At the gallery of immigrant arts

High ceiling, small space and wooden walls.

It was already packed when I stepped in. The theme of this gallery was about immigrant arts. I wondered what would be the immigrant arts. Would it be a mixture influenced by immigrants, or be different arts presented in a foreign land?

After a turn around, I figured that it was about periphery. All those arts in periphery were classified as immigrant arts, as it seemed to me.

The owner of the gallery said hello. “Thank you for the invitation. I really like this place.” I showed my meaningless education. He explained how the gallery works. Sometimes they put art exhibition, and sometimes some seminars. It’s an open place for interaction.

“Why this time immigrant arts?” I asked. It was just a theme to put, he said back. Maybe Buenos Aires is receiving massive immigrants these days? I can see the new generation of Argentina is becoming different than that of anterior generation. More Bolivian, Venezuelan and Peruvian are emerging to the society, as with more Asian population. The identity of this country is no more European.

But the process of change confronts turbulence many times. The other day on the television news reported a title saying that there were two people died and one Bolivian. I stayed shocked, thinking how it slipped out as such on the national screen. Shouldn’t it be like three people died? Wasn’t that Bolivian a person?

Tell me a story in where I don’t have to die for being who I am.”  He stared at me. I stared at him back. That nameless Bolivian was already dead since the society didn’t consider her a person from the beginning. All these people in periphery, immigrants or sexual minorities for example, share the same destiny, then?

He stepped off to attend other visitors to the gallery. The small space was getting packed more and more. The alcoholic liquid poured in and filled up the space, as more people slipped in.

I became drunk without consuming a drop.

All pieces on the wall fell off from the wall. Those pieces laid down on the floor and people stepped on those to walk over. They stood upon those. The corpses were filled up, those of Indian, Chilean, Arabic and Gay. This gallery was the very story in where someone have to die for being who she is. We stepped on her to sophisticate our being. The art, as they named it.

“I’m leaving now.” I waved to the gallery owner. I thanked him again for the invitation, as we kissed goodbye on the cheek.

I murmured something. I wanted to invite him for a coffee next week, but I was afraid that I was already dead in the yet started story.

Looking back the gallery from the street, I saw yellow liquid sneaking out from the gallery main entrance. There just were too many people. There were too many corpses. Yet there was none.

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