More than a decade ago, Adrian
Piper asked us, with good humor, to imagine an exhibition that proudly
celebrated the work of white artists: “In what sense does it make
sense to do a show of black artists, unless you think it makes sense
to do a show of white artists? Think of it…a show entitled Four
Photo-Realist White Males. You never see such a show.” 
Piper’s point is that an exhibition touting the work of white
males seems absurd – while an exhibition of black art does not
– because the “whiteness” of the artists most widely
exhibited in America goes unspoken. On the other hand, the work of black
artists has frequently been treated as if it bears some extraneous meaning
that is unique to the work of black artists and of interest only to
black audiences. This exhibition asks what it is about some art that
has allowed it to pass for art, whereas other art has been understood
as something else; whether the situation has changed; and whether we
can imagine a world that exists “after whiteness.”
When asked what comes after whiteness, our first answer might be, Everything.
Whiteness proclaims itself the origin of modern culture. As a unifying
condition for art, whiteness all too often serves as the pre-existing
norm for a universalist philosophy that renders everything else contingent.
This attitude finds expression in the judgment that contemporary art
from Africa or Latin America – or made by Americans not identified
as white – is “derivative” of art by white artists
from the U.S. and Europe. Faith Ringgold has challenged this attitude
by questioning the originality of Euro-American Modernism.
Luis Camnitzer approaches the issue differently, suggesting that the
mainstreaming of the U.S. avant-garde – “the Wonder Bread
appreciation of art” – has become one more facet of a homogenizing
and dehumanizing globalization.
In a gesture of historical equivalence, modern art can be understood
as suited to the time and place of its creation, just like that made
in New York or Paris. In this model, no art plays the role of origin
because all art is contingent. Okwui Enwezor has in recent years offered
a particularly useful approach for the 21st century: he regards any
contemporary art as a specific and local response to issues and art
that are of global significance.
Against such efforts to decenter and internationalize (“anticolonialism,”
bell hooks calls it), whiteness
becomes evident as a tactical defensiveness. In answer to the question
of what comes after whiteness, then, we might also answer, Nothing.
Historically, within the discipline of art history, whiteness has served
as one necessary – if unspoken – condition for art. This
is not to say that we accept the self-destructive fantasy that lies
at the heart of white supremacist ideology – that the consequences
of an end to whiteness can only be chaos and Armageddon.
Rather, modernist criticism posits that everything else that came before
whiteness did so in the figure of the primitive. Whiteness itself remains
elusive. In order to challenge its influence, must we be ever after
Abstraction and formalism have
become a final bastion of whiteness in American art, evident in a defensive
posture toward the work of artists not regarded as white. Art critic
Clement Greenberg assumed that the artist would erase himself in painting,
making an image loosed from the material and historical particularities
of its creation. This attitude provided the art critic with a moral
defense for his predilection for reviewing and supporting only white
artists. As Ann Gibson argues, Greenberg’s refusal to acknowledge
artists’ explanations of their own work “permitted judgments
based on race and gender prejudice to operate undiscussed and unacknowledged”
because the critic could claim to be uninterested in and untouched by
issues of race and gender. This situation, Gibson continues, “contributed
to the creation of a dominant realm in which biography and politics
played no admitted part, but in whose preferred subjects and subject
matter the continuing exclusionary function of these factors is evident.”
More recently, Howardena Pindell has written that she became fed up
with white curators – and white feminists, in particular –
who in the 1970s passed over her abstract paintings in favor of other
artists’ work that cast blacks only as the victims of racism.
The curators who expressed dissatisfaction with her work wanted art
that made an overt political statement, and this determined whose art
was exhibited and whose was not. In response, Pindell changed her work.
