“Global art history” is a current buzz-phrase for art historians. As the humanities continue to become more self-aware, they have been making strides to move past their enduring parochialisms. In art history, this has manifested as a conscious movement away from the focus on Western European art out of which the (Western) discipline was born. Thus, as art programs try to make themselves increasingly relevant to the “globalized” modern moment, there has been a rise in scholarship on and discussion about what it means to practice a global art history.

But, what does it mean to maintain a global art practice? One of latest exhibitions at the Block Museum, Tseng Kwong Chi: Performing for the Camera, offers an answer to this question. Upon walking into the white-walled enclosure, the viewer meets the artist Tse Kwong Chi in a large photograph entitled East Meets West Manifesto (1983). Caught within the 4 x 4 foot frame, Chi, dressed in what curator Janet Dees calls his “Mao suit”—a greyish-brown Zhongshan suit associated with Mao Zedong and communist dignitaries—and black shoes, stands behind a hanging United States flag and in front of an image of the Chinese flag. Caught between these two nationalistic images, Chi peers out expressionless at the viewer while holding a clicker attached to a shiny black wire that connects to his off-screen camera. This system of self portraiture is what Dees calls “the original selfie stick.”

The photograph is intriguing. Caught within the artificial landscape of saturated reds, blue, white, and yellow, Chi looks out at the viewer, his eyes hidden behind a pair of Matrix-esque sunglasses. From his sturdy stance, with legs firmly planted apart, Chi pulls the American flag to the side to reveal more of his face and body. This act of “pulling back the curtain” also serves to welcome the viewer into Chi’s studio and the exhibition at large. The punched up color, attractive nondescript figure, and bold, yet humorous simplicity all recall the visual language of advertisements—an interpretation the museum has perpetuated by using the image on its promotional material for the exhibition.

Chi first discovered the power of his “Mao suit” when he went out to dinner with his parents in New York City. Chi was born in 1950 in Hong Kong, yet spent most of his youth in Vancouver. Chi eventually went to school in Paris and found himself in New York City by 1978 where he worked primarily as a photojournalist documenting lower Manhattan’s nightlife. In 1979, his parents visited and they wanted to go to dinner at the infamous Windows of the World restaurant. Chi did not have a suit to wear to dinner, except for the Mao suit he had found at a thrift shop. So, to the surprise of his parents, Chi showed up to dinner in a Mao suit. To Chi’s surprise, he was treated exceptionally well while wearing it; apparently people thought he was a dignitary from China.

Once Chi realized the power of this costume, he began incorporating it into his artistic practice. In Tseng Kwong Chi: Performing for the Camera, the visitor gets a taste of Chi’s adventures in iconic landscapes. Numerous black-and-white photos of Chi dressed in his Mao suit, black shoes, and sunglasses in a variety of international locations line the museum walls. Chi once described himself as an “ambiguous ambassador.” His photographs reflect such a statement. We see Chi, always dressed in his Mao suit, at Checkpoint Charlie, in front of the Eiffel Tower, near Mount Rushmore, and the list goes on.

East Meets West Manifesto foregrounds the exhibition for the viewer. Thus, the viewer is introduced to Chi as the ambiguous ambassador—a man quite literally caught between two national identities. The viewer also gets a sense of Chi’s methods. Within this work, Chi “pulls back the curtain,” giving us insight into his method of taking self-portraits (via wire-attached clicker) and into his studio. Notably, the image of the Chinese flag becomes darker as it spreads over the floor, clearly indicating that it is not an actual flag, but a backdrop in a studio.

In other words, East Meets West Manifesto is winking at us—it’s a performance, but one that does not hide its infrastructure. This playfulness extends to Chi himself. On Chi, the Mao suit becomes a costume—it was something he wore in his photographs and to get into swanky events—and his deadpan expression, extended throughout his work, presents a performative facade. He is a performer within this ambiguous global landscape that he has crafted. Hanging within the studio and beside Chi, the Chinese and American flags each lose some of their aura. Rather than serving as ritualistic and enduring images of national unity, the flags are reduced to set dressing.

Chi’s practice is inclusive. By using easily recognizable uniforms, symbols, and landscapes, Chi allows a variety of viewers to “read” his works. And, in a global art practice, this sense of “legibility” is crucial because it bridges boundaries. Through accessible aesthetic symbols, Chi meets the East and the West. However, Chi does not clearly offer a single interpretation of what this meeting means. The image simply presents a series of East-West pairings: the Chinese flag and the American flag, an American citizen of Chinese descent, and a Mao suit in a New York City studio. These pairings reveal the variety of imprecise ways that the East and West meet and interact. Through these encounters, the boundaries between these abstract places become muddied. By welcoming us into his studio of intersecting nationalities and permeable international boundaries, Chi invites us to reconsider the dividing lines of a globalized world.

Taking up Chi’s work, I would suggest that we, the art historians, the critics, and the scholars, do not isolate ourselves in ivory towers, but work in languages that are inclusive. I suggest that when we face difficult tasks—like defining the boundaries between ideas and places—we don’t rush to offer a singular answer, but sit with the inescapable ambiguity of it all. Like Chi, we can be ambiguous ambassadors, meeting ideas, symbols, cultures, and identities while leaving room for playfulness and uncertainty.

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*The background regarding Tse Kwong Chi and his artistic practice come from listening to a gallery talk given by Janet Dees at the Block Museum on September 29, 2016.