A small town, public art, and the First Amendment
| Littleton, N.H.
In front of the library on Main Street in this northern New Hampshire town is a bronze Pollyanna statue, smiling with her arms flung wide. Pollyanna鈥檚 carefree days may be numbered. If the residents of Littleton vote to limit public art, as one Board of Selectmen member has suggested, the statue will have to be removed. There鈥檚 no middle ground: Either all art or none would be allowed on government property.
There鈥檚 no particular objection to Pollyanna herself. A few blocks away are the three paintings that sparked the debate over whether to limit public art. Tucked just off Main Street on the side of a building are three boarded-up windows 鈥� now painted with nature scenes. The project was sponsored by a local organization, North Country Pride. Fearing future art with overt LGBTQ+ themes, one member of the three-person select board raised objections to the painted panels late last summer, sparking a debate that has dragged on.
Disagreements over content, whether in art or in books, have been occurring across the United States, often resulting in bans covering school systems and libraries. In New Hampshire, what qualifies as art and the appropriateness of certain art have arisen in challenges to a lobster painting in Merrimack, a mural of baked goods in Conway, and the three panels in Littleton.聽
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onWould no public art be better than art someone found objectionable? In New Hampshire, a town has been roiled for months over that question.
Art is protected by the First Amendment just as speech is, so censoring public art wouldn鈥檛 hold up, says Ken Paulson, director of the Free Speech Center at Middle Tennessee State University. Cities have one tool to control the appearance of public buildings, and that鈥檚 zoning. And while the government can decide what goes on its own buildings, it can鈥檛 outlaw art on private buildings or discriminate against ideas.聽
鈥淲hat we鈥檙e seeing nationwide is a pattern of legislators and city council members suddenly believing they have a license to regulate what people read or see,鈥� says Mr. Paulson. 鈥淪o much of what鈥檚 going on now would have been unthinkable for decades. In many ways, it鈥檚 1957 again in America.鈥�
Littleton, a town of about 6,000 people, has a vibrant Main Street with local businesses, a music festival in the summer, and skiing in the winter. Unlike that of many small towns, the population is growing younger. Most residents shake their heads at the suggestion of limiting public art, particularly in the 鈥淟ive Free or Die鈥� state. Some suggest the crux of the issue is really a newcomer-versus-old-guard clash.
Selectwoman Carrie Gendreau, also a state senator, raised the objections to the murals. She has stated that many of her political views stem from her 海角大神 faith, and used the word 鈥渄emonic鈥� to describe one of the panels in an interview with The Boston Globe. She did not respond to requests for comment.聽
The debate also reached the town鈥檚 theater, housed in a historic opera building on Main Street. Jim Gleason, the town鈥檚 manager until recently, says he heard objections from a handful of people to Theatre UP鈥檚 fall production, 鈥淟a Cage aux Folles,鈥� whose two main characters are gay. His response, he said in an in-person interview in late 2023, was that just as the theater is free to choose its plays, Littleton citizens are free to boycott the performances or protest from the street.聽
There were no protesters outside the opera house during any of the shows, according to Lynne Grigelevich, executive director of Theatre UP.
Some of the comments Mr. Gleason heard at the time took a personal turn. A woman who objected to the theater鈥檚 production told him she hoped his son was 鈥渋n hell.鈥� Mr. Gleason鈥檚 son, who died in 2016, was gay. 鈥淚 wish this issue hadn鈥檛 come up and created the divide that it has in the community,鈥� he says.
Mr. Gleason announced his resignation as town manager, effective Feb. 2, at a January meeting of the Littleton Board of聽Selectmen. Several days later, he told a local paper, he received an envelope containing a photo of himself with a homophobic slur written across it.聽
Local business owners and sisters Jessica and Rose Goldblatt were surprised by the objection to the art and the suggestion of a ban. Jessica recalled the case of a lighted cross on the mountain above the town in the 1980s, a symbol that was moved off public land. Now, faced with a new conversation about art, she says some of it may be due to changing dynamics within the community. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a lot of young energy happening here,鈥� she says, adding that she understands that for some longtime residents, it may feel like, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 happening to our town?鈥�
Some of these changes are par for the course in the U.S., says Mr. Paulson.聽
鈥淭he impulse has always been there for the majority to protect its own culture and look askance at that of others,鈥� he says. 鈥淭he difference today is we live in the most diverse America ever, and those diverse communities are no longer willing to be silenced.鈥�
A Littleton town meeting in September, available online, drew an estimated 300 people. It was far more than most residents could ever remember. One man, who introduced himself as Matthew Simon, used the public comment period to defend Ms. Gendreau. She 鈥渉as served faithfully in this position, and she鈥檚 served and loved the members of this community with the same beliefs that she spoke of recently that many people share,鈥� he said. He was met with shouts of objection when he said
Littleton residents had 鈥渢olerated鈥� pride flags flying in the town.
鈥淪he speaks for the silent majority,鈥� another commenter, Nick De Mayo, a Republican Party leader from Sugar Hill, said to mixed boos and applause. 鈥淣ot only is Littleton a hub of this area; it鈥檚 also a religious hub of this area.鈥�
Most people who spoke, however, agreed with Franco Rossi.
Mr. Rossi, who used to serve on the select board alongside Ms. Gendreau, said at the meeting he understands how difficult the job of town governance is, but that he can鈥檛 condone her actions.聽
鈥淵ou certainly have the right to have your opinions and say what you want, but I don鈥檛 think you鈥檙e understanding what damage that does to a community that鈥檚 been marginalized for so long, that鈥檚 always been viewed as unequal,鈥� he said.
Before he resigned, Mr. Gleason told the Monitor it was unlikely that a measure limiting public art would appear on the town warrant in the spring. That鈥檚 particularly true since the other two members of the select board have said they don鈥檛 support it. At the meeting where Mr. Gleason resigned, he suggested that the board may still ask the public to eventually weigh in on rules around art.
Tensions have extended to other areas of the community. 鈥淲e were basically told that the entire Board of Selectmen did not agree with the LGBT lifestyle鈥� in an October meeting, says Ms. Grigelevich, straining relationships between Theatre UP and the board. 鈥淪ometimes you鈥檝e got to walk through the ugliness. ... I do think that much good will come of this.鈥�
The controversy may ultimately have the opposite effect, says Kerri Harrington, a founder of North Country Pride. 鈥淧eople are saying, 鈥楲et鈥檚 do more art,鈥欌�� she says.
That fits with her view of New Hampshire: 鈥渁 libertarian stronghold,鈥� 鈥渢he state where you can go to try things out.鈥� Mr. Gleason鈥檚 treatment, Ms. Harrington says in a January text message, has been disheartening.
The controversy could serve as a positive force for change, says Gregory Covell, a lifelong resident and an antique store co-owner. In fact, he says, it鈥檚 already bringing together a town that is becoming more diverse and younger.
鈥淸Some people] still think it鈥檚 Mayberry, and that Sheriff Andy will solve everything, and it鈥檚 not,鈥� he says. Littleton isn鈥檛 exempt from the complications facing the rest of the world, he adds, and 鈥渢he leaders of the town aren鈥檛 sure how to respond to that. They鈥檝e never been challenged like this.鈥澛�
