Don Lee - The Collective

Our own photograph had Joshua and me on opposite sides of the couch, squared around so we morosely faced Jessica, who was between us in her zippered corset top and eyebrow ring as she leered forward, sticking out her tongue with its silver stud. An Asian sandwich in which Jessica was the dominatrix meat. Meredith described her as “a shock artist whose most recent exhibit has her focusing her hooded eye on two Asiatic erections, standing head to head, the casts for which were made, expediently or perhaps extra-collectively, from the in-the-flesh molds of her two houseboys’ aroused penises. Whether they measure up or not is in the hands of the beholder.”

“That cunt,” Jessica said.

“It had to be Dekker who told her,” I said.

“The article could have at least been well written,” Joshua said. “Her prose is abominable.”

On the same day, the Boston Globe published a review of the exhibit, penned by the chief art critic, Kate Roper. Not a full review, but the last item in an omnibus. It read in its entirety: “Jessica Tsai’s new show in Gallery 57, Dis/Orienting Proportions , has been stirring up a tempest in Cambridge, namely because her triumvirate of mannequins — modeled after famous Asian movie stars — flaunt rather aggressive anatomical appendages. The artist’s intentions, as explicated in her statement, are earnestly political and identity-based, yet betray a bit of jejune thinking about the work’s impact. Instead of contending with codes of power, race, and typecasting, the exhibit exposes conspicuous shortcomings, failing to attain the density of expression, or at least wit, that is required for any art medium to succeed.”

“It’s not that bad,” I told Jessica.

“My career’s over,” she said.

The following morning, Barboza went on a Boston talk radio show and yukked it up with the hosts. “The human body’s a wonderful thing, no doubt about it, nothing wrong with it at all,” he said, “but displaying their own genitalia like that is just perverted, not to mention self-indulgent and — what did you call it? — yeah, self-aggrandizing. I don’t know what this so-called artist and her friends do in that house in Harvard Square, and I don’t really want to know. Maybe it’s a commune or a cult, maybe it’s a club for Asian swingers and they have orgies in there, who knows. That’s their prerogative, I guess. But that doesn’t give this woman any right to foist her sordid lifestyle unto the public, shoving these obscene little egg rolls and bonsai bushes in our faces.”

“That does it,” Joshua said. “He’s a racist! It was a fucking hate crime! And now he’s insulting our manhood!”

“There’s nothing ambiguous about this,” Jessica told me.

For the first time, the controversy no longer felt abstract to me. It was personal. “We have to get this fucker,” I said.

I went to see Grace Kwok at her office, which was on the third floor of 929 Mass Ave, a concrete high-rise across from the Plough & Stars. She shared a suite with half a dozen other attorneys, all sole practitioners who split the expenses for the receptionist, conference room, copier, and kitchenette.

Grace didn’t think we had enough evidence to file a civil rights case — certainly not a hate crime complaint. “It’d be difficult to prove he broke off the penises because of an inherent bias against Asians,” she said.

“What about a First Amendment case?” I asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s not my area of expertise. I’m just an immigration attorney.” She freelanced for several high-tech and biotech companies, obtaining H-1B visas for foreign engineers and scientists, as well as F-1 student visas.

“This green-card marriage between Noklek and Joshua,” I said, “you really think they could get away with it?”

“It’s not inconceivable. It’s been known to happen,” Grace said. “But not if she’s involved in something illegal. The INS tends to frown upon applicants engaged in criminal activity. What the reporter was insinuating about the massages, is it true?”

“She gives massages. I don’t know what else she provides. She’s a sweet girl. I doubt she’d let herself be talked into doing anything more than wearing sexy outfits.”

“Well, it’s not my business, I suppose,” Grace said.

“You’re not going to represent them?”

“Joshua asked for my professional opinion. I met with him and Noklek and gave it to him, and I billed him for it. That’s it, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Look, Barboza can’t get away with this,” I said. “We have to make him accountable somehow. His comments — instead of condemning him, people think it’s funny. Do you know someone who might be able to help us?”

“Not really.”

“Any ideas at all?”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t seem too upset about this,” I said.

“It’s all kind of embarrassing, don’t you think? The sculptures?” Grace asked. “And then all of the proselytizing — politicizing everything. Does it have anything to do with art?”

“You’ve fallen into Esther Xing’s camp.”

“I don’t know. Why do there have to be camps at all?” Grace told me. “What I do know is that Joshua is a snob, and sometimes you and Jessica aren’t much better. I don’t blame Rick and Ali for not coming back. I doubt I’ll be coming back myself. You’re all very ambitious, but it seems you’ll exploit pretty much anything or anyone, including the 3AC, to get ahead. It’s a shame, because I thought we had something great there, something worthwhile, before the three of you ruined it.”

Joshua solicited the ACLU, the NAACP, the Anti-Defamation League, the Southern Poverty Law Center, and various Asian American advocacy groups. All of them initially seemed interested in the case, but then, without explanation, dropped out. Finally he found an organization that was eager to become involved: the Cambridge Coalition for Freedom of Expression. Its core mission was to assist artists and organizations facing attacks on their artistic freedom. I had never heard of them.

The CCFE representative who came to our house, Stan Margolies, was around fifty, heavyset, with salt-and-pepper hair tied in a ponytail. He wore a hunter-green corduroy sports jacket and sneakers, and he had the right leg of his jeans rolled up, exposing a hairy calf and a vivid red sock. He had ridden his bike over, and he smelled rank. He was, supposedly, both a lawyer and a painter. “I’ve been in this house before,” he told Joshua. “Your parents were my professors, years ago. They were terrific teachers and people. I loved them.”

In the dining room over a cup of chai, Margolies said, “There’s no doubt this is a First Amendment issue. The city of Cambridge is under no obligation to support the arts, but having chosen to do so, they can’t retroactively impose content or viewing restrictions on exhibits. They are, in fact, prohibited from so doing by the Constitution. The First Amendment also precludes public officials from acting as freelance art vigilantes. Having said that, however, I’m not confident we could pull off a First Amendment case against Barboza and the City Council.”

“Why not?” Jessica asked.

“It might take years to litigate, and it’d entail an enormous amount of resources and money, and still we might not win, especially in the current climate.”

“But this is Cambridge ,” Joshua said. “I can’t believe this is happening in fucking Cambridge.”

“There are powerful constituencies at work, well-funded ones on the extreme right, and they’re driven by a general hysterical fear of the unknown, which of course is, at its root, about intolerance.”