by Zaiche Johnson, Creative Catalyst

The table is one of the most communal entities in the world of domestic and occupational power engagement. The trajectory for the governance of entire civilizations or those microsurgical negotiations to determine curfews for an antsy teenager are made at the table.

Who is ordained as the host, sitting at its head, has always been intrinsically framed by organizational dominance. Disengaging other potential suitors through identity norms, policies, economic depravity, or structural actualities is the dogma of that Almighty issuer of mash potatoes and seed capital. Strolling into the cafeteria, with an ensemble of assorted peppers and basil rice may not be enough to pierce the hologram of ostracism positioned at that table of strivers. Do we infiltrate the myopic industry of table chiefdom and make alterations, or do we chop them all into oak confetti? The bailiff is waiting for our decision, but most of the jury has liquified hamstrings from standing with no seat.

Solange already turned in her decibel thesis on this entangled subject. It’s sooo romantic, but not in the corsage and chocolates narrative, but in a sermon of exclusivity for abolition takers. Survival is contingent on accessible seats, some are stolen back with righteous indignation and some are hoarded by historical pirates dressed in Helmut Lang. I personally love the provocative dynamism of brutally demolishing a decadent meal, provided by the weathering guilt of a rich pirate (let a troubadour dream) while I give our server my debit card.

Where we sit now, is not necessarily our future station, so certain chairs can become fossils, just like their proprietors can become petroleum for a mothership. For now, I’ll sit in repose, configuring concepts that obliterate any tables of oppression and exclusion. If you’re on that frequency, please pass the rolls.

Photo by Ingrid Damiani with a glimpse of the exhibition (Re)Set the Table and the artwork of Malcolm Jackson, Ingrid Damiani, and Sara Nehid