Food Cover Tent

I brought the food cover from Taiwan to the United States because it reminded me of a tent made from mesh material. Its primary function is to keep bugs away from food, but for me, it holds a deeper meaning. At home, the food cover protects meals lovingly prepared and left for family members, especially during moments of reunion. My mom often left food for my brother, who works as a sous-chef at an Asian restaurant in Taiwan, and usually came home late. When I returned in December 2024, I saw that same food cover still in use after more than twenty years. I felt a strong urge to replicate that gesture of care. I walked to a local grocery store, bought a similar one, and brought it back with me to the United States. One day, I imagine transforming it into a tent, something soft yet protective, layered with memory and possibility.

I felt emotional one day after receiving an email that said I could not do tent art in the museum. The language used stirred something deep within me. Strong emotions surfaced, mingling with the ongoing precarity surrounding international students’ visas and the silence of institutions.

I am waiting for the right moment to respond through action, to ask what you mean by “permission“in tent art. I want to express that permission is not required, that space matters, and that we must continue to question who owns art and who is allowed to create it.

I folded the food cover and hid it in my bag. I entered the teaching gallery, recorded a selfie video, interacted with the artworks, and transformed the food cover into my tent. It is white, with yellow flowers. In Taiwan, yellow flowers are often symbols of resistance, especially among activists who grow strength in difficult soil.

In that moment, I invited two audience to help me take a photo. When a staff member walked by, security told us we were not allowed to continue. I said it was just an umbrella. Their presence reminded me of shared agency and quiet resistance within the Museum.