In the 1980s, she made paintings that, in part, addressed the white
curators who took it upon themselves to define black art. In Autobiography:
Water/Ancestors/Middle Passage/Family Ghosts, for example, Pindell’s
self-portrait appears to float, dive, and sink in a sea of abstract
marks. Her figure is surrounded by staring eyes, images that refer to
the Middle Passage, and a legal text detailing the sexualized violence
of American racism. Her body thus emerges within the composition as
the very site where black identity is contested and defined in art and
history. Abstraction has, in Pindell’s work, become hostile ground.
It has been compromised – racialized by others in ways not previously
Suk Ja Kang Engles – curator of this exhibition – believes
that most white viewers still expect an artist who they think is not
white to be incapable of making purely formal art. White viewers of
her abstract paintings often regard them as the exotic expression of
a racialized body. She anticipates this response now, and indeed seeks
to address it in such works as her installation, Madame Butterfly
Sings to Jackson Pollock, in which an oversized white painting
cries tears of white paint onto the gallery floor as it listens to a
recording of Madame Butterfly. Rather than put herself on display,
however, Kang Engles reverses the roles. She is absent from the work,
replaced by a recording of Puccini’s tragic tale of exotic romance
that plays in the gallery. Kang Engles is present only as the European
fantasy of Asian sexuality. Her canvas, on the other hand, is white.
It serves as an allegorical figure for the white body that exists –
like her own – only in and as representation. With this work,
Kang Engles explains, she aligns herself with the growing number of
artists whose work challenges the effects of whiteness:
the huge canvas communes blankly with the fantasized, representative
conceptions of East and West…the pool of white paint flowing
from the canvas could represent “white” tears spilled
over the supposed, oft-remarked beauty of Puccini’s music and
sentiments, but also the wounded, bleeding artistic hegemony of white
masculinity as it bears the gathering onslaught of pieces such as
this one, produced by minority artists working in active resistance
to its influence and centrality. 
white body is dismembered, flayed, displayed and fetishized, figuratively
attacked by Kang Engles. Her target is not a person or even a racial
or ethnic group, however, but a representation. It is significant that
the canvas’s tears can also represent blood, according to the
artist’s description, and that this white blood is literally white
paint. Race becomes an issue of artistry rather than biology.
Kang Engles addresses the intransigence of race – its resistance
to critique – through the self-administered violence that whiteness
provokes in those who cannot see themselves in its ideal image. In her
video, Eye-con, we watch a young woman of Asian descent look
into a hand-held mirror and then draw a picture of her eye. What she
draws first does not appear to be her own – it is a wide blue
eye – and the woman erases it. She tries again and repeats her
failure. She concentrates on her reflection in the mirror and, with
increasing frustration, makes continued attempts to draw what she sees.
Each effort narrows the eye, as if to close it, until she is left with
a slim crescent. The artist’s most accurate representation comes
only when she seems no longer able to look at herself. It is as if she
would rather fail as a realist than have to face the fact that her eyes
do not match the whitened American ideal she has learned. Kang Engles
isolates a recognized marker of racial difference: the Asian eye. She
recognizes the violence necessary for the perpetuation of whiteness
by focusing on and isolating one part of her body, just as popular representations
and stereotypes of Asians do in America. This suggests, she explains,
fragmentation of the Orientalized female subject into exoticized,
symbolically resonant body parts (especially “silky” hair
and “almond” eyes), as well as the paradoxically countervailing
self-hatred instilled by the white gaze in those Asian women who resort
to the self-mutilation of cosmetic surgery, seeking to widen their
eyes into startled looks that approximate the eyes of European descent.
stages the internalized conflict through which many women of Asian descent
suffer: a body fragmented and fetishized in the hope of conforming to
images of white beauty circulated by the American media. In Kang Engles’
video, Iris, the artist has digitally altered footage of her
naked body to create impossible poses that suggest the eroticized image
of Asian acrobatic contortionists. “On a symbolic level,”
the artist explains, “they represent for me the painful psychological
contortions often undertaken by Asian women who encounter and try to
embody American society’s exoticizing, sexualizing expectations
regarding themselves, and also try at the same time to contort themselves
toward whitened beauty standards.”
