What Makes an Artist?

So last night I was talking about music theory with Andy, when he mentioned he doesn't know how to read music. This was mind boggling to me, since he plays in a band and writes songs, and is multi-instrumental (bass, guitar, drums, saxophone). I remember a lot of musicians I've met in Jazz and band were similar. Very creative, but can't tell you the difference between C or G on sheet music. Whereas I started learning classical piano by age 5, and spent about 10 years playing everything from Beethoven to Bach. Our approaches are completely different. Mine is very mental and structured. His is very free and instinctual. I watched a short Youtube video with Andy that explained the difference between the Melodic and Harmonic scales, and he almost fell asleep from boredom. *I thought the guy was hilarious, especially when explaining the devil's interval...

What strikes me is how theory and skill do not an artist or musician make. I've never written a song in my life, even though I love fiddling on the guitar and teaching myself how to play F diminished chords and then sharing my exciting discovery with Andy. Whereas he doesn't really feel like he needs to learn theory, because he would just figure out where on the guitar he wants his fingers to be to produce the sound he wants in his music. I feel that it's the same with art. Just because I spent 7 years learning classical techniques doesn't really make me an artist. With time and practice, I'll be lucky to turn out a decent painter. It still doesn't make me an artist. Because art is something that is beyond the techniques, something inborn that has to be expressed outwards. And sometimes a person can be completely untrained and still be an artist. And other times, a very well trained person can have no artistic urge to produce other than just copying what he or she sees. In some ways, the classical painters are like the classical musicians I know and was - able to reproduce different beautiful interpretations of nature or classical song. But there is something to be said about the simple well written song that consists of just 3 chords, perfectly executed with meaningful lyrics.

One of my favorite musicians from Fleet Foxes, Robin Pecknold, sums it up nicely here, on what it is like to learn music theory at Columbia University after selling many alums:

"College has helped me practically in terms of a more legit arts education and some music theory stuff that is helpful when arranging songs. But it was also paralyzing at times. In indie rock you can throw some flutes on a song and it sounds high minded but that wouldn’t play in academia or academic art music at all, so for a while I had no idea what to do or which path I wanted to go down. For a second I thought about becoming a composer but I realized I would be really out of my depth, and I really love good songwriting and interesting melody and the human voice too much to try and move into that world, I’d be a pretender."

Picture from Billboard.com

It's interesting because essentially, by learning music theory, it's made it somewhat harder for Pecknold to be as naturally creative. What he thought of as meaningful or special in the past, is now cliche or simplistic. Sometimes I wish I could go back and unlearn everything I learned in classical art, so I could return to the simple joy that painting used to be for me. But in other ways, by raising the bar, I have a lot to explore. At the heart of the matter, is deciding what I want to do with my work, whether it is to continue down the academic path, or to be more free and exploratory. Both are valid, but coming to terms with my own limitations as an artist as well as my natural inclinations will likely define my work for the next few years. I hope that Fleet Foxes will return with more music, but I also hope I will have an open mind and be willing to accept their stylistic changes.

Oh Captain My Captain. For My Friend Taken by Depression

I want to talk about depression. On its silent presence in our lives. Barely acknowledged by society. Masked by accomplishments. Sleeping quietly with those who can no longer suffer its whispers. I want to talk about how depression took away my friend, who was young, talented, and seemingly full of life. I want us to talk about the pain that he suffered that ultimately led to his death. I want us to find a way to help those who are suffering silently, but feel the need to put on a cheerful front until they finally cannot anymore. 

Today, I attended my friend’s memorial service, held in the beautiful gardens of the Morton Arboretum. Beneath the drooping canopy of the trees sat a table, upon which a box of his ashes rested amongst flowers. A silver framed picture of him looking into the distance stood next to the flowers. He seemed wistful in the picture, so far away from all of us now that he has traveled back into the great beyond. He was 38, and had taken his own life after a recent bout of depression. The garden filled quietly with friends and family, too many to fit into the chairs, standing and murmuring softly amongst each other about his life. He was an artist, a cyclist, a friend, an uncle, a brother, and a kind human being who left this world too young. His death shook us to the core, and left with us the bitter knowledge that love alone could not save him from his depression, for depression cares not about good intentions.

