“Guanyin, Bodhisattva of Compassion,” on display at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, is a sculpture made of painted and gilded paulownia wood, produced in about 1200 AD during the Jin dynasty in China [1]. 1200 AD was a complex period in which the southern rulers were Southern Song emperors, and the north of China was seen as Jin. This sculpture of Guanyin may reflect the possibility that Buddhism and Bodhisattva were worshiped by more and more people at this tense time due to wars and social instability, and Guanyin sculptures naturally became numerous. However, since Buddhism or Bodhisattva was introduced to China during the 1st century BC from India, the birthplace of Buddhism, Bodhisattva was widely worshiped. Many Buddhist temples had statues and sculptures of the Bodhisattva and Buddha to receive prayers and offerings, especially during the Song and Jin periods [2]. This sculpture of Bodhisattva manufactured in the Jin/Southern Song period embodies feminine characters, revealing the feminization of Guanyin in Chinese history.

“Guanyin, Bodhisattva of Compassion” has soft feminine features and clothing. The appearance of this Guanyin is stunning as people walk in front of it. Taken as a whole, the bodhisattva seems like a gentle and benevolent female figure with downcast eyes, their smiling face peaceful and benign. The wooden sculpture is lighter than some stone sculptures, better suited to be placed high in the interior of Buddhist temples for people to revere and worship. Isolated in the privacy of a temple room in its original context, people could directly communicate with Guanyin. For eight hundred years, Guanyin gazed down from above, compassionate, forgiving, and sympathetic to all living beings. The bodhisattva wears a high bun hairstyle and a crown with an Amitabha Buddha, with a recess in the forehead that may hold a semi-precious stone or jewel [3]. Serene and graceful, they are elegantly dressed in several gorgeous necklaces on the upper body, draped with green flowing silk cape conveying a sense of ease, in a skirt painted red and decorated with green cloth at the waist. Nevertheless, their sexuality is barely recognizable with no obvious sexual characteristics when the chest is exposed, perhaps meaning that they could be male, female, or even nonbinary. 

As stated by the object label, the sitting position indicates this sculpture should be the central figure of a larger “Water-Moon Guanyin” [4].  Although the water and moon are not displayed physically, the gesture might suggest that they sit on a lotus seat in the water. With the right leg bent and the left leg hung, the Bodhisattva sits in a relaxed manner, gazing at the reflection of the moon in the water, which reminds the viewers of the Buddhist teaching that all phenomena are illusory [5]. The elements water and moon are counted as female symbols in scholarly analysis, which accords with my recognition of traditional Chinese culture as well [6].

The special feature of this sculpture of Bodhisattva is that the Guanyin seems to own both a feminine face and a masculine or nonsexual body, which could be regarded as a transition of Bodhisattva from originally a male to a female figure in the spread of Buddhism and the process of Sinicization in China. The reasons for this feminization of Bodhisattva were complicated, according to Yu Chun-fang’s book of Kuanyin. As compassion was considered a maternal virtue in Chinese tradition, it appeared to be quite reasonable that a “Bodhisattva of Compassion” could be female [7]. 

“Guanyin, Bodhisattva of Compassion” in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts is astonishingly beautiful and remarkably calming, with distinct feminine characteristics and decorative elements of water and moon, despite a genderless torso. This displays the transformation process of feminizing the Bodhisattva when integrating it into Chinese culture.

[1] Object Label, Guanyin, Bodhisattva of Compassion (Museum of Fine Arts: Boston). 

[2] Ibid. 

[3] Ibid.

[4] Ibid. 

[5] Ibid. 

[6] Yu, Chun-fang. Kuanyin: The Chinese Transformation of Avalokitesvara (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001), 418.

[7] Yu, Kuanyin, 414.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art (referred to as the Met) is a traditional art museum founded in 1870 by artists and the elite of New York City. The stairs one must climb to simply get in always reminded me of some kind of art centered pilgrimage. In college, this was a place of wonder, a safe haven, and the ideal place to cry in public on a Thursday morning (a story for another time). But lately, this legacy of prestige and tradition is at odds with the most recent Great Hall commission by artist Jacolby Satterwhite. The Met has a long history of picking and choosing when they make statements about their operations, support of different communities, provenance challenges, and when long held beliefs about what a museum is and should be are challenged. 

The latest addition to this history of controversy is “A Metta Prayer”, a video installation piece by Satterwhite, that takes the concept of the Buddhist metta prayer and turns it into an affirmation of self. Satterwhite is a black, queer artist who is interested in the intersection of humanity and the digital world. “Metta Prayer” is an audio/visual experience in which 3D scans of himself, dancers, drag wrestlers, Solange Knowles, and even a selection of objects from the Met’s collection have been made to move and interact like a video game playthrough. There is a soundtrack as well, described by the New York Times as “an acid house beat”. This would all seem like a harmless enough display for the city of New York, but many parents in the Upper East Side neighborhood have been raising concerns over the words and imagery that children are exposed to as they see the piece. Many have claimed the costumes worn by the performers to be satanic, and the use of the word “fuck” to be inappropriate for a museum. But perhaps the most ironic thing about this whole situation is that parents are up in arms about a new piece of art but are completely fine and even excited to take their children into the Manet/Degas exhibition only a few galleries away. 

Inside the exhibition is perhaps one of the most scandalous paintings of the 19th century: Manet’s “Olympia”. When it first debuted at the Salon in 1865, it drew ire from the public. The pose and setup of the image was akin to a traditional reclining Venus (think Titian’s “Venus of Urbino”) but the woman is clearly a courtesan and she is staring directly at the viewer, as if to make them uncomfortably aware she knows they are looking. In 1865 this was the most salacious thing to be put on the Salon walls – this woman was not a reflection of the goddess Venus; she was a prostitute. Even though most models for painters at the time were sex workers, keeping the visual cues of what she was paid for (the flowers, robe, etc.). Viewers at the time were so up in arms about the work that extra security had to be brought in so that fights would stop breaking out. However, this painting is now best known as a masterpiece by a forward-thinking artist. The image is a nude woman that is aware she is being watched. The questions this all leaves me to ponder are the following: how much time does a work need to go from scandalous to inventive? Why is it that parents view nude paintings on the walls of the Met as educational and classy, yet this new piece (which does not show any breasts or genitals) as “satanic” and “trying to indoctrinate children”? 

The closest I have come to a real answer to either came from some excellent points made by TikTok user @meelzonart in a video that points out all the parallels of scandal between the two pieces. My biggest takeaway from this whole situation is that there is no real answer to these questions; there is only context and framing. When “Olympia” first debuted, she was seen as a blight to art. However, since we now experience her within the context of world-renowned art museums, she must be a great piece and have greater meaning. But meaning also comes with age and reflection. In a world that is full of crop tops, “booty enhancing” leggings, and more exposed bodies seen regularly by the public, the scandal of “Olympia” seems almost trivial, like an exposed ankle in the Victorian era. But with the more modern context of video games, queerness, and the emphasis on making POC voices heard in the museum, perhaps the reflection of the world in “Metta Prayer” is an uncomfortable confrontation between modernity and the more traditional hallowed space of the museum. Maybe Satterwhite has just given us a new “Olympia”.