middle East’s most difficult challenges. He warns that, historically, such confidence has often produced outcomes very different from those that policymakers originally intended.

Meanwhile, the idea of a Global War on Terror has not gone away—and the repercussions of that exist far beyond the Middle East, according to Willis.

“I think one thing we have not fully contended with here is we’re seeing the growing surveillance state and much harsher responses to civil disobedience and protest,” he says. “It is something that has grown out of this idea of a Global War on Terror, which becomes existential in a way that a war between countries can’t, because it’s not geographically bounded. Terror can exist everywhere and anywhere. It can exist outside the U.S. and in the most American places in the North American continent. I think that still lives with us in the most unfortunate way.”

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Twenty-five years after the terrorist attacks, Middle East expert John M. Willis says 9/11 did not fundamentally reinvent policy in the region but did remove political constraints and accelerate changes.

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Top photo: U.S. National Archives

Mao still casts a long shadow

Rachel Sauer — Fri, 04 Sep 2026 13:00:42 +0000

Mao still casts a long shadow Rachel Sauer Fri, 09/04/2026 - 07:00

Bradley Worrell

Five decades after his death, Mao Zedong remains the face of modern China, yet ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� historian William Wei argues his rise to power was never inevitable and neither is the verdict on his legacy

Mao Zedong remains one of the most prominent political figures in modern history. Fifty years after his death, his embalmed body still lies in state in Tiananmen Square, his enormous portrait continues to hang over the Gate of Heavenly Peace, his face appears on the country’s currency and Chinese schoolchildren are still taught that he was the founding leader who reunified and transformed the nation.

Mao’s omnipresence can create the impression that his rise to power was inevitable. However, reflecting on Mao’s legacy today—five decades since his death Sept. 9, 1976, at age 82—his place in history was never assured, argues William Wei, a University of Colorado Boulder Department of History professor who is an expert on modern China.

“One of the things I teach my students is that nothing is historically inevitable—and that is certainly the case with Mao’s rise to power,” he says. “If you study Chinese history, you see that his rise to leadership within the Chinese Communist Party unfolded over about a decade. It was driven by a combination of strategic skill, organization building, ideological innovation and, quite frankly, intra-party struggles that involved the purging of rivals.”

��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� historian William Wei studies modern China, including the legacy of Mao Zedong.

Mao’s rise was never guaranteed

In fact, far from being recognized as leader of the communist movement in China initially, Wei says Mao in the early 1930s was sidelined by rivals known as the “28 Bolsheviks”—communist leaders trained in Moscow who adhered more closely to orthodox Marxist-Leninist doctrine of organizing urban workers to create a revolution.

Wei says the turning point came in 1935 following the Long March—one of the defining episodes in Communist Party history. After anti-communist nationalist forces overran the communist base in Jiangxi Province, Mao led his Red Army soldiers on a grueling 6,000-mile retreat over some of China’s most difficult terrain to escape encirclement and destruction.

According to Wei, the march was devastating from a military standpoint, with communists losing roughly seven-eighths of their forces. “But they survived, and for the Chinese communists, survival was a form of victory,” he adds.

Even then, Wei says Mao’s emergence was not the result of a sudden triumph but a long process. After communist forces under other leaders lost battles to the country’s nationalist forces, Wei says Mao’s rivals effectively ceded military leadership to him.

Mao also distinguished himself through ideological innovation, Wei says. While orthodox Marxists emphasized that the urban working class would form the revolutionary vanguard, Mao instead argued that China’s overwhelmingly rural population made the peasantry the natural engine for revolution. Wei says Mao’s emphasis on rural peasants as the agents of change helped establish an ideological identity known as “Maoism” that was distinct from both his domestic rivals like the 28 Bolsheviks as well as Soviet orthodoxy.

War, occupation and revolution

With the start of the Second Sino-Japanese War in July 1937, the nationalists and communists largely halted their fighting to focus on combatting the Japanese invaders. While the nationalists tended to engage in pitched battles with the Japanese, Mao’s communists employed hit-and-run tactics associated with guerrilla warfare.

“This strategy preserved the communist party’s strength, as the nationalists bore the brunt of the fighting,” Wei says. “(Nationalists) fought most of the major battles against the Japanese and consequently suffered most of the defeats as well.”

A propaganda image of Mao Zedong from 1967.

By emphasizing guerrilla warfare, recruiting peasants and expanding the party organization throughout rural China, Wei says Mao transformed a weakened movement into a formidable political and military force. Between 1937 and 1940, Chinese Communist Party membership grew from 40,000 to 800,000.

When Japan’s defeat ended World War II in August 1945, the nationalists and communists renewed their fighting. Here again, Wei argues that Mao’s success was never guaranteed.

The nationalists initially held several advantages. They possessed larger forces, better equipment and support from the United States. But Wei says the nationalists were also weakened by corruption, declining public support and incompetence in administering the country’s economy.

The communists, in contrast, entered the conflict stronger than they had been at any point since the Long March, and by the late 1940s the balance shifted decisively in Mao’s favor, Wei says. In 1949, Mao proclaimed the founding of the People’s Republic of China, with the communist victory marking one of the most remarkable political reversals of the 20th century, Wei says.

Korea and Mao’s emergence as a global leader

Mao’s stature expanded beyond China’s borders almost immediately after the communist victory. The Korean War became the first major international test of the new regime and played a crucial role in shaping’s Mao’s standing at home and abroad, Wei says.

He notes that both Mao and Soviet leader Joseph Stalin were initially reluctant to support North Korean leader Kim Il-sung’s plans to militarily reunify the Korean Peninsula. Kim convinced them that he could strike quickly and that America would not intervene.

However, America did intervene on behalf of South Korea. And once American-led forces under Gen. Douglas MacArthur reversed North Korea’s initial victories and advanced toward the Yalu River—the border separating Korea from China’s industrial heartland in Manchuria—Chinese leaders viewed that as an unacceptable threat, Wei says.

Although Chinese forces were poorly equipped and lacked air support, Wei says that by their sheer numbers (more than 250,000 soldiers) and with the element of surprise, they decimated the U.S. Army contingent and pushed American forces back to the 38th parallel. The war eventually settled into a costly stalemate.

Politically, however, the war produced significant benefits for Mao, Wei says. He argues that Mao’s reputation was enhanced because China managed to fight the strongest post-World War II power to a standstill. The conflict elevated not only Mao’s prestige but also the People’s Republic by demonstrating that it could not be dismissed as a weak or a subordinate power, Wei says.

The war also reshaped China’s Cold War relationships. Wei says Stalin’s view of Mao improved after China’s willingness to confront the United States, while the conflict poisoned the country’s relations with Washington for decades, until rapprochement in the 1970s and the normalization of relations in January 1979.

Building a new China

“Mao left behind a complicated legacy,” says ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� historian William Wei. “But I stand by my original assertion that he was, to use the Chinese formula, seven parts wrong and only three parts right."

With the victory over the nationalists, Mao was able to impose his stamp on China. Even Wei, who is a critic of Mao, acknowledges his many accomplishments. Mao is remembered for ending what the Chinese call the “Century of Humiliation”—a period during which Western powers and Japan dominated large portions of China. Mao reunified a fragmented country after decades of warlordism, civil conflict and foreign invasion. For millions of Chinese, this achievement alone secured his place in history, Wei says.

