In recent years, we’ve seen a cognitive challenge where immigrants are concerned. People love the ones they know but believe the Republican rhetoric about the ones they don’t. In many states that voted for the current president who promised mass deportation, communities were outraged when immigrants who they considered part of their neighborhoods faced the promised deportation.
That tension felt like the subtext for “Living Here,” an exhibition currently on display at the Marjorie Barrick Museum of Art in Las Vegas. “Living Here” features works by artists from the East and Southeast Asian diasporas, including artists whose ancestries lie in Cambodia, China, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, Vietnam, and the Philippines.
Many works reflect artists finding ways to express the idiosyncrasies that make their lives more tangible. Phung Huynh’s beautifully crafted portraits on pink donut boxes, for example, show not only love for her family but pride in her Cambodian roots. When the Cambodian refugee Ted Ngoy expanded his chain of donut shops, he wanted boxes less expensive than the usual white ones and started using the less expensive pink ones. That choice of medium locates Huynh’s subjects in a distinctly American story—not necessarily the story of donuts, but of immigrants almost invisibly making small but lasting marks on their communities.
For me, the most effective piece was Quindo Miller’s installation “Endless,” which featured a karaoke station set up in what looks like someone’s living room. According to Miller, the pieces of art on the wall “are framed pieces of wood veneer salvaged from my grandmother's house in the aftermath of Typhoon Mawar, which made landfall in Guam, March 2023. The pieces of wood were from a closet, painted pink, and ModPodged with magazines by my mother sometime in the ‘90s. During our visit, we found the pieces, laid them out to dry, then shipped them in a suitcase back to Las Vegas. I rearranged and framed them using matte board and archival tape.”
That’s not obvious, but they’re unquestionably specific choices that give viewers a sense that the work is the project of a specific person. The combination of video and song in that framework create a circumstance that feels resonant.
The lyrics to Cher’s “Believe” roll over video footage of the lights of Las Vegas casinos and fireworks. In an art gallery show of work by immigrants in 2025, the question, “Do you believe in life after love?” asks viewers to think about the immigrants’ place in a city and country that has relied on them for so long. The hotels and casinos in Las Vegas have long depended on workers from Asia, but in Trump’s America, the years of service and love of the country mean nothing. How does anyone process that kind of whiplash?
Miller writes in their notes on “Endless” that karaoke is a ritual in their family, and it evokes home and courage as participants make the brave leap to sing and put their voice out there. It also subtly asserts the singer’s importance because in karaoke the song is incomplete without the singer to give voice to the words.
“Endless” also asks participants in the gallery to step into the shoes of immigrant, sing Cher’s questions, and feel the moment of confusion and loss amidst the exhilarating moment of pop release. The mixed feelings are complicated and confusing, but participants can walk away from them when they stop singing. Immigrants can’t.
"Living Here" will be on display through December 20, 2025.
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