One November evening I headed to the gallery after work. Curators, interns, and board members were excitedly wrapping up the last touches for the Día de Muertos exhibit—final tags and signs, printing out brochures, etc. Our friends at Eastside Food Co-op had generously donated snacks for staff and guests to enjoy, and we munched as we waited for people to arrive. I packed up some boxes in preparation for the Minneapolis Indie Xpo, paid rent, then sat down with a plate of chili to chat with a few board members.
As I walked through the gallery to the storage room, I snapped a picture of the ofrenda. An ofrenda is a collection of objects placed on a ritual altar during the annual celebration. With the flowers and the artwork, everything looked so beautiful. And then I began to pause and ask myself a few questions. Should I have taken that picture of the ofrenda? Was that a little tacky? Our space isn’t very big, but should the ofrenda be quite so close to the bathroom? And little by little I began to be absorbed into what was going on around me, realizing that I had forgotten momentarily why we were there. I mean—I knew why on paper, obviously . . . but why we were there.
I walked through the ofrenda, lingering towards the back. The curators had included decorations and memorials from years before, along with beautiful new elements and a very moving display of works from Sheridan Global Arts School. I saw a little plastic picture frame, in which I had tucked a picture of my nephew. I was touched that the curators set that out, even though they might not have known it was mine. As I looked around, I felt as though something was missing. I went back to the storage-room closet, rummaged through a box of items from the past few years, and fished out two pieces of wood, on which I had painted two picture memorials years ago. A tiny bike at the end of a very long and steep hill, painted for my friend Eric. A view of the lake, painted for, well . . . the woman who would have now been my mother-in-law. And all at once I felt very overwhelmed. Not in a bad way, not in a weepy way . . . just overwhelmed by the beauty and importance of it all.
I slipped out quietly and went home. I hugged our dogs, and sat in thought for a little while. I suppose not surprisingly, tonight I didn’t care that the dogs tore up the recycling and ate the last remaining pillow from the couch.
It was around that time I started to have the pleasure of viewing exhibitions at Altered Esthetics purely as a participant, neither as a curator nor as a volunteer. It was a tremendous honor to be able to experience these exhibitions as a viewer— art that speaks to people, art that is important to people. Art that resonates and connects with a community. It’s what art should be. It’s what good art is. As a participant in the Día de Muertos exhibition, I was reminded why we do what we do.
This post is adapted from It’s Never Going To Work: A Tale of Art and Nonprofits in the Minneapolis Community. The book includes illustrations by Athena Currier. ©2019 Jamie Schumacher.
It’s Never Going To Work is a light-hearted, illustrated book that offers real-life insights on founding a community space and nonprofit. It provides tools, tips, resources, and camaraderie to community organizers and anybody attempting something new.