Because Iris is projected onto the gallery floor, viewers must lean
between projector and image in order to watch the video, and in the
process their shadows are imposed upon Kang Engles’ contortions
– viewers thus mark the position of privilege from which they
watch the artist perform for them. In the process, Kang Engles’s
work also implicates art – including abstraction – in the
perpetuation of whiteness.
The privilege of whiteness is
also sustained by recognizing a black person only as the figure of blackness.
Martiniquan psychoanalyst Frantz Fanon realized this once, he wrote,
when a French girl saw him on a train and proclaimed to her mother,
“Look, a Negro!” Fanon recalls,
was responsible at the same time for my body, for my race, for my
ancestors. I subjected myself to an objective examination, I discovered
my blackness, my ethnic characteristics; and I was battered down by
tom-toms, cannibalism, intellectual deficiency, fetishism, racial
defects, slave-ships, and above all else, above all: “Sho’
good eatin’.” 
girl’s judgment – that Fanon was, without question, black
– is based on what she took for a simple fact: skin color. But
as Fanon’s self-examination illustrates, public discussion of
his skin color locates him in what he calls a “racial epidermal
schema,” a value system that identifies black skin with a range
of stereotypical characteristics internalized by both blacks and whites.
Writing of the encounter in retrospect, Fanon realizes that the girl’s
denunciation assigned him full responsibility for the situation. In
a racist society, it is up to the victim to fulfill the racist’s
insulting fantasies or somehow find a way to disprove them. This is
the burden of visibility that Fanon’s American contemporary Ralph
Ellison explored in his novel Invisible Man: No matter how
he tried, Ellison’s black protagonist could not get white employers
or friends to see him as anything other than the figure of their preconceived
notions of a black man. The social encounter is explicitly scripted
in advance in such a way as to affirm illusions of racial difference.
Time and space are not abstractions but define the instance in which
we encounter each other as racialized bodies. It is in time and space
that the drama of race is played. Kojo Griffin stages this in his drawings.
The blank space of the paper in between figures resembling giant stuffed
animals is fraught with immanent fear. In one drawing, a horse-headed
man at the bottom of the page stares blankly as he mops while, in the
middle distance, a bear-headed businessman walks away. Griffin represents
the studied isolation of the lobby or the sidewalk. Each figure’s
alienation is so complete as to appear theatrical in a performance that
assures the other, “I won’t recognize you if you won’t
address me.” In this way, the blank space in which they might
have met also represents a sort of demilitarized zone; the tacit agreement
underlines the fact that neither man can tolerate the other’s
presence. The refusal to interact meaningfully validates the expectation
of unbridgeable difference. Griffin’s drawings portray the unconscious
drama of invisibility that sustains the racist status quo.
The blank space in Griffin’s drawing is not merely representational,
however. It serves, also, to implicate art itself as one arena in which
the dramas defining race are played. This is easier to recognize in
Griffin’s paintings, in which the backgrounds are not blank, but
painted to resemble the Color Field paintings art critic Michael Fried
has hailed as the culmination of Modernist painting. Griffin’s
figures interact – they only appear not to – against
the kind of painting that Fried believed would reveal itself as “presentness,”
a kind of divine picture of Creation that exists beyond the realm of
the contingent and the mundane. Fried’s Modernist painting claims
to present the viewer with nothing less than Truth. Griffin’s
reworking of Color Field renders it historically specific in order to
expose the fallacy in Fried’s theory. While Fried was willing
to concede that a viewer had to know how to look at a Modernist painting
in order to experience it properly, he did not recognize that what such
a properly educated and acculturated viewer experienced depends less
on divine presentness than on circumstance.
Griffin’s paintings return abstraction to the realm of the everyday,
staging the interpersonal conflicts that define race against a background
that, emptied of transcendent value, becomes beautiful and decorative.