The early years of communist rule brought significant social reforms. Perhaps most notably, Wei notes that land redistribution programs transferred land to hundreds of millions of peasants. He also credits the new government with launching a successful industrialization campaign, expanding public health initiatives, increasing access to education and implementing legal reforms designed to improve the status of women. Additionally, the country’s literacy rates improved dramatically, infant mortality declined and new public health programs reached rural communities for the first time.

At the same time, Wei emphasizes that many of these achievements came at an extraordinary human cost. He notes that land reform redistributed property on a massive scale, but at the cost of upwards of a million landlords as well as others targeted as “class enemies.” Meanwhile, industrialization generated rapid economic growth, yet it unfolded within an authoritarian framework that tolerated little dissent.

Twin tragedies

The darkest chapters of Mao’s rule came with the Great Leap Forward starting in 1958 and the Cultural Revolution starting in 1966. Wei describes the Great Leap Forward as a man-made catastrophe, as land collectivization policies, unrealistic farm production quotas and widespread falsification of agricultural data combined to create a disaster that by some estimates resulted in 35 million to 45 million deaths—making it one of the deadliest policy failures in human history.

The Cultural Revolution inflicted a different kind of damage. Initiated after Mao’s standing had been weakened by the failures of the Great Leap Forward, Wei says it was both a political power struggle and an ideological crusade, as Mao sought to eliminate rivals and prevent what he viewed as a drift toward capitalism.

“One of the things Mao believed was in his theory of continuous revolution,” Wei explains. “Permanent revolution believes the revolution never ends, even when you have a seizure of state power, because the party, in this case the Chinese Communist Party, could itself become a new ruling class.”

Wei says the campaign produced persecution and social chaos, as cultural and religious sites were destroyed, schools and universities were shut down and an entire generation lost years of educational opportunity.

For that reason, Wei sharply disagrees with the Chinese Communist Party’s official verdict that Mao was “70% right and 30% wrong.” He reverses that formula, arguing Mao was “70% wrong and 30% right.” While recognizing Mao’s role in reunifying China and advancing certain social reforms, he insists that Mao must be held responsible for the immense anguish caused by his policies.

“Mao left behind a complicated legacy,” Wei says. “But I stand by my original assertion that he was, to use the Chinese formula, seven parts wrong and only three parts right. As a historian, I’m not going to let him escape responsibility for the millions of deaths and all the suffering he caused.”

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Two artists walk into a palazzo…

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 31 Aug 2026 23:07:55 +0000

Two artists walk into a palazzo… Rachel Sauer Mon, 08/31/2026 - 17:07

Rachel Sauer

��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� alumna Martha Russo and Professor Emeritus George Rivera currently are displaying art pieces in Venice, Italy, in an exhibit organized by the European Cultural Centre

Let’s wander, as the title of Martha Russo’s work might advise, to a bright, airy space in the Palazzo Mora in Venice, Italy.

There, on a short white platform, is “nomos (cube Venezia),” Russo’s three-dimensional piece sculpted from porcelain, paper clay, wood, metal and paper, among other materials. Its title is derived from the Greek root for “nomad” and can be translated as “to wander” and “to wonder.”

There are a lot of things to feel and question while observing this piece—in person or from every angle in photographs. Is it reaching for the viewer? Sending shoots and tendrils toward them? Does a brief glance from the corner of the eye reveal that it’s actually moving? Are its thousands of pieces a living ecosystem?

George Rivera (left) and Martha Russo (right) outside the Palazzo Mora in Venice, Italy, where their works are featured in the Personal Structures – Confluences exhibit on display through Nov. 22.

In a gallery next door, a different experience: 16 two-dimensional, 11x14 pieces tiled on a wall in an array of earth tones that speak of the Amazonian plants from which the inks were made.

And in the images themselves, a journey through the liminal space between consciousness and unconsciousness, shapes and figures whose meaning may depend on the viewer, giving rise to the title “Mutations: Subconscious Reality Imagery.” Artist George Rivera writes, “These images appear as figurations resembling reality but manifest themselves as completely different in form and color.”

Both pieces are featured in the Personal Structures – Confluences exhibit on display through Nov. 22 in Venice, organized by the European Cultural Centre (ECC) and held concurrently with the famed Venice Biennale international art exhibition. And both pieces have long roots that stretch to the University of Colorado Boulder.

Russo (MFA’95), whose piece has been shortlisted for the ECC Awards that will be announced in November, is an art and art history alumnus who has shown around the world and who also teaches an interdisciplinary ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� course called Art, Design and Engineering, in which a cohort of upper-level art, environmental design and engineering students learn about sculpture and public installation.

Rivera is a professor emeritus of art and art history—a sociologist by training who pivoted to art and in 1996 became one of the founders, with several ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� colleagues, of the Artnauts collective, whose more than 220 participating artists, including Russo, have worked across art, activism, social practice, peace building and global issues around the world.

As for how their work came to be in a centuries-old palazzo in Venice, well, the art world is small, and it started with an interview.

Enjoying the physical challenges of art

In 2020, writer Ann Landi interviewed Russo for Sculpture magazine. By that point, Russo had grown an international reputation as an artist—showing around the world, known for large-scale pieces that blend media, particularly ceramics, and incorporate abstract shapes that reference the natural world, animal and human forms and fantastical imagery and imaginings.

"I really enjoy the physical challenges of my work,” Russo told Landi. “I also like the science behind it. I was a developmental biology and psychology major, and I had my eye on going to medical school or becoming a psychologist. I was drawn to the materiality and the chemistry of clay.

"nomos (cube Venezia)” by Martha Russo "explores how the abstraction of form, material and gravity couple with a cacophony of color and texture to generate openings for prolonged investigations and enticing a flood of interpretations," Russo explains. (Photo: Matteo Losurdo)

“I loved the idea that you could make clay do different things because of the molecular structure, and that structure made perfect sense to me because I was looking at molecules and thinking about how things generate in the body. The chemistry behind the glazes was also fascinating. To this day, I am drawn to those mysteries and all the infinite possibilities.”

Part of Russo’s interest in the mechanics of the body, she says, arose from a career-ending injury that took her from 1984 U.S. Olympic field hockey hopeful to a Princeton senior recovering from surgery and increasingly drawn to the physical nature of sculpture and ceramics.

In 1991, she and her husband, Joe Ryan, a ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� professor of environmental engineering, moved from New Jersey to Boulder, and several years later Russo began her MFA studies. She taught for 20 years at the Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design, growing her art practice and reputation at the same time and becoming known for her large-scale pieces incorporating hundreds or thousands of pieces that allude to natural forms.

Then came the interview in Sculpture magazine—not her first, but it was the one that caught the eye of ECC curators. They contacted her and asked if she’d be interested in showing in Venice, and they also looked into her colleagues and collaborators, including Rivera.

“Obviously you say yes when you get an invitation like that,” Russo says with a laugh. She immediately began envisioning what she would create for Personal Structures – Confluences.

Celebrate the Artnauts!

The exhibit "Rhizome: Origins" opens with a community celebration Thursday, Sept. 3, and honors 30 years of Artnauts.

Learn more

“I was thinking, ‘I’m going to make a cube, but I want to have four very different experiences on each side,” she explains. “Venice is the most visually stunning place, full of texture, full of color, full of exuberance, so I took all the greatest hits from all past iterations of ‘nomos’ and made a piece that’s very vibrant, colorful, lots of movement with the pieces. I also asked if I could have natural light in the gallery, and they really gave George and me such great spaces.

