Two museum bookends Godzilla: Asian American Arts Network, a 2021 Howie Chen-edited archival anthology about the eponymous and influential activist network in New York City. The first museum is a fantasy, a vision of an institution based on equity and representation.
At a Godzilla formation meeting at Margo Machida’s Brooklyn studio on July 26, 1990, artists Ken Chu and Bing Lee and art historian Machida, according to the anthology’s minutes, “discussed ideas for forming an Asian American art organization. Asian American visual artists it would begin to respond to the emerging needs of our contemporaries.” Chuk and Lee outlined their vision for an Asian-American art museum, “a place we could call our own, as other ethnic minorities have formed their own institutions. [Machida] He thought it was a good idea, but long-term it required a full-time effort… He questioned whether as an artist, anyone would be willing to give up their career to achieve such a goal, given the effort required to create an organization. “.
At the opposite end of the book is an actual brick-and-mortar museum about a slice of Asian-American life, operating amid the realities of New York City in 2021. In a reprinted statement originally published. Hyperallergic In 2021, the management of the Chinese Museum of America pulled out of a planned Godzilla retrospective after the museum was accused of profiting from mass incarceration.
Machida’s thoughts from 1990 still hold true today: building institutions takes time and attention, and we should expect tension, dissent, negotiation, and renegotiation.
reading Godzilla It’s like looking at a snapshot of Asian-American life in the 1990s, a decade that saw a sharp rise in immigration from Asia and, as a result, questions about representation and access in the art world. The Godzilla Network was created as an important forum for engaging in these discussions through community meetings, exhibitions, and the group’s newsletter. As I wrote in a post in February, this monumental anthology chronicles the group’s history year by year, with art, photography, typewritten letters, meeting minutes, exhibition minutes, and other archival materials that bring this dynamic period to life.
As such, the book gives us insight into the group’s discussions and debates, which continue to resonate strongly in the current climate of police harassment and anti-Asian violence. In 1991, for example, Chinese artist Lin Lin was verbally and physically harassed by a young man while painting in Times Square. That person then shot and killed him. In the Winter 1991 issue of Godzilla, author Karen Chinn contextualized the shooting amid the harassment that sidewalk artists often faced in the city from various sources. Chinn interviewed Mini Liu, co-chair of the Asian Commission on Anti-Violence, who said many of Lin Lin’s compatriots “feel sorry for her”. [his] death was directly linked to artists being forced to work in remote and safe places to avoid police harassment and attacks.’
The book was published in 2021, but a recent exhibition at the Eric Firestone Gallery, Godzilla: Echoes of the 1990s Asian American Arts Network (commissioner Hyperallergic collaborator Jennifer Samet), has brought it back into the limelight. The two-gallery exhibition brought together some 70 works, including some of the major exhibitions organized by Godzilla, some on the AIDS crisis, Asian-American identity and Orientalism.
If there was one thing missing from the Godzilla anthology, it was a deeper look at the actual artwork the network presents. As the anthology is already over 500 pages long, this would probably require a second volume, so I was delighted to have the gallery exhibition to bring back some of the work. One of the most notable visuals was Ik-Joong Kang’s “Happy World” (1998), a decaying golden Buddha against a background of tchotchkes and small paintings. A corkscrew, a toy dinosaur, a commemorative spoon bearing the image of the Statue of Liberty, and a commemorative license plate with the phrase “China Town” in English and Mandarin are just a few of the many objects that capture the spirit of a curio store. If the Buddha statue feels like a sacred response to the profane objects behind it, it’s worth remembering that these statues can also be found in curiosities.
The Eric Firestone Gallery exhibit’s wide selection brought to life the themes addressed in the Godzilla anthology, namely the wide range of experiences that Asian-American identity has had, from how we relate to the city around us, to our families, to our own mentality. health. But I also appreciated the quiet pieces, like Rumiko Tsuda’s circular painting “Mandala of New Yorkers” (2004), which depicts a series of figures crossing Union Square. And Nina Kuo’s drawing “Pigtail Family Boombox, Color Chart” (1999–2006) showed a figure seemingly drifting away from the family, but they are all still tied by their hair. Pacita Abad’s “Crying Woman” (1985), made of kouri shells, buttons and glass beads, among other things, felt like a blanket that I want to wrap myself in during difficult times and cry.
My colleague Elaine Velie’s overview earlier this year captures the spirit and range of the show and the book. As Godzilla co-creator Bing Lee told him, “I think [the network] it grew so quickly because we were hungry for understanding. We tried to share something common in our cultures, our religions and through the difference we tried understand the difference too. Through the network we could understand each other more.’
What struck me the most when I saw the exhibition in person was the variety of works on display. The Godzilla anthology adds context to that range, and Alice Yang’s “Why Asia?” in particular, in sharp prose, he expresses the tensions that create such a range:
As Asian American artists attempt to articulate their position within this society, they risk being reduced to a formulaic set of generalities. In trying to open a space for critical discussion within their community, they risk isolation and segregation. But if they do not do all this, they also lose the opportunity to articulate the distinctiveness of their experience and culture, and risk being invisible and unintelligible. Whatever they do, their attitude towards the mainstream remains deeply ambivalent.
If there’s one lesson from the anthology, as well as the show, it’s that perhaps Asian-American art is very complex, much like the many appearances of the monster Godzilla. The fictional lizard Godzilla is a metaphor for nuclear weapons, US military attacks, natural disasters, and many other aspects of the human condition in the 21st century. Godzilla is sometimes a hero, but he’s also been a villain, the subject of serious research and an entertaining subplot.
And in that sense, the Godzilla network has done its best to reflect and question many ways to live as an Asian-American person. The demographic has the largest wealth gap in the country. We live in a world where few Asian Americans compete for the highest seats of power, where caste discrimination persists, and where some 50 ethnicities have very different experiences.
All these aspects make up art, and the institutions created to promote and preserve that art, from indie collectives to endowed museums. The Godzilla anthology is an important historical record that shows us why and how the Godzilla network should have existed in the 1990s. And like any good archive, some 30 years later it indicates where the conversation should go.
Godzilla: Asian American Arts Network (2021), edited by Howie Chen, is published by Primary Information and is available online and in bookstores.