Griffin’s horse- and bear-headed figures are not recognizably
black or white and for this reason they confound our attempts to identify
them. Returning to the example of Griffin’s drawing of a mopping
horse-headed man and a bear-headed businessman, the work appears deliberately
ambiguous, refusing to take responsibility for the viewer’s need
to attribute racial identity to the figures. Griffin explains that “the
work is purposely incomplete until the viewer assigns values to the
parts and meaning to the whole….The work is full of my ideas but
my ongoing attempts are…toward creating art that engages people
in a personal (internal) dialogue.”
We must acknowledge our interpretations as our own and understand our
inability to resolve the relationship between Griffin’s figures
as evidence of the instability of racial difference. If we imagine that
the figure mopping represents a black laborer and that the bear-headed
businessman is white, then the drawing may illustrate the injustice
of racism. At the same time, by assuming that the worker is black and
that the businessman is not, we risk naturalizing racial difference
and stereotype. This is one example of how the study of whiteness can
unwittingly reify the hierarchy of race in America. On the other hand,
reversing the roles risks supporting the conservative image of America
as a “colorblind” society in which affirmative action helps
only the well-to-do members of racial “minorities” and perpetuates
the problem of white poverty. In either case, however, the issue of
class is undeniable and should alert us to its role in both the perpetuation
of racism and the debate over ending racial injustice in America. Griffin’s
artworks point to the fact that, in order to imagine a society in which
whiteness no longer matters, we must also resolve the interrelated problem
of economic injustice.
Laurie Hogin’s realist
paintings of white monkeys present allegories of objectivity as pose.
Cloaked in white cloth, the monkey in The Spectrum of Our Discourse:
The Scholar, for example, assumes the mantle of innocence and objectivity,
a position of authority based upon the ability to consider any issue
rationally and dispassionately. The monkey is traditionally also an
allegorical figure of imitation, however. Objectivity bears the promise
of original scholarship that is not prejudiced by uninformed opinion,
but Hogin’s monkey-scholar can only repeat the work of his or
her predecessors and peers. The scholar-monkey’s white fur also
serves as an allegory for racial whiteness. It represents a species
that proclaims itself by the absence of distinctive markings. This monkey
is remarkable, in turn, as the figure of its own whiteness – it
seems raceless and unopinionated. Hogin’s painting thus challenges
the authority that adheres to whiteness in academia.
Hogin’s project is itself one of mimicry. She imitates a recognizable
style in order to stage her own objectivity. Her allegorical paintings
of white monkeys borrow their subject matter and style from the conventions
of seventeenth-century Dutch art. By imitating a familiar and anachronistic
style, Hogin draws curious viewers to her work. She has warned that
“to aestheticize that which we repress – poverty, addiction,
compulsion, sadism, the apocalypse – puts it in the realm of fantasy,
a thing we can master and enjoy” without resolving it. She calls
instead for “an art that directly addresses the meaning and import
of beauty as a structure of signifying practices by being, for lack
of a better term, beautiful….Just as it delivers, it disrupts.”
Hogin’s work seduces the viewer with beautiful grotesqueries in
order to prove the inability of fantasy alone to provoke change. In
effect, she asks what use an objective scholar would serve, were one
to exist. This is not to say that truth is impossible or scholarship
untenable. Rather, Hogin’s work demands that the scholar acknowledge
that claims to objectivity sustain assumptions regarding racial difference.
Whiteness is a fantasy. It promises
beauty, success, sophistication and love. Like all fantasies, it has
been repeated and shared. With each telling, it acquires power. Yet
fantasy – the desire for a life we recognize as unattainable but
must nevertheless believe in – torments those who work to achieve
it. Hélèn Cixous has remarked, for example, that the fairy
tales women learn as children enforce traditional gender roles not simply
by providing girls with particular role models of femininity but by
creating the pleasurable means for learning subjection. Language –
and the literature of fairy tales, in particular – presents women
with a problem because it provides a means for self-definition that
also sustains a structure of desire that women can inhabit only passively.
