{"id":1061,"date":"2022-07-30T14:28:26","date_gmt":"2022-07-30T14:28:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge2022\/?page_id=1061"},"modified":"2023-02-18T00:27:36","modified_gmt":"2023-02-18T00:27:36","slug":"ceron","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/change\/essay\/ceron\/","title":{"rendered":"Carolina Cer\u00f3n"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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The two following texts work in tandem. They talk about the same project, from different points of view. A Regurgitation is a Song is a Spell (Consultations to Recreate the Colonial Disease)<\/em> is a project by Luisa Ungar for the Stomach and the Port<\/em>, the 2021 edition of the Liverpool Biennial. Initially meant to parasite the format of a guided tour around the city, activating several places linked to colonial history, the project dramatically shifted to adjust to the possibilities of the pandemic and took its final shape as private one on one calls between a clairvoyant and whoever signed up for a half an hour consultation. The first text<\/strong><\/a>, a sensorial and rhythmical account of an audience member receiving a call, is written by Carolina Cer\u00f3n Castilla, a Colombian curator based in Bogot\u00e1. The second text<\/strong><\/a> is a conversation between Luisa Ungar and In\u00e9s Arango Guingue where processual aspects of the evolution of the work are explored, an example of how intuition and improvisation can be used to carry on with a project among difficult circumstances.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

The mouth, the hand and the tentacles<\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

A text on Luisa Ungar\u2019s work, <\/strong>A Regurgitation is a Song is a Spell (Consultations to recreate the colonial disease) <\/em><\/strong>(2021) at the 2021 Liverpool Biennial<\/strong><\/h4>\n\n\n\n

By Carolina Cer\u00f3n<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

English version<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You have to make an appointment on an internet rendez-vous service. Is it true that they\u2019re clairvoyant? What do the clairvoyants see? How are the things that the clairvoyants see, seen? You can pick the date and time; and in those dates and times your phone will ring. I booked a few calls but I remember only two. Only two.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the first call my phone rang on a Saturday afternoon. A woman\u2019s voice responded in English. Hi, she said. Hi, I said. I think she\u2019s assuming I\u2019m in Liverpool and not in Bogot\u00e1. The first thing she asks is if I have female friends. No, I answer. Then you must not hear a lot of gossip. No, I don\u2019t know a lot about gossip lately. Well, that\u2019s a shame, she says. She tells me about how a friend of hers came out as homosexual. She asks me if I wash my clothes. Yes, of course, I tell her. And I think that maybe that\u2019s how she\u2019s introducing the colonial disease that\u2019s in the title, because, aj\u00e1, <\/em>all washing machines are made in China. But do you wash it yourself or does somebody else wash it for you, she asks. I wash it myself. I think she\u2019s going to ask me what brand my washing machine is and if somebody helps with the cleaning at home. But that\u2019s not what she wants to know. We continue talking about gossip. And she starts telling me how, in the encounter of gossip while clothes were being washed, was where women were really able to talk. That was before, when clothes were washed in shared spaces. It\u2019s a safe space, you know. Because I feel that you can\u2019t talk, says the clairvoyant. There is something in the throat, like a force, that isn\u2019t letting you speak. Some women here, meaning Liverpool, were forced to wear masks to shut them up, so they wouldn\u2019t gossip. A mask, like a muzzle. For others,  mouths would be washed with soap. They used to threaten me with washing my mouth with soap for saying swear words, I remember.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She tells me an image comes to her; I see bits of teeth falling on a pair of hands. I have sleep bruxism. Patriarchy has our mouth in its hands, she says.  It\u2019s like a stain you can\u2019t wash off, all-pervading, she continues. The sensation of not being able to talk is really strong. But it\u2019s even stronger in you. Nobody knows what a body is capable of. She asks where I am, in Bogot\u00e1, Colombia, I say. She asks me if I live there. Yes, I live here. Oh, things must be difficult right now. Yes, always. We say goodbye. I don\u2019t remember what else she told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I start looking for photos of the muzzle used on women and I find some. The illustrations of a gossip\u2019s bridle or scold bridle or witches\u2019 bridle, show an iron plate is fixed across a woman\u2019s face, wider towards the nose, and separating the upper and lower lips with a metal bar going across towards the back of the head. It\u2019s an iron muzzle. And looking more closely at the pictures, I see it also has a screw to block the tongue from moving. It looks like a horse bridle. I read that having your tongue squashed will cause extreme drooling, that this was a tool used to publicly torture and humiliate women. The charges for which women would receive this punishment included talking too much, gossiping and suspicion of witchcraft. This sort of practice became popular during the Middle Ages in Scotland and the north of England. I\u2019m now looking for more things: what\u2019s gossip? In English, the word gossip has its origin in the catholic rite of baptism. In Spanish, the word (chisme) comes from the Greek word \u03c3\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd (skhizein = to split, like in schizophrenia). The history of chisme<\/em> shows how, with the passing of time and…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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…in the anglo saxon context, the word gossip referred to an intimate relationship where secrets would be shared. The subsequent demonization of the word will set significant gender role biases. For Silvia Federici, witchunts targeted friendships between women. And it was in this historical moment that “gossip”, switched from being a word of friendship and affection, to a word of mockery and denigration.<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Laws were passed against women who gossiped or gathered with friends in private or in public. I researched. I got tired. I went to bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wake up around midnight. I ran to the bathroom while the clairvoyant\u2019s words echoed in my head: I feel like you can\u2019t talk. I retched. I retched again. I threw up on the floor. A black slime ball tumbled out of my stomach, like a pool ball, but hairy. Its hair is gray on the ends, it\u2019s old and tired but it howls at me in Cuban, like a character in a Cabrera Infante book: \u201ce que ut\u00e9 no sabe vivil el momento y la vida se le base dificil\u00edsima o s\u00e9ase que ya  et\u00e1 muy  anta\u00f1ona pa comprendel-me, y me replica con su dalequedale\u201d.  It doesn\u2019t stop saying things I don\u2019t understand. It keeps on scolding me until its teeth fall off. That black thing that came out of my stomach. I flushed it down the toilet and it went tumbling, screaming in cuban and spitting out its teeth. That\u2019s what wasn\u2019t letting me speak. I know it was what didn\u2019t let me speak. That\u2019s what the clairvoyant was telling me. It was something in the throat, it was this force <\/em>that didn\u2019t let me speak. It was patriarchy with my mouth in its hands. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

