Ansel Bi

Taiwan Inside a warehouse My father's work Before me Not to admire it To pack it Palletizing nailing crates taping labels wrapping tape Then Those crates flew halfway across the world Until they arrived In New York Manhattan That year was 2009 Inside the gallery unpacking wiping Placing each piece gently on the wall Waiting for the lights to come up That was my first exhibition as a curator The curator was a son The artist was his father 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 that warehouse Never forgotten the sound of hammering nails into crates 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