Curating the Gaze
the Politics of Rejection
Miriam’s long blonde hair fell in waves that framed her face, brushing against the open collar of her silk blouse. She walked toward Timothy with the deliberate, casual grace she reserved for artists, the kind that made them feel seen, even when she hadn’t decided what to do with them. He stood by the pamphlet rack, his portfolio held tightly under one arm, his posture straight but his eyes wary, as though he was already bracing for disappointment.
“You’ve got something clean and striking,” she said, her voice warm but with a practiced edge, like someone reciting lines from memory. “The gallery’s been itching for work that feels more minimalist—our collectors love that modern, bold aesthetic. Plus, we’re always looking for new, diverse voices to highlight.”
She smiled just enough to make the words seem sincere, though even as she spoke, she imagined how much more easily Mia Lee’s street photos would slot into those same platitudes.
“I really think your work could resonate here,” she added, the phrase hanging in the air like it had been polished for occasions just like this.
Timothy handed her the portfolio, his grip hesitant but firm, and she opened it, flipping through each image with careful, performative slowness. His work was stark: heavy lines, harsh contrasts, each piece almost aggressive in its clarity.
“This is promising,” she said, her fingers resting on one page a beat too long, letting the tension between them stretch. She already knew she’d pitch Mia Lee’s work instead—her iPhone street photos of L.A. were raw but digestible, their messy compositions softened by the idea of the “Asian American Female Gaze” that her cis-white male institutional patrons loved to consume. Timothy didn’t need to know that yet.
At the meeting, Herr Stein barely looked at Timothy’s work, his gaze sliding instead to Mia’s photos pinned on the wall—a shot of dark men waiting for work at Home Depot, Asian women eating hot dogs, sweating on the sidewalk, and old white women swollen from botox getting to their SUVs. The board murmured their approval, and Miriam let them take the lead, her silence measured.
Later, when she found Timothy in the storeroom, flipping through leftover catalogs, she leaned against the doorframe, watching him without speaking at first.
“Politics,” she finally said, her voice low and almost conspiratorial. “These old white men—safe choices are their thing. But your work... it’s different. I’ll keep pushing for it.”
Timothy looked at her, his expression flat but his jaw tight, and said, “You like it because it’s yours to reject.”
Her chest tightened, but she smiled faintly, refusing to let his words touch her. She told herself he didn’t mean it, though something in his gaze made her wonder if he knew her better than she’d realized.
The group show’s opening was crowded, a mix of white boomer collectors and the occasional POC influencer mingling outside, some rolling Pueblos as they chatted. Inside, the gallery buzzed with soft conversation as guests gathered before Mia’s photos. Her series was displayed with oversized, polished magnets, echoing the themes of her work: brutally intimate snapshots of ethnic faces framed by California’s harsh sunlight, their digital grain, and haphazard crops screamed exotic yet urban.
The pieces were mediocre at best, but the guests devoured them anyway, dissecting the “Asian female perspective” with the kind of reverence that made it seem as if the concept alone gave the images meaning. Miriam moved through the crowd with practiced ease, her laughter soft and effortless, her smile lingering just long enough to make each guest feel seen. Her silk dress clung to her frame, the sharp neckline accentuating the kind of effortless youth and vitality only a white woman in control could radiate. Glances followed her as she leaned in to listen, her fingers brushing an arm here, a shoulder there, exuding energy more captivating than anything hanging on the walls.
Timothy entered late, his presence quiet but unmistakable as he moved between the displays, never stopping too long at any one piece. When he finally approached her, she felt a strange rush—anticipation mixed with dread—and braced herself as he said, “Trashy. Derivative. But it fits what they want.”
His words weren’t loud, but they landed like a slap, his gaze pinning her in place. “You didn’t need me. You just wanted to see how far I’d go.”
Miriam wanted to deny it, but the truth clung to her throat, and all she managed was a weak smile. “It’s complicated, Timothy,” she said finally, her voice softer than she intended. “The board... they have expectations. This isn’t about me.” He didn’t answer, just let his eyes linger on hers a moment longer before walking away, leaving her feeling both exposed and perturbed.
Months later, Miriam stood in front of her bathroom mirror, her newly shaved head glinting under the fluorescent lights. She ran her fingers over the smooth skin, the absence of her long hair making her feel lighter but no less hollow. Her turtleneck flattened her curves, its sharp lines a deliberate erasure of the body she had once used to command attention, but the woman staring back at her still felt like an echo of the person she wanted to escape.
She thought of Timothy’s words, of the way he had stared at her, unflinching as if peeling back the layers she’d built around herself. She thought of Mia’s photographs still hanging in the gallery, praised not for their technical merit but for the cultural novelty they offered, their mediocrity obscured by the guests’ eagerness to intellectualize her identity. Miriam hated how easily she’d sold it all—the concept, the narrative, herself. When she walked past the gallery that evening, she saw her reflection in the glass, faint and fractured among the lights, and wondered if this was what she’d become: a curator of images and excuses, always framing what was easier to sell.