There was a Macaulay Snapshot event in the New York Historical Society on November 23rd. We went there to see snapshots that other Macaulay kids had taken and the pieces that Macaulay students had curated out of the pictures sent in. After the event, I was wandering around and saw a sight for the Chinese American: Exclusion/Inclusion exhibit. I decided to go in and check it out because I was already there and why not?
I thought this exhibit was wonderfully curated since it was so easy to follow but at the same time was very engaging and interesting. It starts out with the first Chinese who immigrated to America and goes on to talk about those who are Chinese American. One part of the exhibit that stood out was a graphic novel type piece that told the story of a woman’s family, her mother and father had immigrated from China and she had been born there. It talked about the struggles of growing up Chinese in America and immigration issues.
I think my favorite part about this exhibit was the table that showed the immigration interview, as the picture show above. It was actually set up in a way where it was as if you were witnessing this boys trial in his journey immigrating. The trial starts and you hear the, what I assume is guard or lawyer, asking the boy for his name and information. A projection pointed at the desk allows you to see his file open up, and the written notes that the officer would have taken, to be seen by the visitors of the exhibit. You then hear him speak as well as a witness. I thought the way they set this up was incredibly smart since I actually felt like I was there.
I have been interning at the Museum of Art and Design in Columbus Circle since the summer of 2013. On November 3rd, there was an opening reception for their new exhibit New Territories. This was an exhibit focused on Latin American artist and explores a number of key ideas such as upcycling, blending digital and traditional works and the reclamation of personal and public spaces.
Since it was the opening reception, it was full of not only the artists that had created these wonderful pieces but other people who have a big role in the art community. Since all of the artists were Latin Americans, some of them did not speak English but since I speak Spanish it was a nice way to connect myself to the artist and differentiate myself from the masses.
I was also with the other interns so it wasn’t intimidating, especially because i’ve been interning for a while now, I already know most of the employees there and the security guards so I actually felt quite confident in comparison to the other guests even if I wasn’t necessarily one of the “important” guests. It was a nice experience to have since a I got to see a lot of pieces in real life that I otherwise wouldn’t have had the opportunity to see.
Wing Jianwei’s sculpture and painting exhibition was very interesting to me. I like the four connecting paintings with the yellow lines on the corners because it was a very creative way of expressing the different perspectives within that one group. Jianwei could have easily just painted the scene in one canvas, but he decided to repeat some parts of the scene and continue on like this until the last canvas. I also found it interesting that we didn’t know the background of the painting; we weren’t told exactly what was happening in the scene which made the piece more interesting to me.
I also liked the cell painting because of his technique of using the paint to make 3-D textures and thus making it more interesting. It was also cool to hear that his choice of colors like yellow and gray were used because he wanted his exhibit to be a place for quiet and contemplation.
After the tour, some of us when to the highest floor and swirled our way to the lobby while looking at the other art. There was actually a moving piece on the highest floor, where different pieces would start moving at different times, all within the 7 minutes of the presentation. It was all about light, since once the performance started, a light would turn on and we would get to see how the different pieces and the light worked together to create not only art in the piece but also on the wall.
The group Zero was also very interesting to me since they made such abstract art that a lot of people didn’t understand at that time, and that some don’t even understand now. I personally liked learning that one of the members of Zero actually walked into the original exhibit in the 1900’s and smoked cigarettes. The smoke was lifted up and created different images, but would soon disappear
Un Danse des Bouffons was an incredibly surprising short film. Considering that it was our first time going to a gallery, watching such a confusing yet beautiful film as way beyond what I expected even after watching a bit of it prior to going.
It was only what I can explain as a very strange expression of creativity. It was even stranger considering that we went in to watch the film while it was ending. Since we came in at the end, what we saw was a lot more surprising since we had not gotten used to the style of the film. It made an even bigger impression on us since not only did we come in at the end, but also it was naked people something that we are not used to seeing in public, especially in a class.
Although many people voiced their negative opinions and said that it made them feel uncomfortable, I found it beautiful. The music made it a lot more mysterious, but I liked that about it. It seemed very dark to me, but at the same time it represented renewal, or rebirth (literally). The incorporation of dancing also made sense when realizing that Un Danse des Bouffons means the jester’s dance. We see paralleled by the fact that one of the main guys is made up to look like a jester. Although the nudity made people feel uncomfortable, I saw it as art. Are bodies do not always have to represent sex; they can also simply represent the body, which is in itself art.
I do admit that it was confusing considering that there was no narration and a lot happening, but at the same time it had elegance.
After reading about Tom Smith and hearing his interviews where he talked about how he grew up and how he got introduced into the art world, it was so surreal actually seeing him and getting to hear his thought process when making these pieces. The way he uses colors to make certain things pop and his use of other materials on canvas, like the wood chips and cut up paper, makes his works so much more amazing.
The first thing that I found interesting was that although all of the pieces were exhibited together, they had been created up to three years ago. It goes to show just how much work goes into making art. Just because you have “finished” it at that point doesn’t mean the piece is really done and ready to be shown to the public.
