When I met him for the first time, I was in my twenties—an international student from Japan, studying art in Houston, Texas, where I had no relations. At that time, I had a big dream, like “meeting all the people in the world,” or “seeing the bigger world,” and I was quite enthusiastic about challenging whatever interested me. One day, my art teacher, Joanne Brigham, took the class to a private museum about five minutes from the school on foot. I hadn’t noticed there was a museum at such a close distance until then, probably because it didn’t look like a typical museum. As soon as I entered, I was shocked since the exhibition content was very bloody and looked like scenes after mysterious rituals, but at the same time I was very fascinated by neatly displayed works of art such as ceremonial objects, paintings, photographs, and videos. When I looked around the exhibition and came back to the entrance area, I sat down on a bench to digest what I had jus
James Harithas’s twinkling eyes and broad smile drove his desire to enlist Art as a vehicle for truth and social justice. With curatorial talent he fearlessly enlisted incredible artists to exhibit at the Station Museum of Contemporary Art. Through this venue, Jim promoted artists that corporate funded museums could not. The community was invited to exciting openings with titles like Portrait of a Corporate Crime, Crude, Red Fall, Torture, or Hermann Nitsch: The Orgies. For inspiration, I would take my students on field trips to those exhibitions.
In 1971, a friend hired me to photograph the Everson Museum’s newly appointed director. I’d never seen the new art museum or met an art museum director, so I was unsure what to expect. Ushered into his austere skylit corner office in the I. M. Pei-designed art museum, I stood awkwardly in front of his desk, waiting for him to look up from signing some papers on his desk. Time moved slowly. I shifted my weight from foot to foot.