My Guernica

Six months into the Trump administration and my studio is filled with scathing, politically astute, paradigm shifting artistic challenges to the status quo.

Broadly impactful yet cleverly nuanced reactions poised to elicit maximum allegiance and minimal effort from my Facebook identified target audience of like minded allies.
Objects and Instagramable images that will serve as the rallying cry and civic anthem for these troubled times.
My clarion call to tear down the ineffectual and build the inclusive.
A sacrifice of the metaphoric for the blatancy of rally cry, emblem and historical bookmark.
An act of resistance!

This is not true.
This is a lie.

The studio remains swaddled in a tarp of insular reflection, recycled taxonomies and privileged security.
A constant editing of that one familiar tome.
Another toothless stanza appended to my chronic poem.
Steel, wood, fabric and paint.
Surrealism comes easily to a life secure in its own reality.
I hold my husband tight and although I feel the fear through his black skin, my white hands fall to my sides, silent in response.
Comfortable in their complacency.
Blind to the reality of his narrative, selfishly immersed in the clever nuances of mine.

This is true.
This is my life.

Paralyzed in the fear that being strong for others somehow diminishes my cloistered and curated sense of self. The comfort that comes from being able to move through the world untouched, unthreatened, and unaware while still being gifted the rewards my white skin allows.
The clean, manicured hands of one who can be selective as to when those palms become dirty, or if they’ll ever curl into fists of theatrical rage.

What color speaks to social injustice?
What forms can act as counterweight to an imbalance?
What gesture can raise fists and block truncheons in the streets?