We love to think of ourselves as a creative city—home of Jimi Hendrix, Quincy Jones, and the “Seattle Sound” that came to be known as Grunge. This is a place where people used to get genuinely excited about a Tom Skerritt sighting. Not to mention all of the theater, visual arts, and poetry that we claim to appreciate, even if some of that appreciation is theoretical.
But when it comes to actual funding or holding space for artists and the creative process, Seattle peels back its artsy face to reveal the data-fueled, corporate machinery controlling our civic being.
A major theme in my book Supersonic is the tension between
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