The complicated legacy of Tibetan art

The Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art, which boasts one of the largest Tibetan and Himalayan artifact collections in the Western hemisphere, permanently closed the doors of its Manhattan location late last year to transition to a global museum “without walls.”  

Its final exhibition in its Chelsea building, “Reimagine: Himalayan Art Now,” was displayed in Chicago until February, while an older exhibit, “Gateway to Himalayan Art” is currently on display at the Utah Museum of Fine Arts. Meanwhile, another popular exhibit, the Tibetan Buddhist Shrine Room, will be on loan to the Brooklyn Museum for the next six years. This sparked fierce protests from the Tibetan-American activist group Our Ancestors Say No, which argued that the shrine, like many other Tibetan cultural objects in Western museums, should be returned to its rightful owners: the Tibetan community.

“We join the calls of previous and future Tibetans to remember where these objects came from and who they belong with,” reads a statement on the activists’ website. “As demonstrated by their [the Rubin’s] continued silence on genocides from Tibet to Palestine, these institutions do not serve us.”

While the Rubin’s legacy has been celebrated widely as a space for cultural exchange, and its loss has been expressed as a blow to the New York art community, an important narrative remains overlooked: the voices of Tibetan and other Himalayan communities. 

Just across the East River in Jackson Heights, Queens — home to one of the largest Tibetan diasporas in the West — many Tibetan immigrants work low-wage jobs as nannies, Uber drivers, and restaurant workers. Yet few in the community have visited the Rubin, according to a dozen interviews, and many in the diaspora have not even heard of the museum, let alone felt connected to it. Meanwhile, the museum has earned millions from “safeguarding” their culture — a culture it could access due to the violent displacement of Tibetans following the Chinese invasion.

As Western museums reckon with their colonial legacies, China is advancing plans to construct the world’s largest hydropower dam in Tibet, furthering concerns of Tibetan displacement and claim to the region. Against this backdrop, the Rubin’s decision to loan the shrine to the Brooklyn Museum underscores questions about ownership, preservation, and who ultimately benefits from a displaced community’s heritage.

Who can afford to be apolitical? 

The Rubin Museum originated from a private collection of Himalayan art assembled by Donald and Shelley Rubin that they started collecting in 1974. They opened the museum in Chelsea in 2004, which now has a permanent collection of more than 4,000 Tibetan and Himalayan artifacts, dating from the second to the 20th centuries. 

Like other Western collections of Tibetan artifacts, the Rubin’s emerged after the People's Republic of China invaded Tibet in the 1950s, in which 87,000 Tibetans were killed, and 100,000 more fled to India, Nepal, and Bhutan. 

Those who fled, escaped with religious texts and artwork, either to sell for survival or protect from Chinese occupiers, according to interviewees who experienced it firsthand or had older family members who did. By the 1960s, as Nepal opened its borders for tourism, the first trickle of Tibetan artifacts reached Western markets, sold to private collections for prices far exceeding what Tibetans and Nepalis originally received. The secrets of the mysterious “Shangri-La” of the East were now finally in the hands of the West.  

“The only reason Buddhism proliferated and commercialized so deeply in Western culture is because many Tibetans-in-exile brought these artifacts with them,” said Topjor Tsultrim, a New York-based activist with Students for a Free Tibet. “Yet, it has been completely stripped of its political entanglements.”

A few miles away from the museum, one of the largest diaspora communities in the West continues to grow. Tsering Diki, director of the New York Tibetan Service Center, estimates that Queens is home to around 30,000 to 40,000 Himalayan and Tibetan immigrants. The center assists 150 to 200 visitors monthly with finances, insurance, job searches, and housing. Many in the community work as Uber drivers or household help, while the younger generation increasingly pursue careers in nursing. 

While most community members have never visited the Rubin, and many are unaware of its existence, the service center organizes a summer camp for young Tibetan and Himalayan children, which includes a visit to the museum to explore their heritage. 

“The Rubin always creates beautiful, educational programs for us. I find them so resourceful,” Diki said.  

For Diki, the museum’s value lies in its ability to provide cultural education to younger generations who are growing up far removed from their ancestral homelands. While she acknowledges that the Rubin largely avoids engaging with the politics of Tibetan culture and the genocide, she also believes that “not everything Tibetan has to be political.” 

