Chiquita? Chicana.

I am the daughter of a Mexican immigrant. I am first generation on his side. I am the first woman from his family to have attended college and finished. I am the first women from his family to have been awarded an MA. All of these firsts aside, my identity growing up never felt particularly chicana. We visited with our family in DF less often than we really should have, spent holidays making tamales and tortillas and tiramisu (believe it or not) with our cousins in the suburbs, but that was largely the extent of my mexicanidad.

“Al”, age 17

My father arrived to the US with his mother, older brother, and younger sister when he was 12, desperately poor, and with no language. His story is not different than those of today’s immigrants–his family sought better circumstances, they sought the ”American Dream”. He taught himself English on the football field where he found his peers more easily overlooked his Mexicanness in favor of his athletic ability. He went by “Al” rather than “Alfonso” because it was easier to pronounce. He stopped speaking Spanish. He assimilated. Years later when his daughters were born, he, like all fathers, wanted to give them the whole world. He wanted them to live lives full of possibility and open doors and yeses rather than nos. He wanted his American-born daughters to live American lives where their heritage was a factor of who they were rather than the fact of who they were.

Andy Warhol, Banana, 1966

For many years, I was afforded the immense privilege of sameness–I am light-skinned and fine-haired. I never looked for anyone who looked like me because I didn’t look all that different from those around me. It was in my early teens I began to understand my otherness, faintly as it dawned on me, I began to want my background, to seek out my roots. I recognized the impulse so handily captured in Linda Vallejo’s work to turn the whole world brown and make it make sense to me from a Mexican perspective. Make it make sense to everyone else, that without brown, white cannot exist. Linda’s piece, Chiquita, a riff on Andy Warhol’s banana image, is a succinct comment on that desire, and is my pick of the week.

Once upon a time. . .

 . . I was kicked out of MoMA.

For those of you not familiar, the acronym MoMA stands for one of New York’s most revered contemporary art museums, the Museum of Modern Art. MoMA is truly one of the foremost institutions for contemporary art past, present, and future. It is home to one of the world’s most impressive permanent collections and to many, many exhibitions known for pushing boundaries, for championing artists, and for provoking thought and discussion. It’s also one of New York’s most crowded, suffocating, tourist-rife (I know, tourists make the world go ‘round, I know), blockbuster museums–in every sense of the word, does anyone remember their Tim Burton exhibition from a few years back?–in the world. As such, excursions to the museum must be carefully planned and strategized in order to maximize experience and minimize frustration. It is sometimes exhausting.

The Museum of Modern Art, 53rd street entrance | Image courtesy of MoMA

So, once upon a time I was kicked out.

Back when I was attending graduate school at the Sotheby’s Institute of Art we spent some time exploring artist intention. When an artist creates something, no matter how conceptual or polished or ambiguous, most, if not all artists, have an objective, an intention, as to how that piece is to be experienced. Some artists are very specific: “this painting is meant to evoke a feeling of awe, an experience of confusion, a sensation reminiscent of post-war America in South Dakota at 6:17pm.” Other artists prefer to leave interpretation entirely to their viewers, “there is no specific meaning attached to this piece, other than what you, a singular entity, experience of it.”

In December of 2009, Mexican artist Gabriel Orozco, opened his first career-long retrospective at MoMA, no small feat. A solo exhibition at MoMA is a testament to an artist’s success, firmly cementing their place within the history of art. It is a platinum record, a spot on the New York Times’ bestseller list, an olympic gold medal. Orozco’s work varies widely, from sculpture and performative work, to painting and found object assembly. His self-titled exhibition included the sculpture Mobile Matrix (2006), a real skeleton of a massive gray whale, excavated from Guerrero Negro in Baja, California, which he then covered over in thousands of concentric penciled circles. The exhibition also included manipulated currency, plane tickets, envelopes and more embellished with gold leaf and egg tempera. It included found objects representing readymade sculpture.