With my mouth in its mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

During the second call, my phone rings on a Saturday. I was looking at the horizon, I was looking at the sea. Maybe the actual horizon can only be seen when you see the sea. The woman who talks to me on the phone tells me she sees a bite. I see a bite on my right ankle. I see something evil, she says. But I only see the horizon of a quiet ocean. Like it comes from inside, from the stomach. She talks about tentacles while she says: I see the hands of a woman. In that same moment I am looking at the hands of a woman. A Black woman who massages the flesh in the calves of a white woman. I\u2019m on a beach. She tells me that these hands become the hands of a sailor. But I\u2019m not sure if she\u2019s seeing the hands I\u2019m seeing. It\u2019s not that he\u2019s a man, she tells me, it\u2019s someone who\u2019s carrying the load of a ship and has the consciousness of a woman. She does the work of healing bodies, she says, but it\u2019s a dangerous craft. What she does, she tells me, she does it as a service to the community. She does it at the service to other women and their neighbors. He doesn\u2019t touch anything that he owns, <\/em>she says. If she\u2019s ill, she can\u2019t be of service to others, she says. But if she loses, it means she can\u2019t be of service to herself, do you understand? She tells me that there\u2019s a huge force on top of her that makes money, that works for a system, for an enormous machine. While she talks about this enormous machine I\u2019m still looking at the hands of a Black woman that vigorously massages a white woman\u2019s thighs. Like tentacles. The clairvoyant says: everything is at the service of this machine that must go on. But what she\u2019s doing with her hands is create a place where this big machine isn\u2019t necessary.

Is this clairvoyant looking through my eyes, through the phone? Are the buttocks of this white woman the place where the machine is obsolete? It\u2019s not something you need, it isn\u2019t useful, the clairvoyant says. When she gets sick, the desperate, huge boss tears her apart from her own power. It\u2019s the insect\u2019s bite, she says. It\u2019s slavery, she says. How can we take it, she says. How it pushes us, she says. I\u2019m thinking about those who are under this great weight, replicating this new life, she says. I\u2019m thinking about her, in this moment I\u2019m conscious of how sound feels, of wind, she says. I am hypnotized by the hands of this Black woman that, like a giant arachnid, massages that white woman\u2019s ass. We feel so many things we don\u2019t even realize we\u2019re feeling, she says. I feel like right now, we\u2019re a single individual, she says, when in reality we\u2019re billions of tiny cells, ecosystems and colonies of bacteria in our stomachs. We\u2019re the skin cells being born and dying every second, she tells me. This idea that we\u2019re a single thing that pushes this machine forward, we might think it\u2019s real but it isn\u2019t it. The truth is that thinking about soil, mutants and our bodies is our reality. When our collective consciousness dies, she says, the Earth will turn us into something she can experiment with, something larger than herself. We\u2019re always an ecosystem of solidarity, she says. And I\u2019m still looking at the hands of the Black woman that, like an octopus with tentacles, massages the back of the white woman. We\u2019re always a collective instead of a single entity, she says. I hope there will be more strength in our lives, she says. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly, she starts talking about an image: there\u2019s an octopus, she says. My foot is no longer moving in the sand. I no longer look at the bite in my ankle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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It\u2019s become too suspicious. She is seeing what I\u2019m seeing. She is seeing it through the phone. She\u2019s seeing it with my eyes. We\u2019re all intertwined and connected, she says and hangs up.<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

