Not There is pleased to present On the Shoulders Of, an exhibition of context-specific sculpture by Los Angeles-based artist Alan Chin. While researching the history of Chinatown, alongside his family’s deep ties to the development of the American West, Chin discovered that the gallery’s location at 437 Gin Ling Way was once the location of the Chinaware and Gift Shop (immortalized in our still extant neon sign) which was serendipitously owned by his Uncle Steve’s Aunt and Uncle, Peter and Lillie Soohoo. This coincidence ignited a new body of work for Chin, which explores his Chinese American lineage while confronting contemporary issues of identity, immigration, and social unrest. As a result, it seemed fitting that the text for On the Shoulders Of should be enlisted as a work of its own in the exhibition.

What follows is an essay by Alan Chin.

My ancestors immigrated from Taishan, China (located in the Guangdong Province in southern China) to America as scholars and merchants during the Gold Rush in the 1850s and contributed to the west-to-east construction of the Transcontinental Railroad. While delving into my heritage, I uncovered a multifaceted narrative about being American, which encompasses early colonization within China involving indigenous peoples and tribes. The relationship between Europe and America reveals a dark, blood-stained history, marked by the inextricable link between xenophobia and anti-blackness. This connection dates to the early colonial occupation of sacred indigenous lands, genocide of indigenous people, the transatlantic slave trade of African people, and an addiction to free and cheap labor. The impact of England’s mass introduction of opium from China in the 18th century, and the subsequent outlawed opium trade reverberated in my family’s history, with my grandfather being sold as a slave at the age of 12.

The complexities of intercontinental growth politics, and the history of early Asian American immigration have been largely omitted from the American educational system’s historical narrative. The coverage often only extends to brief mentions of events like the arrival of Chinese immigrants during the Gold Rush in the 1850s, and their instrumental role in building the Transcontinental Railroad. Regrettably, these omissions contribute to many hate crimes targeting Asian Americans, both historically and currently, and go largely unreported and overlooked.

The question of how one gains recognition as American arises as I recount stories of my grandparents. My grandfather John, or Yeh-Yeh on my father’s side, was born in Taishan, China. He was sold as a slave to his uncle in San Francisco, in order to feed his warlord fathers opium addiction. His journey to freedom led him to join the U.S. Army as a private. Drafted to fight in WWII, he encountered extreme anti-Asian hate, primarily targeted at Japanese Americans after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Barely proficient in English, he learned the language in the army. Initially assigned as a cook, he later became four-star General Walton Harris Walker’s personal bodyguard in General Patton’s Army, serving on four frontlines, and liberating concentration camps, in the XX Corps 3rd Armored Division, including D-Day in Normandy, the Battle of the Bulge, and earning a bronze star for saving his entire battalion and the general’s life on numerous occasions. Ironically, this act would have warranted a gold or silver star if he were a white “war hero.” It wasn’t till Dec. 9, 2020, that he was honored with a congressional gold medal of honor for his role in WWII, years after his death. Despite risking his life for his country and fighting for freedom, upon his return to the States, he was perceived as an outsider, un-American, and someone who didn’t belong, facing deep prejudice despite feeling American.

My grandmother Daisy, respectfully known as Paw Paw on my mother’s side, embarked on a journey to America from Hong Kong aboard the SS President Cleveland. Her initial impressions of the country were shaped by witnessing a child enjoying a turkey drumstick, a sight that left her marveling at what appeared to be the largest chicken drumstick she had ever seen, seeding early perceptions of American abundance. Upon her arrival in the United States, she faced detention at the Angel Island Immigration Station until she was deemed fit to enter San Francisco. Subsequently, she confronted the challenges of living within the unseen confines of Chinatown during the Depression era, discreetly working in a sweatshop to save pennies for her family. Over time, she transcended these humble beginnings, started a family, evolved into a business and property owner, and became a couture fashion and jewelry designer, playing a pivotal role in founding the iconic Empress of China Restaurant. This establishment emerged as a cultural hub, hosting notable figures such as international heads of states, U.S. Presidents, and cultural icons like Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Shirley Temple, Sidney Poitier, Sammy Davis Jr., Maya Angelou, and many others during its heyday. Despite her ascent to affluence and significant contributions to San Francisco’s cultural landscape, my grandmother encountered persistent prejudice. When attempting to purchase a house within her means, a realtor callously informed her that she couldn’t acquire anything “on this side of the tracks,” alluding to the racially divided landscape. The once proud feat of the railroad became a divisive symbol, highlighting the challenges faced by individuals who, despite their successes, grapple with the enduring racial disparities ingrained in society.