To recount or remember the story of Sleeping Beauty is to inscribe oneself
within a patriarchal order.
The artwork of Katherine Bartel elaborates upon Cixous’ thesis,
contributing the idea that fairy tales also encourage girls to desire
whiteness as an important criterion of beauty. The seven tea towels
in Bartel’s To Do List record her performance of chores and crafts
that white women and girls living in the rural Midwest are encouraged
to pursue – shopping, sewing, and cleaning, always dreaming of
marrying a prince. She displays the results in such a way as to reveal
and denaturalize the ways in which “women’s work”
can enact and sustain the desire to inhabit both conventional gender
roles and whiteness.
The tea towels provide examples of the ways in which fairy tales establish
a fantasy realm of pleasure and leisure in which women do no chores.
Each towel bears a picture of one of the figures Bartel calls “the
important princesses of our lives: Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and
Snow White, along with their princes.”
At the same time, however, girls learn the stories of Sleeping Beauty
and Snow White through such traditional women’s handicrafts and
tasks as embroidering, ironing, and washing. Bartel has therefore also
embroidered several images on each tea towel representing women’s
chores traditionally associated with the days of the week: wash on Monday,
iron on Tuesday, mend on Wednesday, shop on Thursday, clean on Friday,
bake on Saturday and go to church and make dinner for guests on Sunday.
Additional embroidered sayings advise girls to “wear clean underwear,”
“stay thin,” “stay young,” and “cross
your legs” in order to “get married.” Appliquéed
pictures of housewives from advertisements of the 1950s and 1960s reinforce
the advice: on the “Monday” towel, a young, thin white woman
reclining languorously in a Lycra girdle is told to “wear clean
underwear.” On Friday, a cheerful brunette is told to “clean
without slaving…and feel like a queen!” On Saturday, whiteness
is most clearly aligned with beauty and youth: a blonde in a beautiful
blue dress stands in her spotless kitchen; she is told to “stay
young” and is presented on the towel between the clearly cautionary
ethnic images of Aunt Jemima and a heavy-set Italian matron advertising
meatballs. Beauty is thus dependent upon a particular whiteness that
bears no markers of age or ethnicity. A truly white woman, the ads imply,
need not fear being associated with African-American or Italian-American
culture just because she cooks her husband pancakes for breakfast and
spaghetti with meatballs for dinner – she can live the fairy tale
of a life unencumbered by race.
Bartel counters the advertised fantasy by personalizing her work. To
do this, she uses source material from her youth: pictures of princesses
copied from a 1956 coloring book and traditional embroidery patterns
still sold in hobby stores. Bartel also affixes new iron-on patches
of Disney-style princesses and miniature doll-house buckets, mops, babies
and bridal veils in order to emphasize that girls and women continue
to learn traditional gender roles in similar ways. Furthermore, the
“Tuesday” towel – “iron” and “get
married” – includes images that draw directly upon Bartel’s
own girlhood, as she explains: “The images include a bride and
groom from the 1950’s and myself at the age of five when I had
followed a bride around so longingly that she finally put a veil on
my head. As a child, I kept a scrapbook of brides. They were the ultimate
princesses. Though Sleeping Beauty was somewhat fictional, the brides
were not.” Each towel
serves as a glance at oneself in the mirror – the artist enacts
the hope of finding herself reflected back in the image of a fairy tale
princess. Obscuring this image, however, are innumerable admonishments
to try to look more beautiful. Bartel describes the limits of her fantasy.
“The escape from all this for me was the hope of becoming a princess,”
she writes, “For this, one has to be white.”
She cites Carrie Mae Weems’ work, Mirror, Mirror, to demonstrate
her point. In Weems’ captioned photograph, a black woman stands
before a mirror and is told by her spiteful white reflection that the
most beautiful woman is not her; it’s “Snow White you black
bitch, and don’t you forget it!” The black woman suffers
the self-deprecating encounter of internalized racism because, as Weems
explains, “we all occupy a position relative to the stereotype.”