She doesn\u2019t say goodbye. I stay, looking at the hands of the Black woman that now massage the neck of the white woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

About the work by Luisa Ungar, A Regurgitation is a Song is a Spell (Consultations to recreate the colonial disease)<\/em> (2021) Liverpool Biennial, 2021.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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La boca, la mano y los tent\u00e1culos<\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Un texto sobre la obra de Luisa Ungar, <\/strong>A Regurgitation is a Song is a Spell (Consultations to recreate the colonial disease) <\/em><\/strong>(2021) en la Bienal de Liverpool de 2021.<\/strong><\/h4>\n\n\n\n

By Carolina Cer\u00f3n<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Spanish version<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Uno tiene que reservar su llamada en un sistema de citas por internet. \u00bfY si ser\u00e1 verdad que son videntes? \u00bfQu\u00e9 ver\u00e1n las videntes? \u00bfC\u00f3mo ver\u00e1n lo que ven las videntes? Uno escoge la fecha y la hora y en esa fecha y a esa hora le va a sonar el tel\u00e9fono. Yo reserv\u00e9 varias llamadas. Pero me acuerdo de dos. Solo dos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

En la primera llamada me son\u00f3 el celular un s\u00e1bado por la tarde.  Una voz de mujer mayor me contest\u00f3 en ingl\u00e9s. Hi, me dice. Hi, le digo. Creo que ella asume que estoy en Liverpool y no en Bogot\u00e1. Lo primero que me pregunta es si tengo amigas. No, le contesto. Entonces no debes saber muchos chismes. No, no s\u00e9 mucho de chismes \u00faltimamente. Pues es una l\u00e1stima, me dice, porque es como quedarse por fuera de algo. Te voy a contar un chisme para que no est\u00e9s left out<\/em>, me dice. Me cuenta algo de su amigo que sali\u00f3 del closet. Me pregunta si yo lavo mi ropa. S\u00ed claro, le digo. Y pienso que tal vez por ah\u00ed va lo del colonial desease<\/em> del t\u00edtulo porque aj\u00e1, todas las lavadoras son hechas en China. Pero la lavas t\u00fa o la lava alguien m\u00e1s por ti, me pregunta. La lavo yo. Pienso que me va a preguntar la marca de mi lavadora y que si alguien me ayuda con el aseo de mi casa. Pero no es eso lo que quiere saber. Seguimos hablando del chisme. Y me empieza a decir, how in the encounter<\/em> of<\/em> echar chisme, mientras se lava la ropa, las mujeres pod\u00edan realmente hablar. Pod\u00edan antes, cuando la ropa se lavaba en espacios comunes. Es un espacio seguro, you know<\/em>. Porque yo siento que t\u00fa no puedes hablar, me dice la vidente. There is<\/em> algo en la garganta, como una force<\/em>, que no te deja hablar. A algunas mujeres aqu\u00ed, es decir all\u00e1 en Liverpool, les pon\u00edan una m\u00e1scara para callarlas, para que no echaran chisme. A mask<\/em> como un bozal. A otras les lavaban la boca con jab\u00f3n. A m\u00ed me amenazaban con lavarme la boca con jab\u00f3n por decir groser\u00edas, me acuerdo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me dice que le llega una imagen; I see pedazos de dientes cayendo en unas manos. Yo tengo bruxismo. El patriarcado tiene nuestra boca en sus manos, me dice. Es como una mancha que no te puedes quitar, que todo lo permea, me dice. La sensaci\u00f3n de no poder hablar es muy fuerte. Pero es m\u00e1s fuerte en ti. Nadie sabe lo que puede un cuerpo. Me pregunta que d\u00f3nde estoy, le digo que en Bogot\u00e1, Colombia. Me