This morning, I found myself unexpectedly frustrated. The trigger was simple: I had just finished reading a biography of Yayoi Kusama. I’ve never been particularly drawn to her work and I wanted to know more about her; but instead of softening my view, the book sharpened a discomfort I’ve been circling for a while. It made something clearer: in today’s art world, who you are increasingly overshadows what you do.

Kusama is undeniably a major figure by every measurement. Emerging from postwar Japan, she entered the New York avant-garde of the 1960s and developed a highly recognizable visual language—polka dots, mirrored infinity rooms, immersive environments. Her idea of “self-obliteration,” dissolving the individual into endless repetition, can be understood as both a formal strategy and a psychological framework. After returning to Japan and living for decades in a psychiatric institution, she continued producing work and eventually became a global phenomenon. Today, she is almost synonymous with experiential, immersive art.

But this is exactly where my unease begins. In attempting to account for Kusama’s success, the author cites her in terms that feel telling: “Kusama’s story resonates with young people around the world. She is the female abuse victim who never married and emerged victorious in spite of ongoing mental illness… Patriarchy, sexism, fascism, racism—she slew them all.” None of these dimensions are untrue; they are part of her lived reality. But when reiterated to the point of inevitability, they risk hardening into consumable labels. What remains in circulation is not the precision of her spatial intelligence, nor her sustained investigation of repetition and perception, but a simplified figure—“a female artist with hallucinations.” Here, the narrative no longer frames the work; it begins to eclipse it.

What made me feel worse is that this really isn’t just about Kusama. I am seeing a broader pattern. Go to any art show and you see a group of “foreign artists,” whose work are practically the same and whose visibility often seems contingent on fitting into recognizable identity frameworks—minority, trauma, displacement, etc. If your work doesn’t align with these categories, it risks being overlooked. As a result, artists and curators learn to construct narratives that are legible, quickly graspable, easily circulated. Even in art schools critiques, one hears the same structure repeated: personal background, identity positioning, social issue, political stance. Over time, this narrative has stopped being a choice and becomes a template.

今天早上其实挺挫败的。起因很简单——我看完了一本关于草间弥生的传记。本来我就不是她的拥趸，但这次阅读反而让我更清楚地意识到一种长期存在、却越来越被强化的结构性问题：在当代艺术语境里，“你是谁”似乎正在压倒“你做了什么”。

先说一句公允的话。草间弥生无疑是战后最重要的艺术家之一。她从日本出发，在1960年代进入纽约前卫艺术语境，用波点（polka dots）、镜屋（Infinity Mirror Rooms）和身体行为建立了一套极具辨识度的视觉语言。她反复谈到“self-obliteration”（自我消融），通过无限重复的图案让个体融入宇宙。这既可以被理解为一种形式上的极限探索，也常常被解释为与她的心理经验相关。后来她回到日本，在长期的精神疗养院生活中持续创作，并最终获得全球性的成功——尤其是在今天的展览经济和社交媒体环境中，她几乎成为“沉浸式体验艺术”的象征。

问题恰恰在于，我们今天谈论她时，越来越倾向于从那些“最容易被理解”的入口进入：女性、精神疾病、边缘经验、身体与性。这些当然真实存在，但当它们被不断提炼、重复和传播之后，逐渐变成了一种被消费的标签。观众记住的是一个“有幻觉的女性艺术家”，而不是她如何处理空间、重复、观看机制；媒体传播的是“可以拍照的无限空间”，而不是她与1960年代纽约艺术之间复杂的关系。叙事开始覆盖作品，而不是服务作品。

更让我不适的是，这种情况并不是个例，而是一种越来越标准化的路径。去一趟巴塞尔艺术展, 你能看到一路的 “被边缘化的画家”，如果你的故事不能被归类为某种清晰的identity——少数族裔、创伤经验、文化冲突——那你似乎就很难被快速理解、被策展人抓住、被市场放大。于是艺术家和策展人逐渐学会一件事：构建一个可以被迅速读取的narrative。甚至在艺术学校里，这种机制被提前内化——critique的时候，大家讲的往往是同一套逻辑：个人经历、身份标签、社会议题、立场表达。久而久之，这不再是选择，而变成一种默认结构。