Author: emilysuh
The Mt
The Opera was always, in my mind something that older, rich, “cultured” people did to pass time, just because they could. It was often portrayed in the media as some very white people in Viking costumes singing words that made no sense. It isn’t necessarily a popular pastime of people in the present, partly because it’s an expensive venture to the theater, and partly because of this portrayal of an outdated, boring experience. My previous, and very limited knowledge of the opera derived from dumb kid’s cartoons where a bunch of boring adults sat and listened to someone sing in some ridiculous costume, and Marie Antoinette (Sophia Coppola’s 2004 film). Again, not unlike many others in my generation, the opera seemed like a boring thing for old people to do, and as a result, I was not particularly looking forward to sitting for 3+ hours for the opera. Teju Cole brings up a similar point, where often times, what is shown to the public aligns with a general notion about something, whether it’s the charm of an old Indian village, or the opera, but this image doesn’t always necessarily portray the reality.
In the past, I’ve been to Lincoln Center for many ballets with my grandmother, which I enjoyed a lot, particularly because I appreciated the talent and technique and refined dance abilities due to my own dance background. This gave me high hopes for the opera, despite my expectations. I knew that going to this theater was a big deal, so I thought, “How bad could it be?”
Upon arrival, the crowd consisted of mostly of well-dressed, older people, and our class. There were some younger people, children, and middle aged people, but it was still predominantly elderly attendees. This only confirmed what I previously thought about the opera. Before the opera actually began, there was a strange presentation with sheep and handlers as people were still being seated, which again, only added to my lack of excitement and confusion towards opera.
Once it began, the first surprising thing was that it was in English. It became clear that the opera has changed, and though it is still very much a facet of European culture, it cemented itself in America. There were no ridiculous costumes (other than the bear costume), and though the opera isn’t my new favorite thing to do, it wasn’t exactly like what I thought it was based on the media.
Another part of my opera experience that changed my perspective was that I went with peers, as opposed to by myself, or with older people as a pastime. The opera was still boring for me, and confusing, and I didn’t particularly enjoy the singing, but I recognize it as a part of culture, and as a performance art form. However, despite this, it isn’t just the opera, it is also a memory that I share with my classmates, which makes the opera part of my experience. 
Open Letter Final Draft
Dear Metropolitan Museum of Art,
You are one of the most iconic art museums in the world, one that boasts having the largest collection of Asian artifacts. However,
I remember visiting you with my mother one day when I was little.
I remember seeing the huge exhibits focused on ancient Greek and Roman civilizations, the Renaissance era, etc.
I remember reading the lengthy and detailed descriptions about each ceramic button, each broken water jug.
I don’t remember seeing artwork with people who looked like me.
I remembered seeing only a few old paintings with Asians, with vague descriptions.
I remember visiting you again when I got older
We all noted that the exhibits that weren’t Eurocentric, were presented as “featured exhibits” that were separate from the main portion of the museum. The more permanent exhibits were mainly by white people, of white people, and really, for white people. Ancient hairpins didn’t necessarily thrill me; what significance did it have for me, how could I relate to this? This perpetuates the fame and praise of predominantly white art, and obscures the scope of art from which we learn and appreciate. I learned all about Renaissance techniques and Impressionism, Expressionism, etc, but what about ancient calligraphy that Korean letters were beautifully written in? The few “diverse” artworks that I have seen were vastly outnumbered, and the descriptions were painfully inaccurate, as if the handcrafted, beaded dress was not as significant to my own culture in comparison to the multiple shards of Greek pottery. I understand the value of European artwork, and its prominence throughout history, but history didn’t only happen in one place. We see the progression of history through the looking glass of large statues of the Renaissance world to the stained glass windows of the Medieval times. The world closer to my own, is frozen in the time of the Goryeo and the Joseon.
Sincerely,
Emily Suh
Coco Fusco
Rubén Natal-San Miguel’s collection of photos from Puerto Rico
8 Seconds
-It was so beautiful and colorful, and told a story that stood out to me. It caught my eye immediately, because of the clean looking subject matter, the vivid colors, and I wanted to know more about the photo. I found myself fascinated by the photos purely by its aesthetic value, but compelled by the underlying meaning of the photos. It didn’t seem as interesting as the other artwork that was done in unique forms and mediums, with stronger messages, but it caught my attention. The photos seemed to be journalistic, and artistic at the same time.
