Is This Art?

New York City, the greatest city and the most culturally diverse place on Earth. People from all corners of the globe came to the Big Apple as jobseekers, expatriates, tourists, and immigrants — Joseph Cruz was one of those immigrants.

Joseph was from the Philippines. Six months after graduating college, he got himself a job as a baker and a certificate that he was now an American citizen, along with his family.

It was late afternoon, and it was the end of his shift at work. He got out from a supermarket with supplies. While heading back to his apartment, his phone rang. As he pulled it out from his bag to check for messages, he wasn’t paying attention in a direction in front that he bumped into a woman.

“Sorry, my mistake.”

“Jojo?” That was Joseph’s nickname from college. Glancing back in front of him, his mouth opened when he recognized her.

“Emma?” It was his old friend from college.

“Jojo, it is you.”

“Emma…” Joseph was about to greet back when he noticed her pink hair and nose-ring. She was naturally blonde back in college. “You look different?”

“Oh, like the new look?” she said. “It got this done yesterday.”

Joseph didn’t respond for a bit. “W-well, it’s great.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Are you free today?”

He blinked. “Yeah, why?”

“There’s this art museum not far from here. My cousin Mary, who was an artist, got an exhibit there. She gave me two tickets to check it out. I was supposed to bring my roommate today, but she got sick. So maybe you could join me.”

He was supposed to get back to his apartment and lazed around for the rest of the day. However, seeing his old friend again, it wouldn’t hurt to spend a little time with her.

“Sure.”

“Great!”

It was only three blocks, and they arrived at the art museum. Once they got into the first gallery, it was filled with paintings of contemporary arts. Joseph wasn’t impressed. They were colorful squiggly lines, spills, and all sorts of a convoluted mess. He was scratching his head to figure out why people liked these.

Emma was nodding and humming when she gazed at each of them. Joseph was giving them a second or third look, yet he still wasn’t impressed.

“Jojo, come take a look at this.” Emma was already at the next gallery not far.

Following her voice, when he arrived, his brow was shooting up into his hair from what he found.

“Is that a giant butt?” 

Emma was standing next to a giant statue of human buttocks, with hands clutched onto its butt cheeks.

“It’s called, Reminiscence of Overwhelmed Behind,” she said in an exaggerated tone.

“That sounds like a poetic name for a giant butt,” he asked. “Why is this a masterpiece?”

“It’s a provocation,” she replied. “This one provokes me whether I take this as an art or not.”

“It provokes me to remember my granddad’s butt naked incident one time when he forgot to take his meds.”

“See, it’s a provocation,” she said. “Art is subjective. It depends on one’s personal preference and opinion.”

“I suppose,” he reluctantly agreed. “But it does make a good profile pic.”

A smile rose on her face, showing that she agreed as well. He pulled out his camera. For a while, they took a lot of pictures while making funny poses in front of the giant statue.

The next gallery consisted of world-renowned paintings of contemporary arts from famous artists whose names that Joseph had never heard of. They stood in front of one with an entirely blue background with a black line in the middle.

“Is this worth half a million dollars?” Joseph raised his eyebrows again upon checking its price tag. Emma tried to give him some deeper insights about the blue painting, but he couldn’t grasp what she said.

The next one was dark red squiggly lines and waves on a white canvas. It had a strange putrid scent.

“Try to visualize what you see, this time,” she said. “For me, it represents one’s struggle in the cruel society where her overflowing rage converted into energy through the stroke of a brush. Your turn, Jojo.”

“I can visualize my grandma paint better than this,” he said with a frown. “And she is clinically blind.”

“Come on, there’s got to be something else you see in this painting?”

He heaved a sigh, “When you talk about one’s struggle, my grandma had once walked around the city to find scraps to sell just to pay my dad’s college tuition. That was before she lost her sight, and she’s still alive, mind you.” He heaved a sigh again before lifting a smile. “God bless her heart.”

“Oh…” she didn’t say anything further.

“What’s with that smell?” He took a sniff. “What kind of paint does this artist use?”

“I think that’s blood,” she answered. “Some artists today used it as paint. Sometimes they used blood from women’s…”

“Next gallery.” Joseph immediately left, not wanting to hear her finished that sentence, as well as to know what kind of blood the artist used on that painting.

The next gallery was filled with random things: a pile of pillows, a half-damaged standing fan, a messy bed, a five-legged table — and a giant rock.

“What is all this?” Joseph was more confused than the last gallery. Emma tried to explain and gave deep insights on each of these so-called sculptures, but he was even more confused that his thoughts were still piecing them together.

“Come one, Jojo,” she said. “Open your mind and see the world of this place.”

“I see a world that I might get scam,” he said. “What’s next? A banana taped to a wall?”

“Well…” Emma sheepishly pointed at a plunger stuck on a wall with a toilet roll hanging on its handle.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” he exclaimed. “There must be something here that is… visually admiring. He glanced around and noticed a green bulb-shaped sculptor with a hole on top next to a corner. “That one looks cool.”

“That’s a garbage bin,” she corrected.

Joseph frowned even more. Deciding to take a break, they found a blue bench for them to sit on.