pregunta si vivo all\u00ed. Si, vivo aqu\u00ed. Oh, things must be difficult right now<\/em>. Si, siempre. Nos despedimos. No me acuerdo qu\u00e9 m\u00e1s me dijo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me pongo a buscar im\u00e1genes del bozal para mujeres y encuentro algunas. En las ilustraciones de un gossip\u2019s bridle o scold\u2019s bridle, o witch\u2019s bridle una l\u00e1mina de hierro atraviesa la cara de una mujer. Se abre hacia la altura de la nariz y en la boca separa el labio inferior del superior con una banda de metal que sigue hasta la parte de atr\u00e1s de la cabeza. Es una especie de bozal, pero est\u00e1 hecho de hierro. Al ver las ilustraciones, el bozal tiene tambi\u00e9n una especie de tuerca que se introduce en la boca para trancar la lengua. Es parecido al freno de los caballos. Leo que el efecto de tener la lengua comprimida produce salivaci\u00f3n extrema. Que era una herramienta usada para torturar y humillar p\u00fablicamente a las mujeres. Los cargos para recibir este castigo eran hablar de m\u00e1s, echar chismes, sospecha de brujer\u00eda. Este tipo de pr\u00e1cticas se empez\u00f3 a implementar en Escocia y el norte de Inglaterra en la edad media. Ahora busco m\u00e1s cosas. \u00bfQu\u00e9 es un gossip<\/em>? La palabra gossip, en ingl\u00e9s, tiene su origen en el rito cat\u00f3lico del bautismo. En castellano, la palabra chisme viene del griego \u03c3\u03c7\u03af\u03b6\u03b5\u03b9\u03bd (skhizein = rajar, como en esquizofrenia). La historia del chisme nos muestra c\u00f3mo con el paso del tiempo la palabra gossip<\/em> empez\u00f3 a ser usada en el contexto anglosaj\u00f3n como una palabra para designar una relaci\u00f3n \u00edntima con alguien, con quien compartir secretos. En la demonizaci\u00f3n de la palabra, se van a dar importantes roles de g\u00e9nero. Para Silvia Federici, las amistades femeninas eran uno de los objetivos de la caza de brujas. Fue en este contexto que el \u201cchisme\u201d pas\u00f3 de ser una palabra de amistad y afecto, a una palabra de denigraci\u00f3n y burla. Se hicieron leyes contra las mujeres que chismeaban, rega\u00f1aban o hac\u00edan reuniones de amistad en casas o en p\u00fablico. Investigu\u00e9. Me cans\u00e9. Me fui a la cama.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Como a medianoche me despert\u00e9. Sal\u00ed corriendo al ba\u00f1o y me retumbaron las palabras de la vidente: yo siento que t\u00fa no puedes hablar. Una arcada. Otra arcada. Me vomit\u00e9 en el piso. Me sali\u00f3 un bolo negro como de billar, pero en slime<\/em> peludo. Tiene las puntas del pelo blanco, est\u00e1 viejo y cansado pero me a\u00falla en cubano como un personaje de Cabrera Infante: \u201ce que ut\u00e9 no sabe vivil el momento y la vida se le base dificil\u00edsima  o s\u00e9ase que ya et\u00e1  muy anta\u00f1ona pa comprendel-me, y me replica con su dalequedale\u201d y no para de decir cosas que no entiendo. Solo me rega\u00f1a hasta que se le caen los dientes. Esa cosa negra me sali\u00f3 del est\u00f3mago. La tir\u00e9 al inodoro. Se fue gritando en cubano y escupiendo los dientes. Era lo que no me dejaba hablar. S\u00e9 que era la cosa que no me dejaba hablar. Era la cosa que me dec\u00eda la vidente. Era el algo en la garganta, era la force<\/em> que no me dejaba hablar. Era el patriarcado con mi boca en sus manos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Con mi boca en su boca.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

