Yesterday, after I drove down to the De Young museum in San Francisco to see Rose B. Simpson give a talk and inaugurate the exhibit of her two Lowrider cars, “Maria” and “Bosque.”
Just before going there, I’d spent hours receiving art for the next exhibit at Petaluma Arts Center, “Xicano Community Narratives.” I’m co-curating that show along with Anabell Nuñez, Juan Roman, and Vicky Kumpfer. So, I was already filled up with beautiful images that express stories of Chicano and Indigenous culture.
Rose’s talk deepened that understanding. She opened broader questions that were not meant to be answered, only contemplated. She tries to dwell in the answer, “I don’t know.”
She said, “Every time I think I know, I hit a wall.”
Instead, she encourages us to listen when we look at a work of art. It's not about shapes and things, it’s about feelings.
Me with Rose B. Simpson after her talk, in front of Maria and Bosque.
She asked, “What are the energies that feed me?”
The energy that you hold as you work on it becomes the medicine that it holds.
“How can I be of service?”
She talked about something she called “relational aesthetics.” It speaks to relationships and community, but also to the interaction between artist and the object being created.
She creates vessels with her art. She asked, “What happens when we are that vessel?”
"River Girls," 2019. Photo by Kate Russell
Part of her work is performance-based, including costumes, cars, and political activism. She calls it "Transformance."
She asked, “What does power look like? What does empowerment feel like? How do we hold that space?”
Feminine power includes nurturing, beauty, fierce strength. Like all her work, “Maria” is of a place, not from a place.
“If I only preach to the choir, nothing changes.”
Rose B. Simpson, "The Secret of Flight," 2015
And one of my favorite aspects of her work is how she sees it as a source of personal and communal healing. Healing the little kid inside, healing the community through aesthetic. She explained Lowriding in a way I’d never heard before. To her, it’s an expression and reflection of the surrounding environment, gathering it into aesthetic to beautify. The process of painting and driving the cars is an act of healing.
She said, “Aesthetics is that which feeds us.” It’s also our connection to mystery. There is an energy in the art that honors, that is honored.
“We’re gonna teach. We’re gonna serve. We have an abundance of everything. And it’s even fun.”
After Rose finished speaking, there was time for only two questions—and I shot my hand up. I asked her to elaborate on the little kid that appears in many of her sculptures—which she has described as her inner child, reaching and seeking. She said that someone once told her, “Our thumbs are God.” They allow us to create. The rest of her answer was not about the art, but about how she makes everything with the joy of a child.
The artist described it this way: "This sculpture represents the passing of the way of life among western Arctic Inuvialuit during the latter part of the 1890s. With the arrival of commercial whaling and exploration in the Beaufort Sea, the traditional way of life was forever changed. Along with material changes to the culture, the Inuvialuit spiritual beliefs were also affected. This boat represents the passage of the old beliefs. The oarsmen are people, animals, birds, and spirits. Sedna (spirit of the sea) and her sea mammals carry the boat into the setting sun. The spirals hovering above the boat represent the northern lights, showing the way to their ancestors."
Healing through art isn't always about fixing and improving things. Sometimes, it's about honoring great sorrow.
"Passage of Spirits" by Abraham Anghik Ruben, late 20th century. Steatite, caribou antler, and cotton fiber.
