By two o'clock, it was ninety-something degrees. This was the cooler time of year in the desert. More than sixty artists from the region and beyond were descending upon Sharjah, a tiny private country on the tip of Arabia. Artists from Iraq, Iran, America, Brazil, Italy, Germany and elsewhere were touching down.
We were in a dream-like state of scorching jet-lag checking into hotels, negotiating taxis, searching for the museum, inspecting crates, and grabing a bite of lamb or hummus in between.
The A/C wasn't working in the gallery. The only good thing about this situation was that people could speak English and that my art was here. The staff ignored, cajoled, and soothed us from the control tower of the Sharjah Art Museum, the ruler's private art collection.
Many hands at the direction of the curator Isabel Carlos placed my mother's poetry and my paintings onto the walls. We called it "Inheritance: Reclaiming Land and Spirit." < next >