“You’re not enjoying yourself, are you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’m just confused. I don’t know about today’s art, but isn’t art supposed to be something beautiful. Not like that,” he pointed at a large goo made of discarded plastic containers, “whatever that is.”

“Art isn’t always about beauty.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain this, but it may take time for you to read an artwork to discern the creator’s intentions. It’s all about finding expression and meaning, invoking emotions, and, um… provoking thoughts.”

“Let me stop you right there,” he said. “We’re going to agree to disagree about what is art. We haven’t seen each other since graduation, so let’s not ruin our moment while we’re here.”

She nodded to agree.

“Although, I do like that giant butt statue thing.”

“Yeah, me too,” she chuckled.

Joseph suddenly remembered why they were here in the first place. “By the way, we haven’t yet checked your cousin’s exhibit.”

“Oh, Mary’s exhibit,” she gasped. “I forgot about that. Let’s go.”

They wandered around the museum. After asking directions from a guard. They found Mary’s exhibit, covering a quarter of the gallery. Several people were gawking at the artwork with dread.

“Damn,” he gasped as chills shivered down his spine while Emma left speechless.

Dozens of human-shaped collages made from newspaper and posters dangling in nylon strings. Each of them made a pose evoking suffering or agony. There was one that looked like a person was caught on fire.

Upon glancing at each piece, it showed news about the evils and suffering from around the world. With titles such as The Dark Side of India’s Caste System, Jagon rebels burned villagers alive, Slavery still exists in Bangladesh, Terrorists stole food aid… and many more.

“This is scary,” Emma mumbled with a tremor in her voice when she stared at a photo of rebels burning a village.

“This is art.”

“What?” 

“This is art,” he repeated.

“But, this is horrible,” she said. “Mary should never make this. It might offend someone coming from any of these countries.”

He shook his head. “Emma, you said art is subjective. And you are right that it’s not all about beauty. It’s about provoking thoughts. Like you said.” He returned his glance at the collages. “They may be from other countries, but I can understand what they went through. My home village was once attacked by rebels. My family went through a lot until my dad managed to get us here in America.”

For a long time, Emma was trying to get a word out to respond.

“I-I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, it’s all in the past,” he said. “But I get what Mary wants to convey. This exhibit wants to bring awareness. The world needs to see that there’s still suffering in some places.”

“I get it,” she said. “I understand what you mean. What’s that over there?” There was a red line where people gathered and took pictures. They walked toward it. From what they saw next took their breaths away.

From where they stood, they were gazing at the gaps between the collages, forming shapes of several humans holding hands together. They also noticed large letters on the collages forming a hidden message: Through unity, there’s still hope.

“Through unity, there’s still hope.” Emma nodded to agree.

“Your cousin’s right,” Joseph said. “There’s still hope.”

“I’ll tell Mary that you like it.”

“Like it?” He shook his head. “I love it. It’s dark, but I love it.”

“Excuse me!” A curator arrived with a pair of guards. “This exhibit will be closed shortly. I would like everyone here to move to another gallery.”

“What?” Emma gasped. “Why? This is my cousin’s exhibit.”

“I understand,” the curator explained. “But we received a complaint that this exhibit might offend some people from a third world country.”

The small crowd was exchanging each other’s bemused looks.

“I’m from a third world country,” Joseph said aloud. “People like you need to be aware that there’s still hardship outside of our peaceful world.”

“My friend’s right,” Emma exclaimed. “It’s up to those who see this art to decide whether to take action or… spread awareness. Yeah, it’s all about spreading awareness.”

The crowd was nodding to agree. Some were voicing their protest as well.

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,” the curator said. “The order comes from our highest staff.”

“This is unfair,” Emma exclaimed.

Enraged, they went back to the blue bench. For a long time, they sat in silence, wondering what to do next.

“We need to protest,” she proposed.

Joseph blinked several times. “How?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We need to think of something. They can’t censor art! Even the bad ones, and the dark ones too. Art is an art, they cannot censor art.”

“I can agree with that.” He nodded. “There’s got to be a way to save that exhibit.”

“Excuse me.” A guard appeared before us. “That’s art that you’re sitting on.”

The two blinked several times.

“Are you kidding me?” he said incredulously. “It’s just an ordinary bench. Why is this an art?”

“Sorry, that’s what it is.” The guard shrugged. “I’m not being paid to know these things. Can you please get off? Otherwise, I will have to ask you to leave.”

Emma heaved a sigh of defeat. She was about to stand up.

“Wait!” Joseph gestured for her to sit back. “We’re staying.”

“Sir?” the guard said to his surprise. Some of those who came from Mary’s exhibit glanced at them.

Joseph crossed his arms on his chest in defiance. “We are not leaving until Mary’s exhibit stays.”

“Yeah,” Emma exclaimed. “You will not censor an artist!”

A guard pulled out his phone. “Ma’am, there is a protest happening here.”

“No, no, no, this isn’t just a protest,” Joseph said aloud as people were pulling out their camera phones to video the entire scene. A cunning smile rose on his face. “This is a performance art.”