En la segunda llamada me son\u00f3 el celular un s\u00e1bado. Estaba mirando el horizonte, es decir, estaba mirando el mar. De pronto el horizonte real solo se ve cuando se ve el mar. La mujer que me habla por el tel\u00e9fono me dice que ve una picada, un bite<\/em>. Yo veo una picada, un bite<\/em> en mi tobillo derecho. Veo something evil<\/em>, me dice. Pero yo solo veo la l\u00ednea del horizonte de un mar tranquilo. Like comes from adentro, from the est\u00f3mago. Ella habla en ingl\u00e9s brit\u00e1nico, pero yo transcribo esta conversaci\u00f3n en spanglish. Me habla de los tent\u00e1culos mientras me dice; veo las manos de una mujer. Yo estoy viendo en ese instante las manos de una mujer. Una mujer negra que le masajea las carnes de la pantorrilla a una mujer blanca. Yo estoy en una playa. Me dice que esas manos se convierten en las manos de un marinero. Pero no s\u00e9 si ella ve las manos que yo estoy viendo. No es solo que sea un hombre, me dice, es un ser que carga la carga de un barco y tiene la conciencia de una mujer. Ella hace el trabajo de curar cuerpos, me dice, pero es un oficio peligroso. Lo que ella hace, me dice, lo hace por servicio a la comunidad.  Lo hace al servicio de otras mujeres y de sus vecinos. He doesn\u2019t touch anything that he owns<\/em>, me dice. Si ella est\u00e1 enferma no puede servir a los dem\u00e1s, me dice. Pero si ella se pierde, significa que no se puede servir a s\u00ed misma, do you understand<\/em>? Me dice que hay una fuerza inmensa sobre ella, que genera money<\/em>, que contribuye a un sistema, a una m\u00e1quina gigante. Mientras me habla sobre la m\u00e1quina gigante yo sigo mirando las manos de una mujer negra que masajea con fuerza las carnes blancas del muslo trasero de una mujer blanca. Como tent\u00e1culos. La vidente me dice; todo est\u00e1 al servicio de la m\u00e1quina que debe seguir. Pero lo que ella est\u00e1 haciendo con las manos es crear un lugar donde la gran m\u00e1quina no se necesita. \u00bfEstar\u00e1 viendo la vidente a trav\u00e9s de mis ojos por el celular? \u00bfSer\u00e1n las nalgas de esa mujer el lugar donde la m\u00e1quina no se necesita? No es algo que se necesita, no es algo \u00fatil, me dice la vidente. Cuando ella se enferma, el huge boss<\/em> desesperado la separa de su propio poder. Es la picada del insecto, el bite, me dice. Es la esclavitud, me dice. How we can take it, <\/em>me dice. How it pushes us<\/em>, me dice. Estoy pensando que estas personas est\u00e1n por debajo de este gran peso, multiplicando esta nueva vida, me dice. Estoy pensando en ella, en este momento estoy consciente de la sensaci\u00f3n del sonido, del viento, me dice. Yo sigo mirando como hipnotizada las manos de una mujer negra que como un ar\u00e1cnido gigante masajean el culo de una mujer blanca. Hay muchas cosas que sentimos que ni siquiera nos damos cuenta, me dice. Siento que right now<\/em>, somos un solo individuo, me dice, cuando en realidad somos billones de tiny cells and ecosystems, colonies of bacteria<\/em> en nuestros est\u00f3magos. Somos los skin cells being born and dying every second<\/em>, me dice. La idea de que somos una sola cosa que empuja esta gran m\u00e1quina es otra cosa que podemos creer que es real pero no lo es. Cuando en realidad, thinking about soil<\/em>, mutantes y nuestros cuerpos, es nuestra realidad, me dice. Y cuando la conciencia colectiva muera, me dice, la tierra nos convertir\u00e1 en algo con lo que puede experimentar, algo m\u00e1s grande que s\u00ed misma. Siempre somos ese ecosistema de solidaridad, me dice. Y yo sigo mirando las manos de la mujer negra que como un pulpo masajea con sus tent\u00e1culos la espalda de la mujer blanca. Siempre somos un colectivo en vez de una entidad singular, me dice. Espero que haya m\u00e1s fuerza en nuestras vidas, me dice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

De repente me habla de una imagen; hay una octopus<\/em>, me dice. Ya no muevo el pie sobre la arena. Ya no miro el bite<\/em> del tobillo. Ya es demasiado sospechoso. Ella est\u00e1 viendo lo que yo estoy viendo. Lo est\u00e1 viendo por el tel\u00e9fono. Lo est\u00e1 viendo con mis ojos. El octopus<\/em> parece un alien, me dice. Y como alienamos todo, creemos que podemos acabar con todo. Todos estamos interwined and connected<\/em>, me dice y me cuelga. No se despide. Me quedo mirando las manos de la mujer negra que ahora masajean el cuello de la mujer blanca.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sobre la obra de Luisa Ungar, A Regurgitation is a Song is a Spell (Consultations to recreate the colonial disease)<\/em> (2021) en la Bienal de Liverpool de 2021.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The two following texts work in tandem. They talk about the same project, from different points of view. A Regurgitation is a Song is a Spell (Consultations to Recreate the Colonial Disease) is a project by Luisa Ungar for the Stomach and the Port, the 2021 edition of the Liverpool Biennial. Initially meant to parasite […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":271,"featured_media":0,"parent":1716,"menu_order":1,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"templates\/template-full-width.php","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1061","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1061","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/271"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1061"}],"version-history":[{"count":28,"href":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1061\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1872,"href":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1061\/revisions\/1872"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1716"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.saic.edu\/emerge\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1061"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}