“They did tell me that outside the (gallery) window I would see a very recently renovated pink and white palazzo and they sent me a picture, so I made a bunch of pink pieces that, when you’re looking at my piece, you see that palazzo. A lot of the time you put up your work and you’re like, ‘I wish I’d done this, I wish I’d done that.’ This is one of the few times I said, ‘I think I just did exactly what I wanted to do,’ and I couldn’t be happier, honestly.”

In “Mutations: Subconscious Reality Imagery” by George Rivera, "images appear as figurations resembling reality but manifest themselves as completely different in form and color," Rivera says.

‘This is reality’

For Rivera, the road to Venice began in Glidden, Texas, where he grew up in poverty with a Mexican mother and a Mexican-American father. He was the first in his family to attend college, where he was able to name and study the disparities and injustices he’d grown up seeing. He pursued sociology, he says, because he wanted to understand racism.

After coming to ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� as a sociology faculty member, Rivera transferred to the Department of Art and Art History after disagreeing with how department decisions were being made, he says. He had studied Chicano art, but says he truly began to understand art as a force for activism, social practice and peace building when he was immersed in it.

In 1996, Rivera and colleagues Garrison Roots, Beth Krensky, Dennis Dalton and Luis Valdovino founded Artnauts, a collective that evolved over time into an artistic force that brings art into places fractured by violence, disaster or upheaval, Rivera explains. Artnauts shows frequently are comprised of two-dimensional prints that can fit into a suitcase on their way to places like Ukraine, Palestine, Colombia or the demilitarized zone at the North Korea-South Korea border.

“It’s the idea that art can be a language all people speak,” Rivera says.

In fact, the idea for “Mutations: Subconscious Reality Imagery” has as one of its roots an experience Rivera had while in Palestine with Artnauts: “We go to places where there’s been social trauma, where things have happened that represent the inhumanity of man against man. So, I was there staying at The Walled Off Hotel in Bethlehem that is owned by Bansky, and it’s located right next to the Aida Refugee Camp.

“While I was there, Israeli forces shot gas cannisters into the camp, and I was inside the hotel and hotel personnel told me, ‘Don’t go outside because your lungs are going to burn and eyes are going to burn.' So, I went back to my room, and I had olive oil made by Palestinians and wine made by Palestinians, and I always bring some paper and some brushes with me, so I used the wine and olive oil and started making images. That’s when the idea occurred to me, to use something that’s indigenous to the area to paint with.”

So, when he later was in Colombia at El Centro de Memoria, Paz y Reconciliación in Bogotá and met a shaman of the Huitoto tribe who invited him into the Amazon rainforest, he learned about inks made from plants that grow there and since then has created a significant body of work with them.

Rivera’s work in Venice harkens to the Artnauts format of two-dimensional pieces that can easily be carried in a suitcase and is titled “Mutations” because, he says, he sees the pieces “as derived from the subconscious, and the subconscious to me is something that exists between consciousness and the unconscious. Right before consciousness enters in, the subconscious is trying to make sense of what it sees. It’s coming up with these images before it locks in and says, ‘This is reality.’

“To me, when I was in the rainforest that idea occurred to me, I looked at what was happening to the rainforest, and I was seeing these things that are not representations of what was in front of me; I was looking through a subconscious lens. That is when, to me, you turn to the spirituality of an object, of a people, you see the spiritual representations before we tell ourselves what reality is.”

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��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� alumna Martha Russo and Professor Emeritus George Rivera currently are displaying art pieces in Venice, Italy, in an exhibit organized by the European Cultural Centre.

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Top photo: European Cultural Centre

It’s more than just feeling good or bad

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 31 Aug 2026 21:23:04 +0000

It’s more than just feeling good or bad Rachel Sauer Mon, 08/31/2026 - 15:23

Rachel Sauer

In her recently published book, ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� scholar Antje Richter explores health and the art of living through illness narratives of early medieval China

In his masterpiece The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, Chinese monk and court librarian Liu Xie observed, “If we melt away our vital energies and cramp the harmonious flow of our vital breath, then holding the writing tablet will hasten our death, and moistening the brush will hack away at our life.”

This might have been a surprising observation from one of the most eminent writers of his time, but nurturing life has long been central to Chinese thought, says Antje Richter, a University of Colorado Boulder professor of Chinese in the Department of Asian Languages and Civilizations. In fact, ideas about health and illness significantly shaped the literature and culture of the early Chinese medieval era—about 200 CE to 600 CE. And Liu Xie, who was mainly concerned with writers of literature, may have been the first to present advice about writers’ and knowledge workers’ occupational health.

��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� scholar Antje Richter is a professor of Chinese whose research focus includes early medieval Chinese literature.

In her recent book Health and the Art of Living: Illness Narratives in Early Medieval Chinese Literature, Richter explores how themes of health and illness are woven through the literature of the era, from informal letters between friends to sacred texts and the highly regarded genre of sickbed poetry.

“We as humans are not either healthy or unhealthy,” Richter says. “We are constantly adapting to new states of our body. This is interesting to me as a challenge that we are all facing in one way or the other. And it's not a binary; it's a graduated scale that's constantly evolving.

“In one of the chapters, I write about Sima Qian, the father of Chinese historiography, who was famously emasculated as corporal punishment but chose not to end his life, as was expected of him, but continued working on The Records of the Historian. He didn’t die of the punitive mutilation he suffered, but he coped. He finished this groundbreaking historical work, and everybody in China knows him and his story because we also have one of the letters he wrote. So, I use his example to say adaptation to new states of health is possible and that in the literature of this time we have a very nuanced understanding of what it means to be healthy or well.”

Discovering narratives of health and illness

Richter, whose research focus is the early medieval era in China, came upon this significant theme in Chinese literature while writing her previous book, Letters and Epistolary Culture in Medieval China.

“We have thousands of letters transmitted from that period, and among those letters there was a good portion that mentioned illness, and I found it quite interesting,” Richter explains. “There’s one celebrated calligrapher, Wang Xizhi, and much of what he wrote was transmitted and not thrown away. Even if he wrote, ‘I have terrible diarrhea,’ that letter was preserved.”

During her time researching that book, Richter collaborated with a longtime friend in Boulder, Charles “Chip” Chace, who was a Chinese medicine practitioner, to unlock those letters of Wang Xizhi that deal with illness.

Richter’s research of Wang Xizhi’s letters led her, in 2011, to apply for a grant to study for a semester at the Needham Research Institute, which was founded by famed sinologist and historian of Chinese science Joseph Needham.

“This was when I realized, oh, it’s not only letters that have these illness narratives, but also biographies and poetry and religious texts and stories,” Richter says.

“It’s easy to lose sight of the fact that the hallowed writers of old clearly understood themselves as living, thriving, aging and, often enough, also suffering bodies,” says Antje Richter.

Richter points to the painting on the cover of her book to describe her main intentions in writing it. The painting, held in the Smithsonian’s collection, shows the beloved early medieval poet Tao Qian—also known as Tao Yuanming—being carried in a basket because he was suffering from a foot illness and could not walk on his own. This detail of Tao Qian’s life is reported in early biographies, and in later centuries became popular in painting as well.

Richter says that to her mind, this episode shows that illness sits right in the middle of life and in the middle of Chinese literature and culture—and that she wanted to emphasize this fact and to help connect medieval Chinese studies to the global medical humanities.

How to live

Surviving texts of the literature of early medieval China, including letters, indicate that openly discussing topics of health or illness carried little or no taboo in certain genres, such as letters, Richter says, while high-register poetry only alluded to mundane or graphic physical aspects of life.