Gabriel Orozco, Empty Shoebox, 1993, Installation view | Image courtesy of MoMA

One such readymade, Empty Shoebox (1993), is simply that. A plain, white, unadorned and unlabeled shoebox, sitting in its lid, open and on the floor. Perhaps the exhibition’s most innocuous object, the shoebox provoked more simultaneous ire and admiration than any other piece in the show. MoMA is not a free museum, it charges admission, and nothing enrages people more than the belief that they have paid for something that did not deliver, or perhaps, did not exist in the first place. Something that is unchallenging, in effect, something that is ordinary. I understand, I too have been “victim” to artwork and exhibitions that appear to me to be an utter waste; a waste of time, resources, and ultimately attention. I have walked out of shows wondering what it was I was supposed to come away with, wondering what the actual point was.

Before I had learned anything about Orozco and his work, I likely would have felt the same bewilderment and disappointment at this unremarkable object placed within a context that insists all of its objects are extraordinary. In studying Orozco, I came to understand that the object, this shoebox, was not the actual artwork. The shoebox served as a vehicle for the concept of the artwork. On view here in Orozco’s retrospective is his concept, which is to say that the shoebox is not art, in and of itself. The shoebox serves to highlight the tension between viewed and viewer. We often walk into galleries and museums expecting to see ancient artifacts encased in glass, so precious that even a breath from our pedestrian mouths might serve to destroy the piece ever after. The shoebox is exactly that ancient artifact’s opposite. In fact, in a number of lectures given and conversations had, Orozco has stated that the shoebox’s purpose is to create confusion, to be picked up and puzzled over, to be moved, to be kicked across the room, to be ignored. Its rather obvious placement in a gallery in MoMA makes it impossible to ignore–really, what the hell is that thing doing there, is this a joke?

This is all very well and good, but to get to the point, I kicked the shoebox.

As a kid I was taught the “One Finger Rule”. My parents assumed that if I touched something with one finger I could not break it. When we went to museums or other people’s homes or stores, any place a kid could cause destruction, my sister and I would be sternly informed that the “One Finger Rule” was in effect and if we disobeyed, we would suffer consequences. Needless to say, I often disobeyed. Fast forward many years later, I still disobey. I am an adult with a very serious touching-that-thing-there-in-front-of-me-that-I-should-not-touch problem. I am the reason that museums and galleries employ those implacable, immovable guards. I should point out that I am well aware of the damage that can be caused by touching–chemical reactions caused by the oils of a fingerprint, microscopic shifts in pigment caused by a deliberate breath of air, aura removed by my brazen refusal to give the artwork its space–and of course, I care. My career in the art world has also taught me how to flout the rules safely (if, indeed, such a thing can exist). I know better, but I know how to do it right.

Back to the shoebox.

Gabriel Orozco, Empty Shoebox, 1993, Cardboard shoebox | Image courtesy of MoMA

I read the transcript of one of those lectures Orozco had given in which he specifically tells his viewers to physically interact with his shoebox. In effect, Orozco had given me explicit permission to kick his shoebox. Walking into the exhibition and spying the shoebox felt like coming across an old familiar friend. “Shoebox! How are you?! It’s so great to see you!” I looked around the gallery for the usual “Do not Touch” signs and found that there were none. I tapped a guard on the shoulder and asked him if I might touch the shoebox and was instructed to, “read the sign”. I told him that there were no signs and asked him again. He again informed me to read the sign, which I again told him I could find no trace of. I asked him a third time if I could please touch the shoebox–by this point, his reluctance to answer the question should really have been answer enough for me, but I was being disagreeable and I admit it–and he did not answer me at all. I took this as my cue. I stepped back. I wound up. I soundly booted the box across the room. The aforementioned security guard appeared at my side and grabbed my upper arm and yanked me away from the box. He radioed to his other security guards, whom I assume radioed their superiors, while squeezing my arm and scolding me. I was indignant. “But I know that that is how the artist wants me to interact with his piece. SIR, I know this is what I’m supposed to do.” At this point, my entire class and several curious bystanders surrounded me and the flock of guards who were all furiously and alternately yelling at me and at each other. A classmate of mine, a former lawyer, began to try to defend me and my basic human rights by shouting legalese on top of the already rapidly escalating situation.

My story has already run much longer than it should have. I got carried away. Clearly, I got carried away–I was physically removed from the gallery and then from the museum by two security guards who each held one of my arms and unceremoniously escorted me outside. And that, friends, is how I got kicked out of out MoMA for “touching” the art.