“Is this a show that we can even review?” asked Gwen.
Eleanor considered the question, more for wording than for content. “‘Review’ is a strong word,” she finally spoke. “We usually just discuss. You’re not scheduled to formally review this one, right?”
“No, they sent a different critic,” Gwen replied. “I only mean…”
They had come on a quiet day in the middle of the week, which meant that the Honolulu Museum of Art was nearly empty. As they walked the labyrinthine villa that made up the museum’s sprawling campus, Dania and Eleanor walked close together, in an agoraphobic bond.
“I thought there would be more art by Hawaiian artists here,” Gwen muttered, passing another room of Japanese block prints.
“Why?” Eleanor asked. “It’s not like the Art Institute has a section dedicated to Chicago artists.”
“There’s a whole downstairs part, too,” Dania said, leading the trio around the curved staircase. As they descended, Gwen caught sight of the inscribed poem from museum founder Dr. Margaret Burroughs:
What shall I tell my children who are Black
of what it means to be a captive in this dark skin?
They continued down into the sparse lower level of the DuSable Museum, where a series of prefab walls had been set up in the empty corridor, with paintings hung on each one.
The Hanslick Girls 