This exhibition was sparked, in part, by a disheartening experience with an American art center that rescinded an invitation for an exhibition, citing that they had already shown the work of another “Asian couple.” The cancellation raised questions about why I was originally asked to show in the first place. Was I their “token” Asian artist?It inspired me to dive deeper into the climate of tolerance and the ongoing work needed to address deep-rooted prejudices toward Asians and Asian Americans locally, nationally, and internationally. The exhibition of my work in Chinatown resonates with echoes of exclusion and tokenism, as Chinatowns emerged across American cities through “Redlining,” segregating communities of color into designated areas where they could mainly reside as guests and tourist attractions.

On the Shoulders Of delves into historical events and my personal practice, focusing on the history of ceramics, sculpture, the relationships we form with objects, and the broader complexities of Asian American identity in understanding the American ethos. Through my research, it became evident that anti-Asian hate and exclusionary sentiments did not originate solely with the Covid-19 pandemic, although the surge in hate crimes and over 10,000 reported incidents were seemingly fueled by former President Trump’s divisive rhetoric, labeling Covid-19 as the “Chinese Virus” and “Kung Flu.”This exhibition confronts and contextualizes these realities while asserting the resilience and contributions of Asian Americans to the fabric of society.

The works in On The Shoulders Of explore significant moments in both my family’s narrative and the broader history of Asian-American experience.

Side of the Tracks addresses the 20,000 migrants from Taishan, China, who were among the early Chinese settlers in the 1850s, including some of my ancestors who played pivotal roles in constructing the first Transcontinental Railroad following the Gold Rush. The genesis of this sculpture lies in the historic completion ceremony, where Leland Stanford was slated to drive the last solid gold spike. It draws inspiration from Andrew J. Russell’s photograph, the official image commemorating the railroad’s completion, a portrayal that conspicuously omitted the Chinese laborers, relegating them to obscurity.

The sculpture’s design is a nod to a cherished family artifact: a folding screen from my grandmother Daisy’s living room. Crafted from intricately carved wood, it depicts a phoenix perched atop a mythical rocky mountain, adorned in gold and black lacquer. This screen served as both a visual focal point and a repository of ancestral lore, often serving as the backdrop to our family gatherings.

Tracks intertwines elements of the railroad tracks from the Golden Spike Ceremony with cues from Russell’s photograph. Just as the photograph expunged the Chinese migrant workers, leaving only white figures, the sculpture spotlights this historical erasure. It centers on the three vessels performing a toast, and mirrors their pivotal presence in the iconic image while symbolically reclaiming the silenced narratives of the Chinese laborers who were instrumental in shaping American history.

Elegy to the 34 of Snake River, acknowledges the 34 Chinese migrant miners who tragically lost their lives in one of the largest recorded massacres of a minority group in American history. The massacre occurred in May 1887 at the Snake River at Hells Canyon in Wallowa County, Oregon where the miners were ambushed in their sleep, brutally murdered, and burned alive. Their killers were never brought to justice.

According to Hugh McMillan’s account, the assailants, including individuals such as Robert McMillan, Bruce Evans, J.T. Canfield, Max Larue, and Frank Vaughn, launched their attack in late April 1887. The motive behind the massacre was the theft of gold dust amounting to $5,500. Subsequently, the gang proceeded to another Chinese camp, located 4 miles away, where they perpetrated further violence, resulting in the deaths of 13 more individuals and the looting of $50,000 worth of gold.

Sadly, it was not until February 16, 1888, nearly a year later, that ten of the twenty victims were identified: Chea-po, Chea-Sun, Chea-Yow, Chea-Shun, Chea Cheong, Chea Ling, Chea Chow, Chea Lin Chung, Kong Mun Kow, and Kong Ngan. Regrettably, little is known about these individuals, leaving their stories untold. Through this sculpture, we remember and honor the lives of those who perished unjustly, shedding light on a dark chapter in American history and advocating for remembrance and accountability.