Further, Richter believes that the growing esteem of the literary genre of sickbed poetry in medieval China was inspired by Buddhism, particularly the Vimalakirti Sutra, a Buddhist text expounding on ideas of emptiness and the appearances of the world as mere illusions.

Several chapters of the Vimalakirti Sutra are set at the sickbed of a lay Buddhist, who feigns illness so people will come to his bedside and he can preach.

“Then, he and the visitors that come to his sickbed have conversations about, oh, this body is like a bit of foam that cannot be grasped, this body is like a cloud which changes and disappears in an instant, and Chinese poets were very inspired by that,” Richter says. “So, we have this genre of sickbed poetry that first only reflects on the joys of sick leave and the company of friends during this time, but later also on illnesses that ravaged the body and the illusion of existence, the temporariness of our existence.”

Richter notes that while a significant body of illness narratives from the early medieval era have survived, they generally are the narratives of wealthy and connected men. Despite these limitations, Richter says, illness narratives wove with common threads of human experience.

She says she hopes that readers will come away from the book with a strong sense of the lived reality in the Chinese Middle Ages. “It’s easy to lose sight of the fact that the hallowed writers of old clearly understood themselves as living, thriving, aging and, often enough, also suffering bodies,” she says.

“We share many of their concerns: how easy it is to overwork ourselves, how there are points in our lives and biographies where health and illness take center stage, how we are looking for a way to accept illness as part of the human condition. Trying to empathize across centuries and cultures is a good way to practice other types of empathy as well.”

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In her recently published book, ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� scholar Antje Richter explores health and the art of living through illness narratives of early medieval China.

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Top illustration: Scene of poet Tao Qian being carried from scroll "The Lotus Society." (Illustration: Smithsonian National Museum of Asian Art)

Rap battles, wrong ravens and Ragnarök

Rachel Sauer — Fri, 21 Aug 2026 16:12:18 +0000

Rap battles, wrong ravens and Ragnarök Rachel Sauer Fri, 08/21/2026 - 10:12

Clay Bonnyman Evans

��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� scholar Mathias Nordvig publishes new book on Old Norse mythology

Ponding the plethora of introductory texts on Old Norse mythology, Mathias Nordvig had an epiphany.

“There are so many set up like dictionaries of myth, so you can look up (the god) Odin, you look up Asgard,” home of the Norse gods, says Nordvig, associate teaching professor in the Department of Germanic & Slavic Languages & Literatures at the University of Colorado Boulder. “I realized there wasn’t really a book that introduces Old Norse mythology from the vantage point of the literature itself, the sources. I wanted people to know the texts and stories where we get this information.”

Mathias Nordvig is an associate teaching professor in the ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� Department of Germanic & Slavic Languages & Literatures.

The results of that epiphany — and a lot of hard work — have just been published: Old Norse Mythology: An Introduction to the Poetic Edda and Prose Edda (Routledge, 2026; 166 pages with black-and-white illustrations).

Nordvig, who is proficient in Danish, Swedish, Norwegian and Icelandic, presents works and exegesis of the two major sources of Old Norse mythology: the Poetic Edda, a collection of alliterative verse and narrative poems recorded by anonymous authors based on centuries of oral and written tradition; and the Prose Edda, an assemblage of tales written by the Icelandic Christian scholar Snorri Sturluson around 1220 CE.

He describes the Poetic Edda as “complicated,” due to its origins as a collection of verse remembered and composed by unknown authors from verse from ancient folk material — “grand poem” about such things as Odin challenging a giant about wisdom, the creation story and Ragnarök, a kind of Old Norse apocalypse — and subsequently assembled as a single work.

“When they were written down, they were already centuries old. They were reinterpreted and misunderstood in the later context,” says Nordvig, who is proficient in Danish, Swedish, Norwegian and Icelandic. “They are written in different meters and different translators made different choices.”

One poem, “Hindla’s Song,” taken from a book that includes the tales of Viking travel to North America — Christopher Columbus was centuries behind it turns out — is one of the few works in which the female deity Freya “does the walking and talking,” Nordvig says. It recounts the story of Óttarr, who summons Freya to help him identify his ancestry to win an inheritance. She turns him into a boar and rides to the underworld to retrieve the sorceress and seer Hindla, and the two women recount his pedigree in detail.

“Óttarr just happens to be related to every famous Viking that ever existed,” Nordvig says.

In Old Norse Mythology: An Introduction to the Poetic Edda and Prose Edda, ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� Professor Mathias Nordvig presents works and exegesis of the two major sources of Old Norse mythology.

He cites “The Song of Hárbard” as a favorite. In the tale, Thor and a snarky ferryman who just might be the hero’s father Odin in disguise, “have a kind of rap battle,” he says. They trade barbs and boasts about their respective sexual and magical feats as they traverse a flood-swollen river.

“It’s hilarious,” Nordvig says. “There are some wonderful insults in there.”

He describes Snorri’s Edda, as the Prose is also known, as a “more comprehensive presentation of Old Norse mythology to go to when you want to know something or look it up.”

The historian and politician Snorri wrote from his 13^th-century Christian perspective, so he is at pains to inform readers that he doesn’t really believe this stuff. In one section, he shores his position with a frame story in which the gods are merely humans duping a foolish king of Sweden.

“The other is the same kind of setting, only everyone is really drunk,” Nordvig says. “That was the only way he could present the stories.”

Snorri quotes from poems unknown in any other source, and modern scholarship has found that Snorri didn’t always get it right.

“There is this famous idea that Odin the god-king and warrior-king is accompanied by two ravens and two wolves. But he based that on his own extravagant interpretation of poetry. There is no mention of ravens and wolves closely connected to Odin,” he says.

Nordvig also notes that there is crossover between Old Norse mythology and material from the British Isles and Ireland, where Vikings raided and established settlements for 300 years, beginning in the late 8^th century.

“Some of that old Irish charm, the old English charm, shows up in western Norway,” he says.

While published as a textbook, Nordvig says he also wrote with lay readers in mind.

“I tried to make it as accessible as possible, somewhere between academic and popular language,” he says. “I’m trying to open it up for readers, to scratch the surface off and present this wealth of fascinating, sometimes confusing, information.”

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��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� scholar Mathias Nordvig publishes new book on Old Norse mythology.

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Top image: "Der letzte Kampf" by Johannes Gehrts, 1888

But is the book better than the movie?

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 00:16:44 +0000

But is the book better than the movie? Rachel Sauer Wed, 08/19/2026 - 18:16

A scene of Odysseus and his men from Christopher Nolan's blockbuster film The Odyssey. (Photo: Melinda Sue Gordon/Universal Pictures)

Mitchell Pentzer

As it surpasses $1 billion in box office revenue just weeks after its release, Christopher Nolan’s film The Odyssey continues to stir longstanding debates—and enhance the study of myth and movies at ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ��

“It is a truism that historical ﬁlms are always about the time in which they are made and never about the time in which they are set.” So opens Jeffrey Richards’ 2008 book Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, published after the turn-of-the-century flurry of Gladiator, Troy, Alexander and 300. How much truer is it of movies based not on any real historical moments, but rather on myths and literature of antiquity?

Much of the controversy about The Odyssey, Christopher Nolan’s $1 billion-and-counting epic, has centered around questions of authenticity, faithfulness to the source or, more directly, how Nolan has imagined it: the racially diverse casting, the level of remorse (and chastity) shown by a Homeric hero, the absence of Achilles or women in the Land of the Dead, even how well any of the actors can draw a bow.

