Today, I Cried at The Whitney
Today, I cried at The Whitney. I went there not with that intention, of course, but to soothe my low spirits from last night’s intense bawling. Yet, I found myself tearful upon seeing an animation of a woman skateboarding in heels, followed by her frolicking. From then on, I knew my time there might be a cathartic experience, so I readied a tissue in hand. Thankfully, that tissue did not make its way to my face until the doors of the elevator opened up to the eighth floor. At first, instinctively, my brows furrowed, and I turned the corner, believing there might be something else, some other art I can analyze, trying to avoid what appeared right in front of my face. Well, no other art enhanced the walls or stood tall on the wood of the floor. So, I was forced to enter the main room from the side, controlling my attention towards the blurb that explained the spectacle I was about to see. I read it twice, partly so that I can continue to avert my attention from something I knew would be powerfully painful to view, and partly so that I can enter the mind of the artist with understanding as to why they would display such tragedies. Reluctantly, I turned around and saw over 50 toy dolls with wings, all with different outfits and expressions and shapes and representations, and all with a noose tied around their neck, hanging from the ceiling. Tears flew uncontrollably from my eyes, snot uncontrollably from my nose. My tissue clocked in again for duty. I weaved my way slowly between each doll, stopping to look at their faces, attire, and rope. I recognized that most of them were dolls I found quite nice, dolls that I myself would purchase if I had seen them in a store that same day. Then, my attention turned to the big, black man in the corner of the room, who I realized had to stand there looking at this display all day…for work. His eyes were covered, and so was his mouth. He stood still, hands tucked in his pants pockets, leaning slightly against the groove of the wall. He didn’t move an inch. I continued. Just then, my phone rang, and I couldn’t be any more relieved and annoyed at this disruption, because it gave me an adequate distraction, and especially because it was a therapist office calling to confirm my Monday appointment and asking all sorts of questions about myself and diagnosis. I took a seat to respond, but this did not settle my tears. When finished, I got back up, walked back through the display (this time with a slightly quickened pace), and allowed myself the permission to cry freely. The man in the corner, immobile. I decided to cut this time short, pushed the button, and waited for the elevator, my back turned towards the haunting display, with a frailty to turn back. The black working lady at her post beside the elevator doors was tearing as well. In the elevator, as I tried to gather myself, I felt the eyes of a white woman who saw the exhibition I was coming from, who would not stop staring at me until I looked up so she could mouth the words, "are you okay?" I said yes, but the answer was no. And it still is.
Everything wants to kill you and you should be afraid by Precious Okoyomon is the name of the display, and it is the only display on the 8th floor. I wish I took more pictures of these dolls, up close, so you can see their countenance and garments and wings; they all had wings.
black man in groove
