Invisibility and Belonging: The Politics of Care

Photo take by Kyoco Taniyama

Invisibility is not only a state of being unseen but also a condition of being undervalued—of existing outside the structures that determine who is worthy of care. For me, invisibility weaves through many aspects of my life: as a person with an invisible disability, as a biracial Indigenous American person living in Europe, as an immigrant, and as someone experiencing ageism. Each of these experiences intersects, shaping both how I am perceived and how I navigate the concept of belonging.

My confrontation with invisibility began most acutely after a life-altering accident. I spent several months in a rehabilitation hospital, where I quickly realized I was part of a small minority not using a wheelchair or other visible assistance. This humbled me, especially coming from New York City—a place with no time for slowness. Suddenly, I found myself waiting behind rows of wheelchairs in the cafeteria, confronted with a hierarchy of needs that reshaped how I understood both myself and the feebleness of daily routine life within the rehab environment.

Returning to the world as a working artist, I discovered that my disability—though invisible—requires constant advocacy. To the outside eye, I appear fine. Yet, the reality is that I face challenges every day. There are days when my legs, feet, or hands do not function, leaving me bed-bound and unable to work. I struggle to comprehend written text and directions. I experience chronic pain. To mention a few. My disability excludes me from able-bodied programs and disrupts the continuity of my art practice. This non-participation, in other words, invisibility, places me in a precarious position, where the effort of continually justifying my needs drains my energy, diminishes my health, threatens my self-esteem, and my ability to belong.

Another layer of invisibility is to my racial identity as a Native American person. In Germany, I am “not Indigenous enough.” Many Germans’ base understanding of Native identity on outdated stereotypes: long braids, traditional dress, and life on reservations. I hold none of these markers. I do not have my ancestral language intact, nor do I live on tribal land. My Indigenous identity contradicts expectations, and this contradiction renders me invisible. Away from Native communities in the United States, this invisibility deepens, leaving me disconnected from both cultural affirmation and belonging.

As an immigrant in Germany, I face further barriers. I do not pass as white enough to blend in, and with my brain injury, my difficulty learning the language makes full participation in German society almost impossible. I deal with housing/artist studio difficulties, as well as German bureaucracy, constantly. This creates another layer of exclusion, an added barrier to integration.

Lastly, ageism adds yet another form of invisibility. As an elder, in a world that prizes youth, my value is diminished—especially within the art world. In Berlin, youth culture, nightlife, and social presence dominate. Because I am not active in the party scene, the dating scene, or the conventional art scene of openings and events, my absence translates into invisibility.

All of these experiences lead me to a pressing question: How do I make my invisible disability—and all forms of my invisibility—visible? How do I prove my value without exhausting myself in constant advocacy?

This question matters not only to me, but to many who live and work at the periphery of cultural visibility as artists and creatives. Our perspectives are vital, yet often overlooked and erased. This struggle has shaped every artistic endeavor I have undertaken since the accident: my needs remain unmet, even as I attempt to create in ableist systems and structures.

I hope to reimagine participation in the contemporary art world—not simply to demand space, but to inspire deeper layers of understanding and care. I aim to cultivate practices that foster respect, hope, desire, and a sense of belonging. The goal is not only to assert my visibility, but to contribute to a freer, more representative world where invisibility no longer equates to disposability.