Migrant Spiral, crafted from a European White Elm tree originally cultivated by Chinese migrant workers employed by The Kelsey Ranch after the Gold Rush in 1860. Migrant Spiral embodies a rich historical legacy. Positioned adjacent to the Kelsey Family Estate Carriage House, the majestic elm tree not only exuded a stately presence but also played a pivotal role in naming the “Elmwood District” in Berkeley, California. The Kelsey Ranch served as a crucial hub, contributing botanical specimens and plants to the UC Berkeley campus, enriching the educational environment for generations of students from around the world.

The cause of death for this tree was Dutch Elm disease. It occurred because the tree’s roots were eventually affected by fungi in the soil, weakening the tree and making it susceptible to bark beetles that spread the fungi throughout. If it had had a different rootstock, the tree might have survived for another couple of hundred years. Since the late 1900s, grapevines grown in California are all grafted onto Native American rootstocks to prevent the “phyloxphora” nematode from harming the vine. Even though the vine is a European or non-native species, it can survive if it has a native rootstock, sparking a dialogue on symbiotic relationships and beneficial coexistence.

This work also prompts contemplation on how the classification of plant species correlates directly with imperialist exploration in identification, and its connection to the cultural classifications of societies and pictorial landscapes worldwide. This extends to people being categorized through eugenics, rooted in Charles Darwin’s evolutionary theories, in relation to class, survival of the fittest, and hierarchies that determine superior traits in human and subhuman evaluations, ranging from color, to the shape of an individual. For instance, the term “weed,” is leveled at any wild plant that is unwanted or unintentionally planted, even if it grew naturally or migrated from a distance through the wind, an animal, or perhaps floated like a coconut across the sea to find soil. This relationship is interwoven into the echoes of migrant spirals within our planet, shaping how we perceive our unique differences in an infinite spiral of dialogue seeking meaning in the origin of the beginning of the seeds planted and the seeds harvested.

Stack is a tribute to my ancestors, mentors, influences, and community. The object draws inspiration from the profound notion of “adopted family,” coined by the late Chinese American artist Hung Liu, defined by Liu as the individuals we choose to include in our familial circle. It mirrors the reality that, unlike adopted children who may not select their parents, we have the freedom to choose those who will become a part of our family, shaping the legacies we wish to share with the future.

The form of the sculpture is a visual narrative inspired by the historical context of early Chinese miners, often referred to as “basket heads” by the media due to the protective hats they wore against the elements, be it sun, rain, or debris. Each hat delicately stacked upon the other symbolizes interdependence, where each element relies on the strength of the one beneath it. Additionally, this stacking pays homage to my Chinese American heritage, weaving in references to pagodas rooted in ancient Chinese spiritual architecture.

Beyond its historical echoes, this form operates as a metaphor for the many figurative ‘hats’ one must wear in life to actively engage as a community member. It becomes a celebration of the diversity of roles we undertake, each layer representing the multifaceted aspects of our communal existence.

Even if it is built of jade, it has turned into a cage, serves as a tribute to the indigenous Miwok people, as well as to the multitude of early immigrants who passed through Angel Island following the enactment of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, and the 1906 earthquake and fire in San Francisco, California. It recounts personal family narratives from my grandmother of her journey aboard the SS President Cleveland from Hong Kong to San Francisco during the 1920s, when she was just a young girl witnessing a person hang themself in the bathroom because they had to go back to China.

The title is borrowed from the last line of a poem by an unknown poet that was carved into the barrack wall as graffiti inside what was left of the Angel Island Detention Center.

Early Chinese immigrants faced numerous hardships at the Angel Island Immigration Station in San Francisco Bay, which operated from 1910 to 1940. A stark departure from the relatively quicker processing of immigrants from other regions, Chinese immigrants endured prolonged detention periods that often spanned weeks or months. Rigorous interrogations and examinations were commonplace, delving into intricate details of their families, villages, and personal histories. The isolating environment of the barracks, coupled with the uncertainty of immigration status and the potential separation of families, contributed to a challenging and emotionally taxing experience. The prevalent anti-Chinese sentiment of the time manifested in discriminatory policies, further complicating the immigration process. Living conditions within the overcrowded barracks were harsh, amplifying the physical and emotional strain on detainees. The looming fear of deportation under the stringent Chinese Exclusion Act added another layer of adversity, threatening to sever ties to the aspirations and dreams that led many to seek a better life in the United States. Despite these tribulations, the resilience and determination of Chinese immigrants persisted, forming an integral part of the complex tapestry of American immigration history.