Ansel Bi

Inside a certain warehouse Paintings filled the room Still before me Not to admire them To pack them Palletizing nailing crates labeling wrapping tape Then These heavy giants Landed in Manhattan twelve hours behind Taipei The year after the Lehman storm Waiting for the lights to rise in 2009 The curator was a son The artist was his father It was the curatorial work I remember most vividly From my father's work I learned to listen Not to applause But to the faint almost inaudible breath Of a piece being lifted from its crate And after the lights came up Someone would walk in And stand quietly in front of the work That silence Was more honest than any words Nearly twenty years have passed I have curated nearly sixty exhibitions Traveling across Asia Europe the Americas and Australia Served as a private museum advisor Curated solo and group shows for artists And offered consultation to collectors and institutions But I have never forgotten Never forgotten the sweaty memory of nailing crates and palletizing in the warehouse Now I bring that same listening that same delicate rhythm Into apps and stickers They are the silent resonance Between me and every user Like that light Softly falling on my father's work Then Someone stopped Quietly Looked for a long long time Perhaps That someone is you