10 Minutes
-After learning that the photos were of Puerto Rico, my thoughts immediately went to the gorgeous vacation photos people posted on social media. I never visited there personally, so my knowledge of Puerto Rico was limited to whatever I saw on social media, on maps, etc. The pictures weren’t of the sandy beaches or luxurious resorts, it was of abandoned buildings, protests, and run down businesses owned and operated by locals; the things that aren’t brazenly presented to eager vacationers
The abandoned buildings and letters written reflect the tumultuous political and economic climate in Puerto Rico that isn’t necessarily advertised, and consequently, seen by the majority of the population. The beauty of the photos themselves contradict the subject matter, depicting something associated more with negativity, like the “outrage” of the citizens.
This unrest is known mainly to the people of Puerto Rico, who, according to Miguel, have all fled to the greater United States, and the empty buildings wouldn’t otherwise be seen, and neither would the protests. The only way this “unkown” side of Puerto Rico is seen are through these beautiful, seemingly subtle photos (compared to the other photos in the exhibit). At first glance, the collection of photos is colorful and eye-catching, but has a deeper meaning underneath its surface, much like the “unconscious” effort Fusco was referring to.
Open Letter to the Met
To one of the most iconic art museums in the world,
I remember going to you with my mother one day when I was little.
I remember seeing the huge exhibits focused on ancient Greek and Roman civilizations, the Renaissance era, etc.
I remember reading the lengthy and detailed descriptions about each ceramic button, each broken water jug.
I don’t remember seeing artwork with people who looked like me.
I remembered seeing only a few old paintings with Asians, with vague descriptions.
I remember going again with a group of friends.
We all noted that the exhibits that weren’t Eurocentric, were presented as “featured exhibits” that were separate from the main portion of the museum. The more permanent exhibits were mainly by white people, of white people, and really, for white people. Ancient hairpins didn’t necessarily thrill me; what significance did it have for me, how could I relate to this? This perpetuates the fame and praise of predominantly white art, and obscures the scope of art from which we learn and appreciate. I learned all about Renaissance techniques and Impressionism, Expressionism, etc, but what about ancient calligraphy that Korean letters were beautifully written in? The few “diverse” artworks that I have seen were vastly outnumbered, and the descriptions were painfully inaccurate, as if the handcrafted, beaded dress was not as significant to my own culture in comparison to the multiple shards of Greek pottery. I understand the value of European artwork, and its prominence throughout history, but history didn’t only happen in one place. We see the progression of history through the looking glass of large statues of the Renaissance world to the stained glass windows of the Medieval times. The world closer to my own, is frozen in the time of the Goryeo and the Joseon.
Sincerely,
Emily Suh
References
The Metropolitan Museum Is Still Very Eurocentric and Conservative
https://www.metmuseum.org/about-the-met/curatorial-departments/asian-art
elysium
My video is representative of my own personal paradise, or “elysium,” referencing the Fields of Elysium from Greek Mythology. It is a depiction of my family at the beach; essentially a perfect day in my opinion.
elysium
https://youtu.be/QPEMDeAVkt0
My video focuses my version of “Elysium,” a place once believed to be a paradise for those who passed on to the afterlife. My family spending time together at the beach is my interpretation of that concept, where my only thoughts revolve around happiness and contentment.
The Statue-Emily Suh
I loved going to my mother’s office. There was something about getting up before dawn on a day where I didn’t have school and the anticipation of the train ride that made me love it so much. Seeing the larger than life buildings and masses of people, and smelling the oh-so-wonderful subway station smell we all know too well, was all part of my mother’s world that was foreign to me when I was a child.
My favorite part about these city trips with my mother was always looking out the window at the other huge buildings, the tiny taxis that resembled my brother’s toy cars, and the Statue of Liberty. She works on the 36th floor of a building on Wall Street, so to my 8-year old self, it was as though I was looking down from the highest building. It was astounding to think that my mother saw this every day. I asked her about it, but she replied saying that she never noticed it that often. I didn’t understand how she didn’t, it was just so amazing to me at that age.
