When stage shows went virtual, traditional directors declared that the form was “dead.” They are extremely wrong.
In art, I was seeing the world. Yet, the entire time, I could not name a single Indian artist in my family’s homeland.
Yet, my same racial mutability also poses a threat: “How can you identify a ‘them’ if it can pass for an ‘us’?”
Morisot’s paintings of women up close lined the walls, a pastel perspective at vanity tables and in gardens. My breath rushed in: beautiful.
My mother described the Rembrandt paintings as her friends. I'd never heard anyone talk about art that way, instilling it with something like a personhood of its own.
I had not been erased by the violence I’d suffered, but was changed by it. A new, difficult layer had been added to my life.