SFAI140 is a dynamic, 140-second presentation format that highlights the inspiration and work of our artists-in-residence and local community leaders. Since 2013, the tri-annual event has featured over 350 presenters.
In celebration of our 35 Year Anniversary, we have revisited the SFAI140 video archives to bring you critical voices from our alumni that reflect on the shifting socio-political landscapes of our times. The curated series will be presented in three collections of videos around a common theme.

This month’s series Struggles & Hopes: Race, Identity, Voice features:
Celeste De Luna
JeeYeun Lee
Sarah Sao Mai Habib
Darice Polo
Yvette Serrano
Na Omi Judy Shintani

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Struggles & Hopes: Race, Identity, Voice Series / August 2020

“Miracles happen when fragments become whole.” These words from Dr. Lewis Mehl-Madrona, a Cherokee-Lakota elder, fittingly weave the voices of our alumni into a tapestry of artistic process that speaks to the intergenerational trauma that’s deeply rooted in colonization and racism. Their stories demonstrate how art is a powerful way to connect and can offer glimpses of hope.

Struggles & Hopes: Race, Identity, Voice Alumni Statements


“Trauma decontextualized in a person looks like personality. Trauma decontextualized in a family looks like family traits. Trauma in a people looks like culture.” – Resmaa Menakem.

Our task is to remember the historic context & intergenerational patterns that have deeply embedded & normalized violence in every aspect of our lives. With truthful reckoning, there comes a serious responsibility for healing & reparations at multiple scales. This is the urgent liberation work that we must engage in interpersonally & globally. This is the work of remembering & recreating cultures which courageously affirm life, reciprocity, and honoring all our relations on earth. This is the work of remembering what it means to be human.


John Lewis’s statement, “Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and redeem the soul of America,” was exemplified by the image of his final journey over the Edmund Pettus bridge in a horse drawn caisson. Through his death his message is clear to us, be strong amid the use of excessive force against peaceful assembly. As I examine, in my work, the origins of colonialism while opposing its current manifestation, the confluence of past and present histories of enduring injustice emerge as its construct. We must collectively unearth our past to remove symbols of oppression, end systemic racism, restructure a democracy that serves and protects all its people, and push back against the global forces of neoliberalism. We have the power.


Sadly I am feeling unfazed over the current moment, and instead frustrated over America’s shocked reactions about police militarization extending to the interior of the United States. This has long been the status quo in my border community since 9/11. Border artists and communities have been sounding this alarm for almost 20 years. My struggle as a brown woman artist from the militarized border is having people interpret my story and artwork, through their own lens and for their own purposes. My hope is to have a voice that is acknowledged and respected and to be able to communicate in ways that are harmonious with traditional cultural life ways and distinctly not Anglo-American.


It’s incredible to be alive right now. Everything is visible, everything is in flux. The crushing acceleration of oppression, as well as years of organizing and resistance, are showing themselves: the mechanisms of state sanctioned violence that enforce white supremacist capitalism. Extraction and genocide as instruments of ongoing colonization. The role of the military in defending owning class interests. The importance of symbols used to mark history. We are witnesses, we are agents. I aim for my art to help us see and help us feel, whether it comes as outrage or heartbreak.


In this moment we are witnessing how white supremacy and capitalism continue to perpetuate violence, at times more visible than others. This violence has taken countless black lives, has left people on the Navajo Nation without water, and continues to keep children in cages. We are also witnessing a relationship between these crises and social change; A time to address these structural and racial inequities.

Na Omi Judy Shintani

People of color have been targets of hatred throughout American history and at other times we can be invisible, unseen. All people long for acceptance, inclusion, comfort, evolution. We all wish to embrace our culture, history, stories – to be human beings in our entirety. I create space for inquiry and connection.The shadow side of us exists, and fear makes us forget that we are all one. We must find ways to understand and connect to one another and art is a powerful way to do it.


