An(other) Artist at the Table

by Kayla Cantu

I’m certain about two things: 1. I’m uncertain about what it fully means to be an artist. 2. Being an artist holds varying descriptions. I bring this up for a roundabout reason. While currently navigating this reality, I’ve come to terms that the label of “artist” is versatile. An artist wears many hats: maker, educator, writer, researcher, professional rambler, framer, crate building trainee (or professional), cool kid gone rogue, etc. While we may not personally identify with each job description, there’s a common thread that’s strung between us…We are adapters. We alter our trajectory to the changing world and glass community around us. More interestingly, artists possess the ability of influencing people to make way for creative interpretation and adapt to our art practices. I’ve been thinking about this idea since the emergence of the global pandemic. It’s common knowledge that the pandemic turned most people’s livelihoods upside down mentally and financially, mine included. Even though this event altered lives in various ways, I discovered the pandemic gifted me something unexpected. It gave me time to think about how I’ve changed personally, artistically, and where I fit within the glass community. Identifying as someone who’s mixed race and queer, amongst other things, I struggled to find a sense of belonging while working with a privileged material amongst a community that is traditionally noninclusive. Within this realization, I found myself thinking of young artists who identify through connected avenues and are flipping the script on the glass community through their creative interpretations.

The following emerging artists identify as BIPOC and or LGBTQ. Each individual discusses how they are carving a path for themselves in the glass community by com-bating feelings of imposter syndrome, traditional definitions of “success,” and speaking from personal experience.

Alexander Lozano: Being a gay, Hispanic man in the hot shop translated to having many internal thoughts of imposter syndrome. I often found myself thinking, “I don’t belong here. Will this guy be comfortable sharing a blowpipe? I guess I am not good enough to work with that artist.” These thoughts became overwhelming, and I eventually found comfort in the kiln shop. I enjoy creating work in a kiln shop, but while my kiln practice has allowed me to get accepted into international exhibitions, it has also created a lonely path. Many times, it felt like people in the glass community would close me out in moments of success. It seems that in moments of success, some people do not want to celebrate with you, but instead shut you out with an almost, “Forget you. You figure it out” mentality.

This experience stands out the most: I was super excited to be have one of my works in an exhibition across the globe, but I had no idea how to get it there. I reached out to local institutions, artists, and educators. However, all I was met with were dead ends. It took months to find the right information I needed to meet requirements asked by the museum and U.S. customs.

When I was able to get the work in an adequate crate, I discovered it would take thousands of dollars to get my work to the airport, then through customs, and then get it back from customs after the exhibition. It was a bitter-sweet moment where I realized I either had to donate the piece or allow it to be destroyed. I couldn’t afford to get it back. The moment I realized I could not afford to get my own artwork back almost broke me. Feelings of impostor syndrome arose once again and said, “You are not an artist. You can’t even afford the shipping for your own artwork.” In this moment I really had to dig deep and ground myself so I would not get discouraged.

It's tough. There is a tremendous amount of pressure to achieve “success.” In the past, I was under the false impression that money equates to success and to receive more money I needed to attain CV lines. I believed that the more lines you had on your CV meant the more “successful” you are.

I now understand that's entirely false. You can have all the lines in the world on your CV, but those lines may never allow you to actually feel successful. I’ve learned that success is defined by an individual, and it’s not about comparison between one artist and another.

Through my experiences, I’ve found that you should never let others deter you, you are successful as an artist, and you will continue to create more art. It’s about finding your own pace within your art practice, and that defining what success means to you will help you find ways to adapt. Until a few years ago, I did not identify as BIPOC or LGBTQ. I thought being human was more than enough as my identity. I thought these identifiers existed to label others to produce biases against them. In some moments, awful people do use those descriptors to put us down.

However, what I have found more often than not is that these descriptors bring us to together in order begin a dialogue of our experiences. Many times we find that we all share moments where we have been humiliated by people with prejudices or phobias such as: transphobia, homophobia, xenophobia, etc. I now know that these communities allow us to talk about shared experiences with each other so we can heal and grow. I mention this because as I worked through these two dueling identities, I was also looking for this magical moment that would affirm I was an artist within the glass community.

I have been researching artist such as Jean Michel Basquiat, Keith Haring and Faith Ringgold. I’ve found that I’m drawn to their work because they were trying to change the world through their medium. They were not creating artwork to create beautiful objects. They critiqued humanity and questioned, “What the heck is wrong with world?” by using their practice as a sign of protest in their own way. Activism through art, the true fuel to my artistic practice, has guided me and will continue to do so to stand up for those who continue to be marginalized, especially in this field. It’s about nudging others to adapt and make space for your practice, not the other way around.

Ceejay Renner-Thomas: Imposter syndrome is an interesting thing. Being in an underrepresented group is something that I’m used to. Recently though, I’ve started to realize the impact I could have and individuals who look like me can also have for future generations. From what I know, there are a small amount of black glass artists in the glass community in relation to the group as a whole. I think it’s special to be a part of that group and it sort of makes it more impactful when I or others become accomplished.