Bartel, as a girl, may not have denounced herself with the same violent
self-hatred that the woman in Weems’ work suffers – Bartel
in fact identified herself closely with the pictures of white brides
she collected in her scrapbook – but her awareness of constant
and repeated warnings to make herself look and behave like Snow White
imply that it is impossible that she will ever achieve her fantasy.
Bartel’s appropriated imagery demonstrates that when women are
allowed time for creative expression, they are encouraged to work within
carefully prescribed parameters. Each stitch of the embroidery represents
an effort to acquire the correct womanly skills. The proliferation of
images suggests the pressure to conform to conventional, whitened images
of feminine beauty.
Conservative politicians –
black, white, Asia-American and Latino – have recently proclaimed
the United States “colorblind,” implying that the nation
has resolved the crisis of race. In opinion polls, however, Americans
are less certain. Many white Americans proclaim that racism is not a
problem while respondents who do not consider themselves white profess
to feel racism’s effects on a regular basis.
To expose the fissure of race that disfigures America, some artists
have taken to provoking viewers with what Adrian Piper calls “the
liberal dilemma”: the guilt felt by any American who detests racism,
but will not acknowledge the likelihood that his or her ancestry might
not be purely European. The need to declare oneself white becomes a
moral issue rather than one of genetics or parentage. Other artists
have made work that locates this debate in the world of politics. In
1988, for example, David Hammons painted a billboard-sized portrait
of Jesse Jackson with blonde hair and blue eyes who asked, “How
ya like me now?” in order to provoke Democrats – white and
black – who might have supported Jackson’s campaign for
the presidency had he been white. More recently, Glen Ligon’s
paintings based on children’s coloring books from the Black Power
Movement – including white-face portraits of Malcolm X –
ask whether Americans, regardless of race, must see our heroes and political
leaders as white.
According to Bitter Nigger, Inc. – a corporation of artist Tana
Hargest’s imagination – race is an addiction; with the help
of pharmaceuticals, we can become racists in recovery. BNI sells quick-fix
solutions that resemble those marketed to help consumers lose weight,
sleep well and quit smoking. For example, BNI has created Tominex, the
“go along to get along” drug that will repress the feelings
of anger brought on by racism. Other consumers may prefer Privitrol,
a dermal patch that the company advertises as a “highly effective
form of privilege replacement therapy” for those with an “overreliance
upon the privilege that white skin provides.” Such treatments
promise to temporarily cure certain symptoms brought on by racism without
altering the mentality that is their root cause (the Privitrol patch
must be worn continuously to have a lasting effect, for example). Researchers
at BNI are not oblivious to the history of race relations in the United
States; they view it as a world of fantasy and entertainment. Much as
Kara Walker mines the American imagination for harrowing images of the
South as the fictionalized place where all racial violence occurs, Hargest
imagines researchers learning about racism and its effects from American
popular film, theater and music. This is most clear in the theme park
BNI is developing: New Negrotopia. Here, visitors may live out their
fantasies as either master or slave. The effect will be a sort of self-denigration,
in either case. Hargest’s project demonstrates the importance
of engaging racism at all levels because of the way it dehumanizes victim
and perpetrator, alike, to the point that neither can consciously acknowledge
its effects. As Hargest’s work suggests, the aestheticization
and commodification of history have become a means for repressing racism’s
causes and effects. When we seek a product such as Privitrol in order
to curb our appetite for power, we imply that privilege is our right
– our birthright – and that to indulge in moderation causes
no harm. Hargest employs a wicked sense of humor to make us question
ourselves: can we imagine a world “after whiteness,” and
if we can, is it a place where whiteness simply passes for the norm
– where we pretend not to notice it – or does it look like
some place else? Are we addicted to race and, if so, are we capable
of ever making a full recovery?