The Statue of Liberty was something I knew about from school. I knew that it used to be copper, but turned green. I knew that the tablet the woman held had the date July 4, 1776 inscribed. I knew that it was a gift from France. I knew that it was a symbol of freedom and opportunity for many immigrants back in our nation’s history. I knew from television that it was a famous attraction, like the Empire State Building.
I visit my mother every week at work, and I don’t remember the last time I ran to the window and clung to the windowsill to peek at the Statue of Liberty. I live steps from the Empire State building, but I don’t know when the last time I really looked at it or gave it much thought. I’ve never visited either, and I don’t want to. However, thinking back on all those times staring at the Statue, and hearing the history of it in school, I can’t help but imagine myself staring at the Statue from the deck of a boat, after weeks of traveling from my home, about to enter a foreign country instead of a window, holding a hot chocolate from Dunkin’ Donuts.
Thinking about all those people, who sacrificed so much, I feel incredibly fortunate. Even my grandparents, who came to America much later, sacrificed a lot when they moved to America, just so my parents, my siblings and I and our potential children would have a better life. If they could do something as bold as move to a country with little English and money, I know I can do that too. I can make them proud of me, and their obstacles worth it.
The Statue reminds me of all the hardships those immigrants endured, but also the diversity of the population, and how everyone I meet has a different ethnic background, and story. There are few places in the world where so many cultures from all over the world are seen, and I am so lucky to live in one of them.
Many of the immigrants faced discrimination and rejection, but remained hopeful for the future. That Statue was their beacon of hope, and over time its symbolism has dwindled, but its history remains the same and holds the legacy of thousands. The Statue of Liberty doesn’t mean the same as it did, it has become a mere tourist attraction, but it still holds a special place in my heart.
The Statue-Emily Suh
I loved going to my mother’s office. There was something about getting up before dawn on a day where I didn’t have school and the anticipation of the train ride that made me love it so much. Seeing the larger than life buildings and masses of people, and smelling the oh-so-wonderful subway station smell we all know too well, was all part of my mother’s world that was foreign to me when I was a child.
My favorite part about these city trips with my mother was always looking out the window at the other huge buildings, the tiny taxis that resembled my brother’s toy cars, and the Statue of Liberty. She works on the 36th floor of a building on Wall Street, so to my 8-year old self, it was as though I was looking down from the highest building. It was astounding to think that my mother saw this every day. I asked her about it, but she replied saying that she never noticed it that often. I didn’t understand how she didn’t, it was just so amazing to me at that age.
The Statue of Liberty was something I knew about from school. I knew that it used to be copper, but turned green because of oxidation. I knew that the tablet the woman held had the date July 4, 1776 inscribed. I knew that it was a gift from France. I knew that it was a symbol of freedom and opportunity for many immigrants back in our nation’s history. I knew from television that it was a famous attraction, like the Empire State Building.
I visit my mother every week at work, and I don’t remember the last time I ran to the window and clung to the windowsill to peek at the Statue of Liberty. I live steps from the Empire State building, but I don’t know when the last time I really looked at it or gave it much thought. I’ve never visited either, and I don’t want to. However, thinking back on all those times staring at the Statue, and hearing the history of it in school, I can’t help but imagine myself staring at the Statue from the deck of a boat, after weeks of traveling from my home, about to enter a foreign country instead of a window, holding a hot chocolate from Dunkin’ Donuts.
Thinking about all those people, who sacrificed so much, I feel incredibly fortunate. Even my grandparents, who came to America much later, sacrificed a lot when they moved to America, just so my parents, my siblings and I and our potential children would have a better life. If they could do something as bold as move to a country with little English and money, I know I can do that too. I can make them proud of me, and their obstacles worth it.
The Statue reminds me of all the hardships those immigrants endured, but also the diversity of the population, and how everyone I meet has a different ethnic background, and story. There are few places in the world where so many cultures from all over the world are seen, and I am so lucky to live in one of them.
Many of the immigrants faced discrimination and rejection, but remained hopeful for the future. That Statue was their beacon of hope, and over time its symbolism has dwindled, but its history remains the same and holds the legacy of thousands. The Statue of Liberty doesn’t mean the same as it did, it has become a mere tourist attraction, but it still holds a special place in my heart.