Mitchell Pentzer is a lecturer and Latin program coordinator in the ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� Department of Classics.

When viewing a film explicitly based on such a famous work, certain expectations are understandable, and sorting through those expectations is something students at ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� could do in a Department of Classics course, CLAS 3400, titled “Swords and Sandals on the Silver Screen”—more colloquially known as “Classics and Film.” In this course, students unpack expectations, get past questions of authenticity and dig into what films inspired by ancient history and literature are trying to do with the source material. We can see how writers and directors use antiquity’s art and history as vehicles to explore ideas important to us today; that is, if a movie is not (just) about some historical event or ancient text, what is it about?

We learn far less—about our own moment and culture, and about antiquity as well—from picking on what a director and their team get wrong, and far more from investigating the positive decisions made to accomplish their vision. And the vision of Nolan’s Odyssey is less one of ancient heroes and monsters than it is one of a fragile, modern, even global civilization.

As Nolan’s latest blockbuster gets variously knocked around or defended on social media and in longer-form reviews and opinion pieces (Emily Wilson in the London Review of Books, Wilson again in The Atlantic, Theo Nash in Slate, and Daniel Mendelsohn in the New York Review of Books are some landmarks), its predecessor in treating Homeric epic, 2004’s Troy, has appeared as an obvious point of comparison. We open “Classics and Film” with this movie, directed by Wolfgang Petersen of Das Boot and written by David Benioff of HBO’s Game of Thrones.

Is your Ancient Greek curiosity piqued?

If students want to take their experience of The Odyssey further, our Department of Classics has much to offer, including Classical Greek itself, with a cycle starting every fall, or an intensive two-semester program in the summer. Students usually take on portions of Homer in the original language in the fourth semester.

We have Latin too, with the first course in the sequence offered in both fall and spring, and courses on ancient literature in translation at all levels, including upper-division courses dedicated to Epic and Tragedy, the bulk of our sources on mythology. Our ancient history and art and archaeology classes are perennial favorites for students at all levels.

Classics and Film runs this fall but has been so full so often that we plan to make it a regular offering as a larger-enrollment course—stay tuned! And this fall on Oct. 15, we’ll hold an Odyssey Day, with a read-through of Homer’s text that people can participate in. Keep an eye on our departmental website, colorado.edu/classics, for more information.

Mitchell Pentzer

And although Troy has the enduring star power of Brad Pitt, Eric Bana and Orlando Bloom (Legolas in the Lord of the Rings films), it wasn’t so well-received upon its release. Nevertheless, some of today’s critics of The Odyssey have cited Troy as the exemplary treatment of Homeric epic in film. It isn’t, for many reasons, but among them is the conspicuous figuring of the steely-gray-armored Greeks as secular, cynical, greedy invaders of an Eastern Trojan nation characterized by earth tones and a religiosity deemed outdated even by its defenders. Was this film really meant to present an unadulterated, authentic Iliad, or was it really a product of a world at that moment watching the United States wage war in Iraq and Afghanistan?

A more faithful presentation of ancient text is Michael Cacoyannis’ 1977 film Iphigenia, sometimes delivering lines from Euripides’ tragedy Iphigenia at Aulis as verbatim as can be. Yet Cacoyannis, through choice cinematography and editing, still offers a warning about the dangers of mobs and armies that reflects the experience of Greeks who lived under the 1967-1974 military junta and witnessed the violence at Athens Polytechnic in 1973.

The Coen brothers, on the other hand, sidestep the matter of Homeric faithfulness by following the Odysseus of 2000’s O Brother, Where Art Thou?, George Clooney’s Ulysses Everett McGill, through 1930s Mississippi instead of the Bronze Age Mediterranean. Still, the film explores ideas central to Homer’s own Odyssey: What makes civil society, justice and a person’s identity?

Nolan’s Odyssey, in contrast to that other treatment of Homer’s Odyssey, looks and feels nominally ancient, if not Bronze Age, through set design, costuming (for the most part), and even some of the musical scoring. The decision to embrace American accents (the British Tom Holland’s Telemachus shows us it’s not careless but deliberate) instead of some vaguely British one—more common for the sword-and-sandal epic—is the first indication that this retelling isn’t just about a mythical and ancient world, or even one in a minor way distanced from our own.

People have picked on Telemachus calling his father “Dad” for being anachronistic—as though ancient Greeks must honor father and mother without diminutives—but Nausicaa, the Phaeacian princess who discovers the shipwrecked Odysseus, calls her father πάππα (“Pappa” or “Daddy”) in Book 6 of Homer’s text. They’re not altogether different from us.

Then there are certain objects that seem deliberately anachronistic and embody a theme of modernity. The Trojan Horse is for Nolan an instrument of destruction that breaks Zeus’ law, a version of xenia, an imperative of hospitality for ancient Greeks, that was broadened by the film for a post-Christian world. It is so conspicuously crafted, nigh-unbelievably smoothed and curved (in far better shape than the decaying palace on Ithaca, despite being constructed on a beach by an army 10 years into its campaign), as to seem Classical or even modern—in contrast to Troy’s almost laughably ramshackle horse.

This fantasy, this work of amazing craftsmanship that leads to the end of a civilization, bears obvious similarities to the atomic bomb in Nolan’s Oppenheimer, as viewers have already observed. Likewise, Agamemnon’s armor is black, spotless, plastic-seeming, like Darth Vader or a brand-new action figure; this Agamemnon, greed-driven as always, is an impersonal, artificial product of industry, and the more ominous for that.

A scene of Odysseus and his men from Christopher Nolan's blockbuster film The Odyssey. (Photo: Melinda Sue Gordon/Universal Pictures)

The film doesn’t limit its conscious modernity to visual elements. Composer Ludwig Göransson’s score stands out as perhaps the most original in the genre, with reconstructed ancient instruments holding pride of place much of the time. Odysseus’ theme on pipes and flutes, when he converses with Penelope before the trial of the bow and axes and recounts his transgressions, is suitably haunting. The ancient aulos, an ancestor of the oboe, backs the Sirens, a panoply of bronze gongs adds texture throughout the film, and the repeated bow-pluck has a lyre behind it in homage to an authentically Homeric simile:

Just as a man who has mastered the lyre and the art of song
Will easily stretch a string all the way round a new peg,
Attaching the twisted sheep-gut firmly at either end —
So, with no effort at all, did Odysseus string the great bow.
With his right hand he held the bow while he made a test of the string,
Which sang out beautifully, like the sound a swallow makes
(Odyssey 21.406-411, trans. Mendelsohn, 2026)

But Göransson also makes frequent use of synthesizers, especially for bass notes or for jarring, percussive screeches in the Land of the Dead. When Menelaus tells the story of Troy’s infiltration to Telemachus, the drums beat out dactyls, the meter of epic, that blend into galloping four-counts.

All of this tells us Nolan’s priority is not authenticity. He is, in fact, calling attention to the artificiality of it all and challenging us to see how the story can map out onto our own world, now one much bigger than Homer’s. With this in mind, other decisions make more sense: for example, the diverse casting.

Apart from the fact that people have been able to travel for a very long time, Nolan is telling a story about the breakdown of social contracts spanning different continents and how the consequences rebound upon the violators. It is appropriate, then, to see how we’re all in this together: though we may look different, be variously heroic or rash or dosed with lotus blossom at times, we are nevertheless small and dependent on each other’s kindness in an unpredictable and dangerous world.