However, not all community members share this view. Tsultrim argues that while non-Tibetan institutions may choose to remain apolitical, Tibetans themselves often separate cultural from political spaces out of necessity to protect family members in Tibet. 

“The second you are photographed at a political protest here in the U.S., you'll get a call from your aunt in Lhasa, and she'll say, oh, the Chinese Ministry of State Security just invited me out to tea,” said Tsultrim. “Tibetans understand that engaging culturally is where it stops, and beyond that, there are serious risks.”

The complexities of repatriation

"The story of this museum is our conversation with our own mortality," Donald Rubin told the Washington Post in 2004. "Shelly and I talked about it, and we did not want to come to the end of our lives without leaving a legacy."

However, the legacy of the Rubin is subject to debate. From a 2018 documentary exposing the museum as an art smuggler’s alleged client, to a social media campaign in 2021 that voiced concerns about stolen Nepali relics, the museum has been in the spotlight for repatriation controversies. 

The museum repatriated the two relics, and provided financial support for a museum to house them in Nepal, leading to mixed reactions. Some praised the move, while others called it “whitewashing.” In a press release, the Rubin declared that these two artifacts were the first in its collection found to be unlawfully obtained. However, experts suggest that nearly 80 percent of Nepali artifacts outside the country were likely smuggled. 

Repatriating Tibetan artifacts presents greater challenges than those from Nepal. Unlike Tibet, Nepal is a recognized sovereign nation, which in turn recognizes Tibet as a part of China. Repatriation to Tibet would mean giving the artifacts to their very oppressors. Yet this also provides a rationale for Western institutions to retain Tibetan artifacts.

“They [museums] will say, oh well, they [those repatriating] are giving stuff back to China,” said Erin L. Thompson, professor of art history at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. “That means they don't really care about cultural heritage. That means we shouldn't allow them to repatriate any cultural heritage, which means that we get to keep our stuff.” 

While conservationists argue that Western institutions have superior practices to “safeguard” Tibetan relics, this perspective overlooks the history of marginalization that created disparities in conservation knowledge itself. What remains missing, Thompson said, is consultations with Tibetans themselves. 

‘Reimagine: Himalayan Art Now’

According to interviewees, the Rubin’s last exhibition in its Chelsea building, “Reimagine: Himalayan Art Now,” which featured 32 Himalayan and Himalayan-art-inspired, was one of the few exhibitions in the museum’s two decade history that showcased contemporary Tibetan and Himalayan artists. At the same time, media outlets and artists praised the museum for elevating contemporary artists who often lack visibility in the international art community.

“It was a big exhibition internationally,” said Nepali artist Bidhata K. C., whose installation of a tin can prayer wheel commented on consumerism. “It’s a prominent space, as a Nepali local artist.”

Other artists echoed this sentiment. Tenzin Gyurmey Dorjee, an India-based second-generation Tibetan and winner of the 2024 inaugural $30,000 Rubin Museum Himalayan Art Prize, expressed gratitude for participating in the exhibition, having long viewed the Rubin as a prestigious space for Tibetan artists. Dorjee learned art at a young age from his father, who left Tibet at age 13 and honed his skills at a monastery in Sikkim while searching for his sister, whom he lost en route to India.

“Even in India, we don’t get a chance properly,” said Dorjee, whose trap canvas illustration inspired by daily life in India is a part of the exhibition. “I have struggled to be a full-time artist for 10 years. So with this opportunity I feel very thankful.”

While artists like Dorjee struggle to make a full-time living, the Rubin Museum receives substantial funding. According to the Rubin’s 2023 tax filing, the museum's revenue reached $11.7 million, and its total assets were valued at $194 million. None of the key employees are Tibetan, and the highest earners receive compensation ranging from $160,000 to $300,000. In October 2020, the Board of Trustees, who are majorly non-Tibetan, even filed a trademark for their popular exhibit, “Mandala Lab,” securing exclusive rights for its use in museum and educational services.

“Our community has had to rely on the goodwill of other people for a very long time. That can make it really scary for people to speak out,” said a Tibetan-American activist who was part of the protest. They requested anonymity to protect family in Tibet. “It makes us think that maybe this is the best-case scenario.”

Interviewees mentioned that the exhibition was the largest contemporary Himalayan art showcase at the museum yet, planned to celebrate its 20th anniversary. Roshan Mishra, the director of Taragaon Museum in Nepal and co-curator of the exhibit at the Rubin, said that the theme of the exhibition was initially approved by the museum internally. After this, both he and Tsewang Lhamo of Yakpo Collective in New York were approached to co-curate with Michelle Simorella, director of curatorial administration at the museum.

