Curating an exhibition is a political act. In attending an exhibition, the museum goer becomes a participant in this act. In March of 2015, I entered the Brooklyn Museum to see the works of Kehinde Wiley. The politics of the experience overpowered me. And as per usual, I wrote a poem about it.
Tour Guide at the Kehinde Wiley Exhibit she separates the western from the eastern imagery explaining that the black man is being placed within a western history of art (isn't he already?). she says, "I'm trying my very best," but she isn't. the fierce greenery is taking over. the black men
on the walls stare, listening
to her culturally sensitive diatribe
on Wiley's works. the other patrons simply float
around her, away from her voice. it's grating on my happy. these virile men wink at me. these vibrant men speak to me, high yellows, deep browns
& cardamom caramels lie
down on lavish wallpapers celebrating the cardinal
fleur-de-lis history that was always un-hidden, sententiously bare & lick-ably hungry within this painter’s vision. the skin is glowing, luminescent & alive. the jeweled colors, leafy patterns & floral prints simply adorn his subjects…wrapped in royalty. he is fierce this Wiley. he is friend this Wiley. former invisible man comes on you, audience. sperms wiggle among the million-dollar wallpaper. butt-crack becomes beauty adidas becomes sensuous-ity surreal...23 feet by 80 inches high. you want to lick his ode. I want to kiss his mother. for the first time in 38 years, I feel a part of art
history. I feel honored. I am no longer a stranger seeing the art of another people.
I am the art.
Now, it feels like I should probably introduce myself a bit. You already know that I am a poet. Who else am I? I am a light-skinned Black Woman writing to you near the end of Black History Month in 2023. I am also a middle child, an educator, an Air Force Brat, and I am incredibly sensitive to how Black People are portrayed in all forms of media. It might have begun with four-year old me noticing that my Barbie dolls didn't have the same hair texture as me...and, subsequently, attempting to re-texturize their hair with products I found under the sink. It could have begun in the fifth grade when an unnamable little boy told me that he couldn't be my Valentine because of the texture of my hair.
Or...it could have begun the first time my Aunty Rose took me to The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. We walked around the beautiful halls, enjoyed the scent of the carefully tended-to florals, and talked about all the beautiful cultural artifacts this wealthy woman had collected for posterity. It occurred to me that my aunt respected this Not-Colored Woman. She respected her independence and her fluid travels. She respected her ability to love and to obtain art. My aunt loved art, but none of the art looked like either of us. And I often wondered about that.
Fast forward to 2015. Throughout this poem, I carefully articulate my experience within this one exhibition. In the past, attending an exhibition has felt like a paid dance lesson. I am a paying patron 'just visiting' from an outside realm, or another planet. I can learn all the steps, but I will never attend the after party. This exhibition was truly the first time I'd felt like I was the art. It felt like home. It felt like the museum's curators were inviting me to be a part of the artistic world, the lineage of creation, and the history of art. That hadn't happened to me before. Yes, I had seen exhibitions of Basquiat's works. This felt different. Quite often, Black Artists' works are defined (and curated) in reference to an already famous Not-Colored Artist. They earn a name in Art History because of their relationship to someone else. This was often the case with Not-Colored Female Artists. I'm going to attempt to name this phenomenon; someone invisible grabs a gilded ride on the Fame Pony.
Is that what happened in the Basquiat exhibitions I'd seen previously? Yes...at least, that is how it felt to me...in every exhibition. Warhol's name glittered through each and every exhibition. Warhol's films, images of Warhol, Warhol's notes, and Warhol's influence dotted each and every exhibition. If you're like me, you know that the evidence of glitter is difficult to expunge...from everything. It refuses to leave. And it shows up in the most un-expected of places.
Through this blog, I'm planning to share my personal responses to a few of the exhibitions I've visited since the Black Lives Matters movement exploded in 2020, during the Pandemic. I propose that this movement has forcibly altered the way museums are displaying Black Art. And in doing so, these institutions are changing the experience for this Visitor of Color...for the better.
It is indeed a positive and welcome change. I want these museums to know that someone is noticing, that someone cares, and that someone feels the power of their apologies. Yes, they've been apologizing...and I have photographs to prove it. I'll include one I took yesterday as the perfect ending of this inaugural post.
warmly,
mcg
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