There was a period about three years ago where I cried pretty often. I wasn't sad. In fact, I was my most happy. It was almost daily over podcasts, good stories, a full moon; my heart was open. I felt it all. Then I fell in love with Sam and hardly ever cried.

The history surrounding me was moving, a string of stories of restricted freedom and female agency told through clothes, household items, and artwork—including one painting attributed to the powerful Empress Dowager Cixi, who left a trace of her thumbprint in ink.

Reflections on diaspora, longing, and love through the lens of Do Ho Suh's The Perfect Home II.

I meant to communicate geographically and socially in real time the terror of lineal entanglement, in the fact of my body moving in relation to other bodies

It's a story that started without me, it started the day that they showed up in California in their suits and fitted blouses.

What to do, when museums seem to want our art but not our bodies?