The curators reached out to selected artists on an invite-only basis, of which 32 finalists were chosen. According to the Rubin’s Communications and Marketing team, 23 of the artworks were commissioned. Interviewed artists said they received an honorarium of around $2000 USD, while travel, food, and accommodation were at the expense of the artists. Mishra confirmed that most artists based in Nepal were unable to attend the opening. 

This top-down approach of curation and financial compensation is something Dolma has often seen while working with the Rubin as an unpaid intern in curation and outreach, she said. She also expressed concern over the lack of diversity and Himalayan diaspora among staff, noting that the involvement of artists felt strategic and extractive. 

“It was also quite tokenizing at times about how or when they want community involvement,” said Dolma, whose name has been changed because of her professional relationship with The Rubin. “And once you have strategic outreach, where hardly any money is involved, the community comes and supports you. Then you get protection, you get more grants.”

Kunsang Gyatso, whose exhibit “Goddess of Tangerine” was part of the exhibition, does not oppose the museum holding sacred Himalayan objects, though he admits it is not ideal. Part of the Queens diaspora, he too senses a disconnect between the local community and the museum.

“There are definitely [Himalayan] people in Jackson Heights who have never been to the Rubin or know what it is,” said Gyatso. “It's very rare for someone from the community to venture into downtown, and go see a show there.”

A time of reckoning

Around the world, museums are being critically examined over colonial legacies, with growing calls for repatriation of looted and displaced artifacts. Yet, as media coverage idealizes the museum’s closure as a cultural tragedy or centers perspectives of wealthy patrons rather than the displaced communities whose heritage is on display, Tibetan activists draw parallels to other communities and ask an important question: Who gets to tell the Tibetan story, and who benefits from it? 

“It's the same concept with the U.S. You come to Indigenous land, benefit off of Indigenous people, and now say, ‘We're funding you,’” said Dolma. “It’s a soft power to have art, especially a monopoly over people who scarcely have funding themselves.”

The narrative put forth by both the Rubin and recent coverage portrays the museum as a benevolent patron of Himalayan arts, awarding grants, prizes, and acquisitions to Himalayan artists who hold far less power in deciding who gets the spotlight and who doesn’t. It also often presents a romanticized view of Tibet or the Himalayas, fractured from the region’s lived political reality, such as the Tibetan occupation or the stake of Kashmiri Muslims and Ladakhis in the same ‘Himalayan’ region. 

“The younger generation is asking questions that we did not,” said Sonam Dolma Brauen, a Switzerland-based artist from the exhibition, who fled Tibet during the occupation and spent her teenage years as a poor immigrant in India. “In our time, we never thought about asking them.”

The Rubin’s communications team declined a request for an interview. The Brooklyn museum did not respond to a request to interview. In a public statement, the Rubin Museum pledges to continue “deepening provenance research and fostering dialogue with source countries to further awareness on the topic.” 

The safeguarding of culture

Sunday mornings, a few miles away from the Brooklyn Museum where the Rubin’s collection is poised to be displayed, 11 children aged between six to ten years of age arrive at the New York Tibetan Community Center for their weekly language classes. Hand-drawn posters of the Tibetan alphabet, numbers, and animals cover all four walls. Two teachers attend to the children one by one, helping them write and draw. After some time, papers with rainbows and stick figure families are stacked on the side, and the other half of class begins. 

“Ka, kha, ga, nga…” the children echo, exciting the alphabet.

Tenzin, one of the tutors, said that she does this more for the satisfaction of teaching her language than for the pay. More tutors to attend to the children would be helpful, but they don’t have the means to provide for that as a nonprofit. 

She always urges parents to teach their children about their culture, festivals and speak Tibetan at home. That is the only way their culture will be passed on. 

Last year when she taught at a summer camp, she took the children for a visit to the Rubin and was happy to see Tibetan relics on this side of the world. 

“It’s funny,” she added. “I lived here for nine to 10 years. And I didn't know about the Rubin before that.”

Khushali Haji is a documentary journalist from the Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism who is interested in covering immigrant and South Asian communities in New York.

Shreya Sahai is a Manhattan-based photographer, filmmaker and writer.

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