Will Nolan’s Odyssey find a place in the required viewings of “Classics and Film”? Ousting O Brother, Where Art Thou? is not an act I take lightly. It’s also in competition with a spate of other films released in just the last few years: the 2023 John Malkovich vehicle, Seneca; Francis Ford Coppola’s 2024 Megalopolis; that same year’s The Return with Ralph Fiennes; and Gladiator II.

We keep returning to antiquity to make meaning for ourselves and tell vital stories, and I don’t expect us to stop. This is a good problem for us classicists to have.

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As it surpasses $1 billion in box office revenue just weeks after its release, Christopher Nolan’s film The Odyssey continues to stir longstanding debates—and enhance the study of myth and movies at ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ��.

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Top photo: A scene of the Trojan Horse in Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey (Photo: Melinda Sue Gordon/Universal Pictures)

A lifetime of dance started on a skateboard

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 17 Aug 2026 23:02:17 +0000

A lifetime of dance started on a skateboard Rachel Sauer Mon, 08/17/2026 - 17:02

When hip-hop icon and legendary choreographer Rennie Harris joins 'The Ampersand' podcast, expect to learn the difference between the backslide and the moonwalk

Listen to The Ampersand

Late last year, New York Times arts critic Brian Seibert, in discussing Rennie Harris’ piece “American Street Dancer,” wrote that “Harris has done more than any other choreographer to reveal and develop the metaphorical and narrative expressivity of American street dance.”

In the world of dance, he’s a legend—named a “Living Legend” by Dance magazine, in fact—yet he’s also the guy you might occasionally see tooling around the University of Colorado Boulder campus on a skateboard.

Harris has changed the face of concert dance by introducing hip-hop and street styles in innovative ways, and for 10 years he has been a guest artist in ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� dance program.

Rennie Harris has changed the face of concert dance by introducing hip-hop and street styles in innovative ways and for 10 years he has been a guest artist in ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� dance program. (Photo: Osamu Inoue)

He recently joined host Erika Randall, ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� dean and vice provost of undergraduate education and professor of dance, on "The Ampersand,” a College of Arts and Sciences podcast. Randall and guests explore stories about ANDing as a “full sensory verb” that describes experience and possibility.

For Harris, that experience and possibility starts with showing up. Hip-hop is a participatory culture, he says, and for those who show up? Well, that’s when the divine happens.

RENNIE HARRIS: My first skateboard was made by a cat, his name is Lewis Bailey. He is part of the younger kids, siblings, of Bill Bailey.

ERIKA RANDALL: Stop it.

HARRIS: Yes, he was my classmate and …

RANDALL: And he built boards? Tell me the story.

HARRIS: We were friends since middle school, parochial school. I went to Roman Catholic, he went to a public school. So, he built boards, and that was how I got my first board.

RANDALL: Did you know who … so, who was Bill Bailey?

HARRIS: Bill Bailey is his father. Bill was a tapper. Pearl Bailey, his aunt. I used to hang out at their house all the time. He's also the first person I saw do the backslide.

We were in recess, and he was gliding across the gravel and everyone stopped. He looked like he was walking, but he was gliding. He was moving backwards, but his feet …

RANDALL: First time you've ever seen it.

HARRIS: Yeah. Knees going foom, like what the heck is that? And he says, oh, my father taught me.

RANDALL: Stop it.

HARRIS: And that's all he said. Later on, we became really close friends.

RANDALL: But he didn't call it moonwalk.

HARRIS: No, no, the original, it's called the backslide. The moonwalk actually goes forward, and it looks like you're walking on the moon.

RANDALL: Yeah, that's moonwalk in hip hop.

HARRIS: That's why it's called the moonwalk in street dance, yeah.

RANDALL: But Earl Snakehips Tucker was doing the backslide …

HARRIS: I saw Bill Bailey in 1933 do it, do the backslide. And he was known for that.

RANDALL: In tap shoes.

HARRIS: So, that's the first time I see it. I meet with—his name was Johnny, Lewis Bailey, but they call him Johnny, Johnny Bailey. Yeah, so he made me a board. And then he started teaching me 360s, spacewalk, walk the dog, helicopter, doing planks …

RANDALL: So, you were breaking on your board.

HARRIS: Yeah, doing handstands and planks on the board. I was like, oh, snap. Yeah, so we should do all that. I said do 360s with two boards.

RANDALL: And you were dancing at the same time

For Rennie Harris, hip-hop is a participatory culture. (Photo: Bob Emmott)

HARRIS: Yeah, all this was happening at the same time.

RANDALL: You were always doing all the things.

HARRIS: Yeah, especially in the summer we would get up and be out of the house by 8 in the morning. We were just out. We were out. And, of course, this is when landlines were …

RANDALL: For people listening at home, that's when there's a phone in the wall and a cord that's attached.

HARRIS: So, at that time we would go out, never went back home until like 11 at night.

RANDALL: So, it wasn't even, ‘It starts to get dark, I want you home, Lorenzo.’

HARRIS: When I was younger, it had to be when the streetlights came on. That was always like 6, 7. You had to be on the block.

RANDALL: Within yelling distance.

HARRIS: ‘I need to be able to see you,’ that kind of thing. And so we would go out 8, 9 in the morning. I'd be across the city three or four times already by the time I got back. We were just walking and doing all kinds of stuff.

RANDALL: And you had a crew.

HARRIS: Yeah. We were skateboard. We played basketball. We'd go to the park. We used to play army man because we all thought we were going to go into the military after high school.

RANDALL: You did?

HARRIS: Oh, that was the plan ...

RANDALL: So, your first performance, can you take us back as a dancer, the first time you made money and when you had the entrepreneurialism, the moxie to say, ‘I'm going to make money on this thing that we've been doing in the community but now I'm going to figure out how to make a living?’

HARRIS: The first time I ever got paid was not performance. I was teaching. And I did this little lecture, Brenda Dixon Gottschild brought me in. I was about 14 or something.

RANDALL: BDG brought you in at 14?

HARRIS: She was at Temple. Yeah.

RANDALL: How did you know her?

HARRIS: I didn't at the time.

RANDALL: How'd she find you?

HARRIS: I have no clue.

RANDALL: That is bizarre. She's one of the greatest dance scholars of all time, and she's bringing in 14-year-old not yet Sir Rennie Harris.

HARRIS: We had become very popular in Philadelphia as a street dance crew. We were poppers, we weren't breakers.

RANDALL: What was your crew's name?

HARRIS: The Scanner Boys. And we became so popular that our name was at city hall. All the programs and all the things, any time there was an event ...

RANDALL: Let's get the Scanner Boys.

HARRIS: They called the Scanner Boys to be the entertainment. You know what I mean.

RANDALL: So, you brought hip hop to the university at 14.

HARRIS: Possibly, yeah.

RANDALL: That's wild.

HARRIS: Because everyone wanted to know what I did.

RANDALL: Yeah, so what did you say? What does 14-year-old Rennie say about popping?

HARRIS: I was just explaining what pop is, we're street dancers, blah blah blah blah.

RANDALL: Did you demo?

HARRIS: Yeah, I demoed. I demoed, I remember that. And I remember sitting in her office at Temple.

RANDALL: She saw a gap, though, in dance studies. She saw that this was not in the books, that this was not in the classroom. This was not in the literature. And you were the first guest then. I'm going to say you were the first.