I think one very important thing that I learned about during this trip was that a lot of big name artists actually have a bunch of assistants that do a lot of the work alongside them. The artists teach their disciplines how to use their techniques and after seeing if they have achieve it, the artists will actually allow them to paint in their style. I found this a bit unfair just because when I thought of paintings, I always thought it was only one person since it is usually credited to one person. When we think of the Sistine Chapel, we only think of Michelangelo, not all his assistants that were perhaps doing just as much work as he was.
This has taught me to appreciate art a lot more, especially Tom since he created all those pieces without the help of assistants. It was also interesting to learn that the people working in the gallery, like the receptionist, all have backgrounds in art. They are simply doing their jobs in order to break into the art world.
Laurie Guerrero’s talk about “A Crown for Gumecindom” and how she named her crown of sonnets after her grandfather because she wanted everyone to say his name right, reminded me of a poem that I had read that had a similar message. Although it’s a bit long, it’s beautifully written and I think everyone should give it a shot. It’s also something that everyone who has a name that isn’t considered “American” has to go through. I know my name is pronounced differently in Spanish and that’s the way it was meant to be said, but because I live here, it has become normal for me to “Americanize” my name in order for people to pronounce it correctly or comfortably. Spelling my name right is also a huge deal and one I know a lot of people have to deal with.
The Names They Gave Me by Tasbeeh Herwees
i.
“Your name is Tasbeeh. Don’t let them call you by anything else.”
My mother speaks to me in Arabic; the command sounds more forceful in her mother tongue, a Libyan dialect that is all sharp edges and hard, guttural sounds. I am seven years old and it has never occurred to me to disobey my mother. Until twelve years old, I would believe God gave her the supernatural ability to tell when I’m lying.
“Don’t let them give you an English nickname,” my mother insists once again, “I didn’t raise amreekan.”
My mother spits out this last word with venom. Amreekan. Americans. It sounds like a curse coming out of her mouth. Eight years in this country and she’s still not convinced she lives here. She wears her headscarf tightly around her neck, wades across the school lawn in long, floor-skimming skirts. Eight years in this country and her tongue refuses to bend and soften for the English language. It embarrasses me, her heavy Arab tongue, wrapping itself so forcefully around the clumsy syllables of English, strangling them out of their meaning.
But she is fierce and fearless. I have never heard her apologize to anyone. She will hold up long grocery lines checking and double-checking the receipt in case they’re trying to cheat us. My humiliation is heavy enough for the both of us. My English is not. Sometimes I step away, so people don’t know we’re together but my dark hair and skin betray me as a member of her tribe.
On my first day of school, my mother presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Your name is Tasbeeh,” she says again, like I’ve forgotten. “Tasbeeh.”
ii.
Roll call is the worst part of my day. After a long list of Brittanys, Jonathans, Ashleys, and Yen-but-call-me-Jens, the teacher rests on my name in silence. She squints. She has never seen this combination of letters strung together in this order before. They are incomprehensible. What is this h doing at the end? Maybe it is a typo.
“Tas…?”
“Tasbeeh,” I mutter, with my hand half up in the air. “Tasbeeh.”
A pause.
“Do you go by anything else?”
“No,” I say. “Just Tasbeeh. Tas-beeh.”
“Tazbee. All right. Alex?”
She moves on before I can correct her. She said it wrong. She said it so wrong. I have never heard my name said so ugly before, like it’s a burden. Her entire face contorts as she says it, like she is expelling a distasteful thing from her mouth. She avoids saying it for the rest of the day, but she has already baptized me with this new name. It is the name everyone knows me by, now, for the next six years I am in elementary school. “Tazbee,” a name with no grace, no meaning, no history; it belongs in no language.
“Tazbee,” says one of the students on the playground, later. “Like Tazmanian Devil?” Everyone laughs. I laugh too. It is funny, if you think about it.
iii.
I do not correct anyone for years. One day, in third grade, a plane flies above our school.
“Your dad up there, Bin Laden?” The voice comes from behind. It is dripping in derision.
“My name is Tazbee,” I say. I said it in this heavy English accent, so he may know who I am. I am American. But when I turn around they are gone.
iv.
I go to middle school far, far away. It is a 30-minute drive from our house. It’s a beautiful set of buildings located a few blocks off the beach. I have never in my life seen so many blond people, so many colored irises. This is a school full of Ashtons and Penelopes, Patricks and Sophias. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful faces. The kind of names that promise a lifetime of social triumph.
I am one of two headscarved girls at this new school. We are assigned the same gym class. We are the only ones in sweatpants and long-sleeved undershirts. We are both dreading roll call. When the gym teacher pauses at my name, I am already red with humiliation.
“How do I say your name?” she asks.
“Tazbee,” I say.
“Can I just call you Tess?”
I want to say yes. Call me Tess. But my mother will know, somehow. She will see it written in my eyes. God will whisper it in her ear. Her disappointment will overwhelm me.
“No,” I say, “Please call me Tazbee.”
I don’t hear her say it for the rest of the year.
v.
