Star Tribune
The legacy of Minnesota artist, thinker Beverly Cottman
As Ananya Chatterjea discussed the life of her friend, Beverly Cottman, she thought about the trait that most captured her aura.
“Her smile was luminous,” said Chatterjea, a professor of dance at the University of Minnesota and the founder of the Ananya Dance Theatre in St. Paul. “She would smile and there was just so much grace and light in that smile.”
I did not know Cottman, the magnanimous 80-year-old Minneapolis teacher and artist who died in her sleep last month on a trip to Egypt. Her passing came nearly two years after she lost her husband, the multidimensional Bill Cottman, a photographer, poet and game changer in the Twin Cities, too.
But the BIPOC community in the Twin Cities is both vast and small. The losses of our elders carry impact, directly or indirectly, because of their significance to the foundation of our sense of community.
Those within my circle who knew Cottmann said her death left an irreplaceable void. So why would I write about a woman I’d never met? Because I’d also like to live the fruitful life she did; one that left behind a garden of love, empathy and connection — and also a question of who will water its flowers now that she is no longer here.
“This notion that you can live artistically … that’s a thing,” Chatterjea said. “I would see [her and her daughter, Kenna] especially after she retired, the way she built relationships, the way she held the community with grace, the way she showed up at different arts events, the way she talked to children. … She was this umbrella force.”
Earlier this week, I watched YouTube clips of Cottman’s talks and performances. You can see her command of audiences and the grace within her voice through the screen. During a talk in 2014, Cottman told a fable about an elderly woman who would sit outside a bakery and smell the bread she could not afford, as she rattled her coins. But the baker, who demanded she pay for that smell, then took the woman to the village chief and asked him to settle the dispute. The elder then issued his verdict: “Since the baker has heard the sound of the woman’s coins, he has been paid for the smell of the bread.”
When Cottman finished the tale, the crowd gasped, cheered, laughed and nodded.
“Now this old folktale has many, many versions, and tales similar to it are told in cultures all over the world,” Cottman said. “No matter how it’s told or who the characters are, the message, the moral, the lesson is the same: An imaginative mind can overcome many obstacles.”
I continue to hear stories about a woman who left an imprint wherever she trekked. I heard about Cottman, the biology teacher who taught science in a relatable manner meant to encourage curiosity. I heard about the adventurer who traveled the world with her husband after she retired. I heard about the artist who preserved Blackness and its essence through storytelling. I heard about the woman who always had wisdom on the tip of her tongue. And I heard about the artist who long ago proved a Black woman in the Twin Cities can do it all — and do it all well.
Chatterjea, a performer and choreographer who was born and raised in India, had just moved to the Twin Cities as a single mother with dreams of growing her dance studio for Black and brown women when she met Cottman. Today, the Ananya Dance Theatre is “a professional ensemble of BIPOC women and femme artists who believe in the transformative power of dance and identify as cultural activists.”
Chatterjea said Cottman was one of the first people to join and participate. At one point, she’d been so committed to rehearsals that her husband would have to explain her absences from the Sunday church pews.
“That’s how we developed this language, ‘Oh well, dance is church,'” Chatterjea said.
But Cottman was also unafraid to express her views and opinions. When Chatterjea tried to push a new technique, Cottman told her that she could not do the moves because of her arthritis. Chatterjea said Cottman’s willingness to object helped her re-evaluate her approach and design alternatives for performers in the future.
Cottman left her mark, it seems.
I do not know how much money she had or the name of her favorite movie or the artist who sang her favorite song. I do not know the color of the car she drove or the flavor of ice cream she preferred.
I just know the undeniable wake she left behind her as she traveled through this life.
To those who loved her, Cottman was on a mission, even in her death overseas.
“She got herself free. She went to meet Bill,” Chatterjea said. “Talk about intention even in leaving. It’s not like she went to France and left. She went to Egypt and left.”
As a photojournalism professor, R. Smith Schuneman mixed high expectations with a warm manner to launch the careers of a wide spectrum of photographers.
His students at the University of Minnesota, many of whom regarded Schuneman as a pivotal influence in their lives, went on to shoot for National Geographic, Look, Life and numerous other magazines and newspapers, as well as for corporate clients, photography studios and a wide array of film and video productions.