HARRIS: Yeah, I was a kid.

RANDALL: And you did not have designs yet to be in the Academy or bring hip hop to the …

HARRIS: Oh, no. I will tell you this, because you mentioned something about money earlier. I will tell you this. It was all economics. If you paid me, I'd dance. I was like Tina Turner, your private dancer. That was one of my favorite songs, too.

RANDALL: Oh my God, Tina.

HARRIS: But do you know what I'm saying? So, we would go to different bars, go to lounges, and try to get money from the old people because we knew the old people would be drinking and they would be drunk.

RANDALL: Would you put out a jar or a hat?

HARRIS: We would have a hat, and say we go to the door of the bar and be like, ‘Hey, can we come in and dance?’ And dude was like, ‘Quick, make it quick.’ All right, all right. So, we'll go in and they'll put some music on, and we'll play off the jukebox, play something. And we would dance, and then we'd pass the hat around.

RANDALL: And you would take turns improvising? Or would you run it like a cipher?

HARRIS: It was always an improvisation, and it was always what I would call traditional hip hop busking. We would all stand in a line, do what they call the Soul Clap or the Soul Step, just a two-step to the left. And then we would do a solo, and then sometimes we'd do a routine to break it up. You know what I mean? And really, any kind of choreography was just a means to get to the solo for everyone. And so that's what we did, and then we would put out the hat.

Click play to hear the rest of the conversation!

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When hip-hop icon and legendary choreographer Rennie Harris joins 'The Ampersand' podcast, expect to learn the difference between the backslide and the moonwalk.

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Top photo: Rennie Harris (left) teaching a dance class. (Photo: Patrick Campbell/��Ҵ�ý�ƽ��)

Scholar finds rhythm in rock and rhetoric

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 10 Aug 2026 23:23:30 +0000

Scholar finds rhythm in rock and rhetoric Rachel Sauer Mon, 08/10/2026 - 17:23

“A rhythm is predictable, but what makes rhythms exciting sometimes is the fact that they do change… it’s the balance between the predictability and the spontaneity. That’s what makes life worth living,” says Steve Lamos. (Photo: Jesus Ortiz/@optimisticphoto)

Cody DeBos

As a founding member of influential band American Football, currently on tour, ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� Professor Steve Lamos blends music and writing in ‘resonant literacy’

Steve Lamos is relaxing at home during a brief pit stop after touring with his band for two weeks. By Friday, he’ll be on a plane to Japan. Somewhere in between, he finds time to lesson plan and grade papers.

This is normal life for Lamos, an associate professor in the University of Colorado Boulder Department of English and Program for Writing and Rhetoric.

Every so often, he trades the world of academia for a tour bus as the drummer and trumpet player for American Football, the influential Midwest emo and math-rock band he co-founded in 1997.

Steve Lamos is an associate professor in the ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� Department of English and Program for Writing and Rhetoric.

This spring, the band released its fourth studio album, “LP4,” its first in nearly seven years.

Now juggling his teaching career with his band’s busiest touring schedule yet, Lamos calls this summer “both a blessing and a little bit of a, wow, you know, be careful what you wish for.”

Hiatus to homecoming

American Football’s new record almost didn’t happen.

Between 2020 and 2023, Lamos stepped away from the band while serving as interim director of the Program for Writing and Rhetoric, a role he describes as a “24/7 type of job.”

Around the same time, unresolved tension within the band came to a head and Lamos was focused on managing more responsibilities at home after a family member fell ill.

“Stepping away was inevitable,” he says.

But as any musician knows, putting down your instrument often comes with a sense of nostalgia for what once was. So, it was absence that brought Lamos back to American Football—realizing that the weight of missing it was greater than "whatever things were demanding that I step away or more than I was aggravated by those things, that’s when I knew,” he says.

The circumstances surrounding his return are why this album means more to him than the three that came before it, including a genre-defining first record.

Want to see your professor on stage?

American Football will perform tour dates through summer and fall 2026, including Sept. 22 at Boulder Theater and Sept. 23 at Red Rocks Amphitheater.

Learn more

“It represents our ability to get back together and do new things. I’m probably the proudest of it of anything I’ve ever done,” he says.

The rhythm of resonant literacy

Lamos kept his two lives strictly separated for many years, but today he’s quite willing to bring them together.

While teaching an upper-division course called Writing with Music, he’s developed a concept he calls “resonant literacy.”

As Lamos explains, it all starts with rhythm.

Within his framework, resonance is what follows.

“Resonance is when rhythm in one body generates rhythms in one or more other bodies,” Lamos says.

Over time, he’s learned to apply the concept as readily to a drum set as to a well-written sentence or the back-and-forth of a good conversation.

Resonant literacy often manifests in Lamos’ classroom. In Writing with Music, students spend a semester narrating the feel of a favorite song, then write a research paper arguing why that feeling should matter to a specific audience.

“Like, what a useless thing,” Lamos says, only half-joking. “Except, if students are doing it right, I routinely get the best work I’ve ever gotten.”

But really, Lamos says the idea is less about music or writing than about how to live. Understanding the rhythms we both create and are subjected to offers us a richer viewpoint as we navigate life’s ups and downs.

“There are ways in which you can influence those rhythms, or even make yourself better at generating them, and then leaving yourself more and more open to the possibility that they resonate, ideally in some sort of transformational way that makes life more vibrant and exciting,” he explains.

Where two worlds meet

When looking for it, Lamos finds that resonance often shows up in unexpected places, too. That includes relationships formed in the classroom that have blossomed into new creative ventures.

Vidushi Goyal was a science-writing student in Lamos’ class about a decade ago. Years after graduating, and coincidentally at the same time as his hiatus from American Football, Goyal shared some of her music.

“Every piece she sent me, I was like, ‘Oh man, this is good. This is even better than the last one.’ So, I asked if she wanted to play with some live drums, and she was in. We did some stuff together and I still get to play with her as a two-piece now and then,” Lamos says.

More recently, CU music student Max Adams organized a concert collaboration with Lamos this spring, arranging several American Football songs for a live ensemble.

Asked to describe it, Lamos’ face lit up.

“One of the cooler experiences I’ve ever had in my life,” he says.

‘ANDing’

For Lamos, making the most of a life defined by two wholly different paths comes down to a word the College of Arts and Sciences has embraced: “ANDing.”

“It’s this idea that part of what arts and sciences is about is this additive thing… taking two things that might seem disparate or even running at cross-purposes, and seeing what happens when you bring them together,” he says.

The label is fitting for a career built on the instincts of rhythm.

Resonance and “ANDing” are, in a sense, two names for the same idea that has carried Lamos from a grad school garage band to a tenured professorship and an international concert venues.

Whether you call it resonant literacy or borrow CU’s branding, the lesson is the same one Lamos wants to pass on to his own teenagers and to any student wondering whether a writing seminar and a rock band can not just coexist but become more than the sum of their parts.

“Do something practical, do something wholly impractical, and figure it out,” he says. “Figure out a way to bring them together, because you're only going to be happy in your life in the long term if you do.”

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As a founding member of influential band American Football, currently on tour, ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� Professor Steve Lamos blends music and writing in ‘resonant literacy.’