My history teacher calls me Tashbah for the entire year. It does not matter how often I correct her, she reverts to that misshapen sneeze of a word. It is the ugliest conglomeration of sounds I have ever heard.
When my mother comes to parents’ night, she corrects her angrily, “Tasbeeh. Her name is Tasbeeh.” My history teacher grimaces. I want the world to swallow me up.
vi.
My college professors don’t even bother. I will only know them for a few months of the year. They smother my name in their mouths. It is a hindrance for their tongues. They hand me papers silently. One of them mumbles it unintelligibly whenever he calls on my hand. Another just calls me “T.”
My name is a burden. My name is a burden. My name is a burden. I am a burden.
vii.
On the radio I hear a story about a tribe in some remote, rural place that has no name for the color blue. They do not know what the color blue is. It has no name so it does not exist. It does not exist because it has no name.
viii.
At the start of a new semester, I walk into a math class. My teacher is blond and blue-eyed. I don’t remember his name. When he comes to mine on the roll call, he takes the requisite pause. I hold my breath.
“How do I pronounce your name?” he asks.
I say, “Just call me Tess.”
“Is that how it’s pronounced?”
I say, “No one’s ever been able to pronounce it.”
“That’s probably because they didn’t want to try,” he said. “What is your name?”
When I say my name, it feels like redemption. I have never said it this way before. Tasbeeh. He repeats it back to me several times until he’s got it. It is difficult for his American tongue. His has none of the strength, none of the force of my mother’s. But he gets it, eventually, and it sounds beautiful. I have never heard it sound so beautiful. I have never felt so deserving of a name. My name feels like a crown.
ix.
“Thank you for my name, mama.”
x.
When the barista asks me my name, sharpie poised above the coffee cup, I tell him: “My name is Tasbeeh. It’s a tough t clinging to a soft a, which melts into a silky ssss, which loosely hugs the b, and the rest of my name is a hard whisper — eeh. Tasbeeh. My name is Tasbeeh. Hold it in your mouth until it becomes a prayer. My name is a valuable undertaking. My name requires your rapt attention. Say my name in one swift note – Tasbeeeeeeeh – sand let the h heat your throat like cinnamon. Tasbeeh. My name is an endeavor. My name is a song. Tasbeeh. It means giving glory to God. Tasbeeh. Wrap your tongue around my name, unravel it with the music of your voice, and give God what he is due.”
Meeting poet Laurie Guerrero was extremely inspirational for me. Not only is her work exceptional, but her attitude was amazing. Being a Hispanic woman also made me appreciate her work and attitude a lot more. Her message that power can also come from vulnerability is something we’re not often taught and it definitely made me think further about the topic. Her unapologetic character was also something I really looked up to. She was unapologetic about her vulnerability, her past and her thoughts; I think we should all change to try to think this way. I liked how she was so open about her life, especially the negative aspects, and didn’t try to sugarcoat anything. The fact that she went to college while having to raise three kids at an age where most people would have just given up because they they would think it’s too hard and not worth it is something I really look up to.
One of the things she said that got me really emotional and I thought was so beautifully put was “I want to slip my hand in the photograph and fix your hair like I once did”, or something very close to that (I was way too immersed in her reading to take notes during it). It’s something that everyone can relate to, not just about someone who has passed away, but perhaps someone you’re no longer close to or someone who’s changed and you no longer feel like you know them. This was one of the favorite things she said and I honestly started tearing up a bit and had to quickly wipe my tears. You could also tell that during the reading of the book about her grandpa, she was emotional. It’s a given that she would emotional over the loss of someone who has raise her and that she spent 5 years taking care of, but I found it so strong of her to be able to relive all those feelings and thoughts and do it so powerfully file exposing her vulnerability.
All in all, Guerrero has definitely become one of my favorite poets and I’m definitely going to try to write a crown of sonnets.
I know this is a bit late, but I wanted to devote one of my posts to Marina Abramović who we saw in “Picasso Baby” by Jay-Z. I know a lot of people didn’t know she was a famous artist at the time, but I wanted to show everyone her art since each piece is really powerful in my perspective.
One of my favorite pieces by her was actually in 1974 called “Rhythm 0”. In this piece, she made herself the art object for 6 hours (8pm-2am) and put 72 objects on a table that the audience could use on her. The objects ranged from an apple and lipstick to a loaded gun and box of razors. I though this piece was really powerful because she literally risked her life to show how the audience treats an artist. It also has to do a lot with sociopsychology since when one person decided to act violently and didn’t get in trouble for it, everyone else started acting that way.
“What I learned was that… if you leave it up to the audience, they can kill you.” … “I felt really violated: they cut up my clothes, stuck rose thorns in my stomach, one person aimed the gun at my head, and another took it away. It created an aggressive atmosphere. After exactly 6 hours, as planned, I stood up and started walking toward the audience. Everyone ran away, to escape an actual confrontation.”
You should definitely check out her other work, I especially liked “Rhythm 5”, “Breathing In/Breathing Out”, and “The Artist is Present”.
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