ART_ist 👩🏾‍🎨

This post was first published in This Weekend I Noticed. a weekly-stitch journal exclusive to The T. subscribers.

“Accepting that your words may not be well-received, and still choosing to voice them, is where true courage lies. This is the bravery of speaking out”
― Africa Brooke

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This weekend I noticed.

A Weekly-ish Stitch Journal
100 words or less. Sometimes more.

21-22 October, 2023

ART_ist 👩🏾‍🎨  

This weekend I noticed that sometimes your first response is the best response.

I hesitated before slowly raising my hand to ask the question that had been on my mind. The moderator’s silent acknowledgment reassured me that I would be next in line. Finally, the floor was mine. I stood up and prepared to speak. There appeared to be some confusion. “You can go,” the guest artist on stage beckoned to an older White woman seated near the front. Both the moderator and the interviewer intervened. “I think we have a question from the back first.” All eyes turned to me. I gripped the mic and began, “Thank you for sharing yourself with us today. Your voice is so calm and soothing, much like your work. I am here with a group of women who are learning the art of ceramics at the Nia Centre of Arts in Little Jamaica. Some of us – I was referring to myself – are experimenting with putting bubbles and raised dots and points on our work not really understanding why we’re doing this. I noticed you using the same technique in your work and I wanted to ask what it means for you, if anything. Is it for form or function?” I added jokingly referring to an earlier conversation about form versus function. “Thank you.” I handed the mic back to the moderator and prepared to take my seat. “Does that answer your question?” The artist asked from her perch on the stage, a small smile on her lips. I hadn’t heard her response. She must have noticed the confused expression on my face. “I do it to animate the objects.” She repeated curtly. I remained half standing, half seated waiting for her to continue, unsure of what to do in the awkward silence. All eyes on me. “Does that answer your question?” she asked again. The moderator handed me the mic. “Yes.” I replied a little too loudly. Unsure of what else to say in the moment. “It does.” I sat back down, and the Q&A session resumed. 

I caught a few compassionate glances. “Was that her only response?” I thought? Why had she chosen to answer my question in such a brief and dismissive manner? Perhaps the answer was obvious but even then, I would have appreciated a deeper dive from her and so would have the audience, I’m sure. Perhaps she was tired of responding to questions, we were nearing the end of the one-hour conversation. Her elaborated responses to the questions that followed proved otherwise. I thought back to when she looked directly at me as I stood to the side of the room near the back recording a portion of her talk. Did she hold her gaze a little too long then? Had I somehow offended her? Was there something about my look she didn’t like? Did she mean to shame and humiliate me with that response? What would be her reason for wanting to do this? Would she have responded in the same way if I were White or Asian or Brown? I couldn’t understand why of all the ways she could have responded to my question – even if she thought it silly – she had chosen to respond in the way that she did. In a way that made me feel awkward and uncomfortable. In that moment I made a mental note: “When you find yourself in the same position, always show compassion to your audience.” Still, I thought perhaps I was overthinking the whole interaction, but I couldn’t shake the strange sensation in my body and I always trust what I feel. At the end of the talk, the moderator asked, “are you okay?” My feelings were confirmed. Something was amiss. 

Later, as we explored her curated work in the gallery, the work I had so admired just an hour before taking on a different characteristic, I leaned towards a colleague, who wanted to ask a question following mine but decided against it after my experience, and asked, “should I be bothered by her response?” “Why? Are you?” she asked. “Yeah, I think so. She could have said more.” “Yes, she definitely could have.” My colleague agreed. “But perhaps she didn’t quite understand the question or at least didn’t understand the question from a beginner’s perspective. Besides, the answer can be inferred from her work.” I felt better but remained unconvinced. On my way out, I went back to see if I could get an audience with the artist, to probe her for more, to ask why? The opportunity never presented itself and I took that as a sign to let it go.

I couldn’t.

I spent the next few days thinking about all the ways I could have responded to her with equal sass. By the weekend I decided that my first response, accepting what she chose to offer, was the best response. 

 Always stay gracious, best revenge is your paper – Beyoncé

gra·cious
: elegant and tasteful, especially as exhibiting wealth or high social status [Oxford Dictionary]

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