This was my first time in Brooklyn. I ate dinner in a bustling neighborhood of shops, boutiques, cafes, and restaurants. When I arrived at the museum, the lobby was packed, a DJ was playing dance music, and meet-and-greets with curators had been scheduled.
I was introduced to the curator who chose my print. She had only seen a black and white photograph in the archives, and she had been attracted to the colors as soon as she pulled it from storage. That’s the genuine reaction I’ve always hoped for: someone would want to engage with my work for its own sake and not because of sales verbiage or investment purposes.
I’m relieved to be included in an exhibition titled American Art.* No hedging. No segregation into a separate category for “other” artists. Just one view of an American artist, happy to be alongside other American artists, asking for my chosen subject to be considered.
When I first started showing in galleries, I ran into a problem. The gallery staff told me that “Asian people didn’t think your art was American enough, and American people (i.e. white) didn’t think your work was Asian enough.” That probably isn’t the sole explanation for why I wasn’t more successful, but it was a dilemma.
So I saw my print again after forty-eight years. Smile, I told myself. It’s been a long time of holding in your hopes, meeting your obligations, and giving to family. This is your night: be happy.
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* https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/exhibitions/american_art