P. Bowles teaches art history at Indiana University. This essay originally
appeared in the catalog for an earlier version of the show at the Ispace
Gallery, Chicago, in October 2003.
o t e s
Button to return to text.]
Piper, “The Indexical Present: A Conversation with Adrian Piper,”
interviewed by Elizabeth Hayt-Atkins, Arts Magazine 65, no.
7 (March 1991): 51.
Ann Gibson, “Avant-Garde,” ed. Robert S. Nelson and Richard
Schiff, Critical Terms for Art History, 2nd ed. (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2003): 202-216.
Luis Camnitzer, “Wonder Bread and Spanglish Art,” ed.
Gerardo Mosquera, Beyond the Fantastic: Contemporary Art Criticism
from Latin America (London: The Institute of International Visual
Arts, 1996): 154-164.
bell hooks, “Carrie Mae Weems: Diasporic Landscapes of Longing,”
ed. Catherine De Zegher, Inside the Visible: An Elliptical Traverse
of 20th Century Art, in, of, and from the Feminine (Boston: The
Institute of Contemporary Art, 1996): 173-174.
On the ways in which this idea has been expressed in American literature,
see Mike Davis, “The Literary Destruction of Los Angeles,”
Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Ecology of Disaster
(New York: Metropolitan Books, 1998): 273-355.
Ann Eden Gibson, Abstract Expressionism: Other Politics (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1997): xxxii, 10, 35-36, 43, 100, 119,
220 n. 33. A similar argument has been made by Anne Wagner. See Anne
Wagner, “Krasner’s Fictions,” Three Artists,
Three Women: Modernism and the Art of Hesse, Krasner, and O’Keeffe,
Ahmanson-Murphy Fine Arts Imprint (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1996): 105-190, 307-315. See also Adrian Piper,
“The Logic of Modernism: How Greenberg Stole the Americans Away
from a Tradition of Euroethnic Social Content,” Flash Art
168 (January-February 1993): 56-58, 118, 136.
Howardena Pindell, “On Making a Video: Free, White and 21,”
The Heart of the Question: The Writings and Paintings of Howardena
Pindell (New York: Midmarch Arts Press, 1997): 65-69.
Suk Ja Kang Engles, “After Whiteness: Asian American Women and
the American Visual Arts Sphere,” unpublished statement, 2003.
Courtesy of the artist.
Kang Engles, “After Whiteness.”
Kang Engles, “After Whiteness.”
Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, trans. Charles Lam
Markmann (New York: Grove Weidenfeld, 1967): 111-112.
Fried, “Art and Objecthood,” ed. Gregory Battcock, Minimal
Art: A Critical Anthology (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1968): 116-147.
Kojo Griffin, Artist’s Statement, 2003. Courtesy of Mitchell
Innes-Nash, New York.
Laurie Hogin, “Speakeasy,” New Art Examiner 21, no. 8
(April 1994): 11.
Hélèn Cixous, “Castration or Decapitation?”
trans. Annette Kuhn, ed. Russell Ferguson, Martha Gever, Trinh T.
Minh-ha, and Cornel West, Out There: Marginalization and Contemporary
Cultures (New York: New Museum of Contemporary Art, 1990): 345-356.
Katherine Bartel, Artist’s Statement, 2003. Courtesy of the
Bartel, Artist’s Statement.
Bartel, Artist’s Statement.
Carrie Mae Weems, interviewed by Susan Canning, ed. Glenn Harper,
Interviews and Provocations: Conversations on Art, Culture, and
Resistance, ed. Henry A. Giroux; Interruptions: Border Testimony(ies)
and Critical Discourse/s (Albany: State University of New York
Press, 1998): 60.
Joe R. Feagin, “Contemporary Racial Attitudes and Images: White
Americans,” Racist America: Roots, Current Realities, and
Future Reparations (New York: Routledge, 2000): 105-135.