Then Schuneman, who went by his nickname “Smitty” and never by his given name of Raymond, embarked on a second career with the creation of Media Loft , an events and communications agency. He eventually sold the company to his employees before retiring with his wife, Pat, to a lakeside home in Okoboji, Iowa.
“Smitty could be utterly ruthless, uncompromising or unyielding in his goal of making photojournalists out of us,” wrote Richard Olsenius, a former student of Schuneman’s, in a memorial book prepared by friends. “But it was underlied with a deep-rooted concern for what is right and moral. He demanded honesty from our work.”
He died Nov. 24 at age 88 of heart problems.
Schuneman was born in 1936 in Spirit Lake, Iowa. His parents Raymond “Art” and Olive “Bunch” Schuneman ran the local newspaper in Milford, Iowa, and it was there that Schuneman began publishing photos while still in school.
He also ran a side business covering weddings, events and “whatever pictures were needed around the small town,” his wife said.
She remembers seeing Schuneman for the first time when her band director arranged for her to take drum lessons from him. She was 15 and he was 16. She later worked for him at his photo service, processing the film.
Lawmakers this session will talk to parents, teachers and others about whether they are identifying too many students as needing special education services and if some kids could use less-intensive support, she said. There’s a “mismatch” where some kids get more services than they need, said GOP Rep. Ron Kresha, who will be Youakim’s co-chair in the evenly divided House.
“There’s always going to be this tendency to [say], ‘Hey, let’s get as much services to this kid as we can because we want them to succeed.’ I think that’s a noble quest, but what are we taking away from other students who may have needs that we may not be addressing?” Kresha said, noting that some services may have to be rolled back in light of the potential deficit.
Nationally, special education officials are wary of President-elect Donald Trump’s proposal to eliminate the Department of Education, said Phyllis Wolfram, executive director of the national Council of Administrators of Special Education. Minnesota isn’t alone in its rising costs and demand for services, she said, adding that providers are grappling with challenging behaviors and mental health needs, including for younger children.
“We’re still seeing needs and challenges for students that are coming from a post-COVID era, and they don’t just diminish in one or two years,” Wolfram said.
Meanwhile, there is a shortage of special education staff and schools must rely on more expensive contract workers, said Niceta Thomas, president of Minnesota Administrators for Special Education. She said more families are moving to Minnesota with children who require special education and students’ needs are more severe.
“No matter what ability they come from, all children deserve a free and appropriate education,” Thomas said. “We need to make sure we’re meeting that.”
Willy Boulay and Mike Hudson have a grand vision for building affordable apartments for people with below-median incomes that are as nice as market-rate properties.
Their first buildings, one in Minneapolis that opened in May and another about to open in St. Paul, live up to their plans. Both have fitness centers, balconies on most units, roof decks, solar arrays, EV chargers, community rooms, even indoor playgrounds they tested themselves.
“The slide will support guys over 30,” Boulay said as he and Hudson took me through Canvas, their 161-unit project in northeast Minneapolis. It gets its name from all the original paintings purchased from neighborhood artists to fill halls and other common areas.
The seven-story building cost $71 million and is open to renters of all ages who make 60% of average market income, a level sometimes known as workforce housing. Hennepin County and the city of Minneapolis provided subsidies in the form of tax-exempt bonds and tax credits that will discount rents for 40 years. It’s a typical form of financing for affordable housing to help cover the difference between it and market-rate homes.
As of last week, Canvas had just two vacancies. Well, plus one big one on the ground floor.
To get the project approved, their firm, Broadway Street Development, had to comply with the desires of City Council members for buildings in a so-called “production” district, designated to create employment-focused developments.
As a result, the ground floor was built with 18-foot ceilings and about half of it, around 23,000 square feet, was set aside for commercial use. Perhaps a microbrewery with a taproom will lease it, or a commercial production studio, or a small industrial business that isn’t too disruptive to the hundreds of residents above.
Boulay and Hudson are confident they will get the space filled. They noted, however, that projects coming after them haven’t required as much space set aside. Which leads me to remind readers that, when my now-retired colleague Neal St. Anthony wrote about Canvas as construction was getting underway two years ago, he focused on the years of work Boulay, Hudson and partner Sterling Black of LS Black Constructors had already put in to get it financed.
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