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Top image: Steve Lamos (left), Mike Kinsella, Nate Kinsella and Steve Holmes of American Football (Photo: Alexa Viscius)

Tell us, O muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 15 Jul 2026 22:31:58 +0000

Tell us, O muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide Rachel Sauer Wed, 07/15/2026 - 16:31

Director Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey opens Friday and stars Matt Damon as the titular Odysseus. (Photo: Melinda Sue Gordon/Universal Pictures)

Rachel Sauer

With Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of The Odyssey opening in theaters Friday, ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� classics scholar John Gibert considers why Homer’s epic is a tale that endures

The city of Troy likely existed. Scholars and historians broadly agree on this, citing its probable location as the mound of Hisarlık near modern Çanakkale in Turkey at the Aegean end of the Dardanelles, the waterway connecting Greeks and inhabitants of the Black Sea region.

Because of this desirable, strategic location, scholars and historians further agree that it’s likely wars were fought there. What’s much less likely is that a warrior king named Odysseus devised a scheme to build an enormous horse and hide Greek soldiers in it so they could sneak into Troy and win a 10-year war that began when the Trojan prince Paris kidnapped the king of Sparta’s wife, Helen.

Also unlikely: that Odysseus and his crew, on their journey home to Ithaca from Troy, were blown off course for 10 more years, encountering all manner of monsters, temptations and obstacles as punishment for eating the sun god’s cattle.

John Gibert, a ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� professor of classics, notes that The Odyssey "is infinitely adaptable."

It’s a thrilling story, though, one that’s been told and retold for almost 3,000 years—since the Greek poet Homer (who may or may not have existed) crafted his enduring epic The Odyssey. Friday, Christopher Nolan’s film version of the story opens in theaters, and in explaining to New York Times reporter Melena Ryzik why he tackled such a monumental tale, Nolan commented that “it is the ur-text. It’s in everything I’ve done before.”

Millennia later, The Odyssey still fascinates, thrills and even outrages—students still are assigned to read it, and artists still plumb its 12,100 lines for insights into myth and loyalty and what it means to be human.

Perhaps that’s why we’re still reading it and, in the spirit of its origins, telling it, says John Gibert, a University of Colorado Boulder professor of classics and scholar of Greek poetry. It’s a story about gods and giants, but it’s also a story about a man trying to return safely to his home and (modest) kingdom.

“The Odyssey is infinitely adaptable,” Gibert says. “It gives storytellers who want to retell it so many options, and no two (retellings) are alike because creatives are always finding different things in the stories that they want to run with.”

‘Tell me about a complicated man’

In her acclaimed 2017 translation of The Odyssey, classist Emily Wilson opens with, “Tell me about a complicated man,” which Nolan has cited in interviews as an inspiration for his $250 million epic.

Wilson’s translation continues:

“Tell the old story for our modern times.

Find the beginning.”

And The Odyssey is a very old story, composed approximately 2,800 years ago and a companion to Homer’s The Iliad.

“Each one of them fills a translation 500 or 600 pages long,” Gibert explains. “So, they're really big works, but The Iliad only tells a slice of the 10th year of the Trojan War—slightly over 50 days, but really with a focus on about three or four days. It's very concentrated, and it's set in a wartime society where the values of warriors are uppermost.

“The Iliad is a kind of proto-tragedy in that it focuses on serious characters engaged in serious actions with large ramifications for the nation. But it is, at the end of the day, a fairly narrow slice of life.”

The Odyssey, on the other hand, follows Odysseus and his crew for 10 years, from a Troy in ruins to the land of the Lotus Eaters to the treacherous passage between Scylla and Charybdis and finally home to Ithaca. They encounter—and often anger—gods and monsters and a witch who turns men to swine, and in the end, only Odysseus makes it home.

Movie poster for Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey (Courtesy: Universal Pictures)

From a storytelling perspective, The Odyssey is rich with action and memorable characters and can be read on one level as a rip-roaring adventure. This may stem, in part, from its origins in oral tradition, Gibert says, with storytellers performing it live and adapting it as they went.

“If you look for complete consistency in their storytelling, you will not find it because they’re composing live every time,” Gibert says. “They’ve got a vision of the overall story, but in the details it’s going to differ every single time. So, a lot of Homeric scholars are thinking, ‘A-ha, this is why there's some unevenness in The Iliad and The Odyssey.

“This is also why they have those traditional epithets like ‘swift-footed Achilles’ and ‘circumspect Penelope,’ because deploying a phrase like that buys some time for the performer to think about where he's going next.”

This is also why, in both The Iliad and The Odyssey, there’s description of common things like preparing a meal, taking a bath or performing a ritual sacrifice, Gibert says: “(Performers) had a whole stock of motifs, and they could do that stuff almost on autopilot while they're thinking about shaping the larger storytelling purpose for the occasion that they're currently telling in.”

The oral traditions from which The Odyssey grew also belie the image of a genius who sits with a quill choosing one word at a time until the perfect epic poem spans the papers in front of him—“more or less what Virgil did in Rome centuries later,” Gibert says. “Homer is just something completely different.”

A folktale hero

The Odyssey, then, shares DNA with the sort of tall tales that evolve in their telling. It also presents, in Odysseus, a man who is both hero and human, who is complex and fallible and, in some ways, relatable.

“He is a folktale hero of the man against the sea, the man who has adventures against giants and things like that, so he's a traveling hero and this kind of hero naturally is a magnet for more stories of the same kind,” Gibert says. “You can attach any story to Odysseus, really, because it's plausible that he's the sort of guy that would happen to, and so there’s no limit. He’s a husband returning from war to his wife, and he’s also favored by a goddess who’s smoothing the path for him most of the time.”

And while The Odyssey is the story of Odysseus, is also expands the way that other characters’ stories are told, particularly women’s stories. While women only briefly appear in The Iliad and in small, circumscribed roles, Gibert says, in The Odyssey they’re more varied and complex.

“Of course, their roles are circumscribed, too (in The Odyssey), but there’s just more variety,” Gibert says. “Some of them are monsters; some of them are temptresses, goddesses or figures like the Sirens who can lure sailors to their deaths by singing a seductive song. And then some of them are family members and household members, so you’ve got your mothers, your daughters; you’ve got enslaved people”

In fact, Gibert adds, it is the plight of women and enslaved people with which some of his students have found connection and resonance. He recalls a student reading Book 22 of The Odyssey, in which Odysseus and his son, Telemachus, execute 12 enslaved women who had been assaulted or coerced by Penelope’s suitors, “and she just said, ‘You know what, this is where I quit.’ And she got up and left the classroom,” Gibert recalls.

“That was early in my teaching career and, incidentally, years before Margaret Atwood's Penelopiad (2005), which is more or less built on this scene. It was eye opening for me, and my eyes have stayed open. So, I try to work with (those emotional responses) in the classroom and tell students about how many ways we can think about this text.”

During the fourth semester of the Department of Classics’ Greek program, students read Homer in ancient Greek, developing new lenses through which they can approach both The Iliad and The Odyssey, Gibert says.

And while The Iliad is often regarded as the more profound work, The Odyssey “is going to give you just a much broader palette to paint with,” Gibert says, “with adventure, domesticity, warfare—Odysseus is the one who sealed the deal with the Trojan horse—adventures at sea, shipwrecks, giants. It’s great material for special effects if you're thinking in cinematic terms, but also just in storytelling terms it’s a story that’s still exciting to tell.”

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With Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of The Odyssey opening in theaters Friday, ��Ҵ�ý�ƽ�� classics scholar John Gibert considers why Homer’s epic is a tale that endures .

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Top photo: Matt Damon as Odysseus in Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey (Photo: Melinda Sue Gordon/Universal Pictures)

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