SAC Artists Speak Out About Being Censored by The Burke Museum
Since last week, several of our BIPOC artists whose work would have been displayed at the Burke Museum at the UW have been speaking out on our Instagram. They had worked for months on new pieces that spoke to their cultural backgrounds as part of the exhibit “Reclaiming Our Roots: Cultural Reflections by Incarcerated Artists”, before the Burke made a last-minute decision to cut artists with certain offenses on their records – which would have removed six out of our eight artists. We’ve shared powerful statements already by the following SAC artists on how this discriminatory move impacted them:
Our last artist statement is by Billy Gumabon, whose amazing writing is too long to post in its entirety on Instagram, so we’re sharing it in full below.
If you know of any venues that would be interested in hosting an exhibit of cultural work by BIPOC incarcerated artists, please email us at SolidarityArtCollective@gmail.com. And if you’re moved by the words of our artists, you can contact them individually by mail or on Securus, the e-messaging platform used by Washington prisons; learn more about how to do that here.
SAC Artist Billy Gumabon Speaks Out About Being Censored by the Burke Museum
Billy is a founding member and former president of the Asian Pacific Islander Cultural Awareness Group (APICAG) at Stafford Creek Corrections Center. He created four original pieces for the Burke Museum exhibit honoring his Filipino culture. You can check out Billy’s older artwork here.
“I was genuinely excited and honored to be invited to showcase my work at the Burke Museum alongside other artists celebrating our culture through our artistry. Honestly, It felt like a true recognition of the journey I've been on, a chance to share a piece of my culture and who I am through my art. But then, the rug was pulled out from under us when a last minute, fear-driven decision by upper leadership barred artists with specific charges from participating in the show, which immediately excluded 6 out of the 8 artists. My heart sank, because I was one of those artists.
For months, I poured myself into something I believed reflected the very best of what I could do. Collectively, we all created artwork rooted in objects, held at the Burke Museum, of our culture, identity, ancestry, heritage, resilience, and the belief that our art will share our history and has the power to connect and build bridges to our communities and families. Months of collaboration, trust, vulnerability and the work we put into our art, were suddenly overshadowed by labels attached to our worst moments. In that moment, the artwork ceased to matter. The countless hours and sleepless nights spent creating, reflecting and pouring our souls into our artistry ceased to matter. The humanity of the artist ceased to matter.
Honestly, in that moment, I was consumed by anger, disgust, and pain, I really wanted to rip up my artwork. I wanted to destroy the very thing I poured so much of myself into because, for a moment, it felt like none of it had been enough to make me worthy of being seen.
But to me, this isn't just about a missed exhibition, it was about something much deeper. For me, this experience was about reconnecting with my culture and reclaiming a part of myself and finding belonging within a community. It was about believing that my story, and the stories of my fellow incarcerated artists, deserves a place in spaces that claim to be a space for culture, history, education and community connection. That's why the decision impacted me.
There's a fundamental misunderstanding of what art means to people like me. And there's a painful contradiction when a Museum like the Burke, an institution that holds much of the history, objects and stories that belong to our ancestors and that exist as a space for cultural exchange and learning, chooses exclusion over inclusion. A museum should be a place where people are invited to look deeper, ask questions, to learn, and to engage with stories and experiences different from their own. Instead we were silenced and excluded before our art had a chance to speak for itself.
Sadly, this isn't something new to us. It's painfully similar to the ways institutions like DOC determine when, where, and how incarcerated people are allowed to express their culture. Institutions with immense power and resources continue to decide which parts of our identities are acceptable to display and which parts remain hidden. It's the same song, with just a different tune.
The decision to exclude incarcerated artists, particularly those like myself who sought to express their cultural identity within their space, was deeply wounding. It felt like a rejection not just of our art, but our humanity. It reinforces the very trauma we face everyday from the very systems that seek to dehumanize us. It sent a message that my story, my heritage, my capacity for healing through art are somehow less valuable or less deserving of recognition. It felt like a judgement and condemnation that disregards the possibility of redemption and perpetuates the very stigma we are all working so hard to overcome. They are sending a message that our past defines us entirely, dismissing the progress we have made and the potential we hold.
But I refuse to believe that.
For someone like myself who's incarcerated, art isn't just to pass time, it's a lifeline. It's a bridge that connects me to my ancestors, to my cultural roots, to the very core of my identity, and has connected me to my community, my family and to people in ways that have transcended these prison walls. Art is where I go to process the unspeakable, to heal wounds that run deep, and to find hope within these concrete walls. My art is rooted in my liberation, in the slow, painstaking work of rebuilding myself. It's how I began to understand the person I was and the person I strive to be. There's a meaningful process that goes into each art piece. Each one is an act of self- discovery and transformation. I've learned to pour myself into each piece. When I create, when I draw, I'm not just making something beautiful to look at. I'm engaging in a deeply personal and radical act of healing and resistance. I'm taking the fragments of my broken past and piecing it together into something new, something that shares a story of resilience, survival and hope. Art, at its core, is meant to be seen, to be experienced, and to connect us. It does require our attention, our willingness to be open and to engage. When we judge the artist before experiencing the art, we are creating walls that block true connection, empathy and understanding.
So where do we go from here? I don't know exactly what comes next, but I know this much:
I will continue to create.
I will continue to immerse myself deeper into my art, my culture and story.
I will continue to use my art to heal, to resist, to reclaim and to connect.
What happened at the Burke Museum does not get to define the meaning of my work. And it doesn't get to define me.
I am committed to carrying my art into spaces where they will be welcomed, where they will be experienced, where they will be honored - not rejected.
Because my past is a part of my story, but it's not the entirety of my story, and my art is living proof that I'm still creating what comes next.”