This first collection echoes the uncompromising call for anti-racism efforts and the abolition of structural oppression, in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement. Listen to what past residents have to say about the many forms of defiance and reclamation used to disrupt racial biases…how one visualizes the invisible, the inequalities, the liminal space between myth and truth… what the modern day slave system looks like…and how we transform the criminalization of public spaces into a generative place for people of color to be seen and heard on the streets.



Everywhere African-Americans looked, the state was not only impervious to their suffering but an accessory to the crime.” — Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor

In moments such as these, I retreat (that is, withdraw to a quiet secluded place) with art in its various forms. Nina Simone called to me; I responded: Minnesota Goddam. Georgia Goddam. New York Goddam.  Texas Goddam. Arkansas Goddam. Arizona Goddam. (Fill in your state) Goddam.

I resolve to make more art that creates space for retreat (that is, a change to one’s decisions, plans, or attitude, as a result of critique), reflection, and redemption.


I draw in public. My interactions with policing bodies compelled me to investigate current-day and historical surveillance trends, which point to systemic mistrust of black and brown people in public space. I engage in conversations with people who approach me when I sketch because the notion of someone drawing is inviting, but in fact, the over-occurrence of interactions I have with authority shows how difficult it can be for black and brown bodies to be at leisure in America.

Mildred Beltré

During this time of COVID 19, I have felt a lot of anxiety, but in some ways I also wonder if this shutdown, this new way we are living, will allow for something new to develop. I wonder about what possibilities it might open up. These last few weeks, I have been heartened to see masses of people taking to the streets to speak out for Black Life, for Black Trans Life, against racist policing and the health, wealth and housing inequality that has existed in this country since it was founded on slavery and genocide. This is important work, and I hope this moment propels forward meaningful and fundamental changes. This summer the Brooklyn Hi Art Machine celebrates our ten-year anniversary, and we look forward to figuring out how we can be on the street together, creating and keeping each other safe as we continue to build community.  My work has always been about examining social relationships, and we are now at a moment where relationships of deep inequality are being reconsidered and reimagined, and hopefully rebuilt.


White supremacy is a social inheritance by design and it penetrates every facet of our hyper-modern lives, from basic etiquette to complex technological advances. During this time and beyond, I urge white people to replace the resounding sentiment of: “I’m uncomfortable with my privilege,” with critical questions such as: “How do I identify white supremacy, my participation to uphold it and my benefits from it?” And, “How can I dismantle white privilege, particularly my own?” I further urge that, in addition to fortifying a robust understanding of the inextricable impact of Black Americans’ contribution to American wealth and identity at-large, that there is also a commitment to deep research on one’s own ethnic legacy to the construct of whiteness and one’s own genealogical relationship to the perpetuation of violence, fear, and oppression.


As an emerging visual artist, my response to the current anti-black, racist, socio-political moment in America comes in the form of a visual artwork prompted by the heinous murder—perpetrated by three white cops in Louisville, Kentucky—of Breonna Taylor. I made this mask—A BLACK WOMAN WAS SILENCED TODAY—in honor of Taylor’s birthday on June 5, as well as to acknowledge the systematic silencing of black women resulting from (at the very least) violence, disenfranchisement, invisibility, devaluation, and death.
Expanding upon this socio-political moment more broadly, the United States currently finds itself mired in societal discord because the overarching element of the Civil War was never resolved: white supremacy and the perpetuation of the refusal of an empowered, white regime to view the black body as human, and equal in both integrity and value to itself. Thus we continue to fight an informal, underlying, and systemic internal conflict that produces outrageous outcomes such as the recent killings of Ahmad Arbery on February 23, Breonna Taylor on March 13, and George Floyd on May 25, 2020.

Quenna Lené Barrett

I wrote and performed this piece in what feels now like an almost entirely different world, but the issues raised are even more present, visible, palpable in our nation’s public consciousness today. Now, more than ever, not only are Black people, but non-black POC and white accomplices are stepping up to help us create images of justice, to truly imagine what it means for our bodies to be free. It is only through this active and collective and radical imagining, through trying and failing and trying again, will we be able to manifest that vision and push it forward into a better, more just, future.