As an emerging artist, and even earlier in my career, I sometimes question my worth in my making. Especially in glass and woodworking, since I was and still am so new to these crafts. It would sometimes feel like I wasn’t good enough, didn’t have worthy ideas, or like I didn’t have a certain instinct that I saw some of my peers possess. I also don’t see many people like me, so it can be difficult to think that I fit in at times. However, as I have come into my own shoes as a maker, I’ve gained a confi-dence that I didn’t have previously. I have been able to stray away from the idea of imposter syndrome, because I know I am good enough even though the world may say otherwise.

When it comes to challenges that pop up in my journey, the only thing I can do is push through. There’s something special about being able to problem solve through challenges and within that, I am able to investigate, fail, and succeed. Challenges add to my experiences and push me to be a more refined version of myself. I must admit that I wouldn’t be able to work through the many challenges in my life without the community of people I have around me. It is invaluable to be able to get validation and affirmation from the people I hold close. I wouldn’t say that I am an accomplished artist just yet. I think there are a ton of things I want to do to get there so I can eventually have that conversation. As a maker, I’ve come to terms that I can only do what I can do, and if it looks different from what others are doing in the glass community, that’s okay. Similar to other people in the glass community, I like making what I want to: making glass sneakers, cups, glassware, odd flower holders, working with cane, etc. I am still learning about glass as an artistic medium, and it all still feels new to me. Although I’m still relatively young to this field, it’s important to remind myself that I am coming to this space from my own unique perspective.

Ying Chiun Lee, I am the Hole. Photography. 2021. 28" x 48" Photo Credit: Chenyue Yang

Ying Chiun Lee: The way I act in Taiwan and the way I act in the United States are very different. It’s funny and strange to think about. In Taiwan, I feel like I hide a lot of myself. The glass community there is very small, and I wouldn’t dare say I am bisexual. I fear I would be invalidated as an artist. In the United States though, I’m not afraid to say this. Although not a lot of people are understanding, it is more understanding than where I come from. Here, I am able to at least have a voice and not be completely punished or outcast for it. I now say it openly and don’t care as much if someone has a problem with it. I didn’t always feel this way though. For the longest time, I was nervous to let people know, especially in the hot shop. I was nervous about what people would think of me if they found out and wouldn’t want me to help them.

In my practice I consider sexual power. I use a lot of glass working techniques, but I’m interested in the hot shop and how this plays into my work. I don’t need to have a lot of muscle all of the time to make my work. I’m more excited about the subtle details and movements of glass that can be overlooked. I compare these moments to foreplay, and how these moments are more important than simply finishing a work and putting it to bed in the annealer for the night.

I remember the first time I took a 2 week intensive glass workshop in the U.S. It was strange watching everyone in the hot shop. I noticed that there weren’t a lot of women there. I was one of the only females. At first, I felt a little lost and thought I misunderstood something because of my cultural difference. I was confused and kept wondering why most of the men in the hot shop had taken their shirts off. I thought, “Won’t the heat from the glory hole burn their skin and make them hotter? There’s nothing to protect them!” A lot of people there were making really big work. People would make things so big and heavy that they were having a really hard time stretching their arms far enough to try to reach and attach a punty all the way at the bottom of their piece. I couldn’t help but think this environment reminded me of an animals mating ritual. It seemed like it was a competition of who was the biggest person, who could lift the most glass, and who could make the biggest thing. It was intimidating. I thought, “My little body can’t do this. I don’t think I want to anyway though.”

Looking back, I was making very different work in Taiwan compared to what I am now making here in the U.S. I was very excited to come here for graduate school and immerse myself in the culture here. After being here for a year, I still like it, but I realized I miss parts of my own culture and my home. Sometimes I think I am too different.

Whenever I apply to certain glass related things here or get accepted into exhibitions, I look back at the open calls. I pay attention if they include something like, “For female artists” or “Exhibition opportunity for artists who identify as LGBTQ.” I am excited to be a part of these opportunities and am grateful, but I sometimes wonder if I am being recognized because of my artwork or because of how I identify. I know these things are here to help highlight underrepresented artists like me and create a community, but it makes me question how and why I am successful in the glass field. I wonder if one day these descriptions will go away and I can be seen as a successful artist without feeling like I have to reveal this information.

After communicating with these artists, I can’t help but feel relieved. Through their thoughts, experiences, and willingness to be open, I no longer feel like I’m alone in the glass community. It’s a risky and vulnerable thing to reveal who you are to people you don’t know. It’s safe to say that while each artist comes from a different background and has their own story to tell, there’s a collective desire to create a safe space of understanding and acceptance for those who feel alone. I, amongst a plethora of artists, are longing and excited for the day when the glass community can let go of the “other” and instead acknowledge everyone as human.

Kayla Cantu is a fat, female, half-Mexican, bisexual artist and writer who utilizes glass, video, photography, and whatever else she feels like her work calls for. She currently resides in Rochester, New York while she pursues her artistic practice.