For me, depression has been a faithful companion since early childhood. I was only 5 or 6 years old when I had first felt its presence, telling me to throw myself off of the balcony because I was worthless. I never told anyone about this, and hid my sadness throughout my childhood, channeling my grief into art, school, and relationships. But the sadness did not go away, and it accompanied me into adolescence and adulthood. I learned to become a high functioning depressive – responsible and dependable on the outside, secretly dying on the inside. At times, the depression lifts, and I am able to feel momentary peace and serenity. But then it returns, and I am debilitated by its influence. Outside of work, my depression often causes me to feel too tired to do much else. The things that I love to do, such as art, wait by the wayside while I swim sluggishly through my depression.

Through therapy, I have learned the importance of self-care in my constant battle against depression. I work out. I eat right. I see my friends. I make time to relax. I do art when I can without putting too much pressure on myself. But the struggle is constant, and relapse is always imminent. After a serious episode in my early twenties, I had vowed to never again let depression cripple me. But like all chronic illnesses, it can return without warning, and slowly creep up on me. I would describe its influence as being like the Dementors in the Harry Potters series, only invisible. You don’t even realize you are losing all of your life energy until you are already drained of all happiness and left an empty shell.

Yet despite all of the suffering I’ve endured, and all of the work I’ve done to battle my depression, I often feel guilty for being depressed. I feel that I am undeserving of help, and that self-care is more like self-indulgence, that someone with as many privileges as I have should simply toughen up and stop my self-pity. But this very train of thought is often what leads to suicide for those who are depressed. The pain of living with such guilt and anxiety becomes overwhelming, and the only solution becomes the quietude of death. Even though it seems absurd to outside observers, a depressed person’s choice of suicide is often, in their current state of mind, the most logical option. By dying, they are sparing their loved ones the pain of seeing them suffer. By taking their own life, they are no longer a burden upon their friends, who they believe have been too kind to let them know that they were tired of hearing them complain. In ending their life, they could preserve a little bit of themselves before their complete decline into sorrow and madness. These are all logical reasons to a suicidal depressive, and often the motivation for their death.

I know that my friend fought a long and hard battle with his depression. In the end, he had to go, even though we weren’t prepared for him to leave. He stayed as long as he possibly could, and I admire his courage and perseverance. I hope that he has found peace where he has gone, and that someday we will meet again. While I am still here on this Earth, I hope that I can help make this battle against depression a little less lonely for other people, and let them know that the future can hold happiness and change. I hope my message will help them reach out for support, and find that it is possible to keep on living a full life, even with their depression.

Goodbye Peter. We love you, and we will see you soon.


Here are some good resources on depression and suicide prevention:

https://afsp.org/find-support/resources/
http://www.adaa.org/understanding-anxiety/depression
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lea-lane/suicide-prevention_b_3320732.html

Bi-Cultural Me! An Experience in Fludity

I often feel like a hypocrite when I tell my relatives in Taiwan "I'm too American for that." The that being something which I was reluctant to do, like fighting over checks at dinner, or taking direct criticism about my appearance or success with a laugh. The sense of hypocrisy is at its most intense when I'm around American friends or colleagues, and I somehow feel very out of place, like an in between person - too American to exist in Taiwan, and too Taiwanese to exist in America.

Upon reading this lovely essay by ZP Dala from the New York Times Magazine, I found myself thinking a lot about culture and roots. Where ones comes from is often the source of ones inspirations and home to ones most delightful comforts. For example, when I think of comfort food, I think immediately of white rice congee sprinkled with bits of shredded pork flakes, topped with seaweed paste. The taste of the smooth rice porridge laced with bits of sweet saltiness, along with the crunch of pickles and the soft earthiness of stewed peanuts replays in my mind whenever I feel under the weather. Like some sort of haunting tune I cannot ignore, no matter how many times I swear off eating carbs for the sake of slimness.

Cultural nuances such as not bragging about one's accomplishments often keep me from the spotlight at work. It's bad form in Asian countries to brag about oneself, so I often stop myself from saying anything at meetings, even when I feel that my contribution would be appreciated. I'm always waiting politely for someone else to say nice things about me, which is the common Asian way, instead of jumping in with remarks. This is particularly frustrating when I skulk away from the meeting table feeling like once again I did not share my thoughts, and silently berate myself for being a misfit.

In some ways, being a bi-cultural person has its advantages. For example, I often feel like social rules don't apply to me from either cultures, since I'm technically an in betweener. I don't subscribe much to Asian portrayals of beauty (willow thin, pale, with long straight hair, and big doll like eyes framed in black lashes), nor Asian American beauty stereotypes (athletically thin, tanned, with long straight hair and smokey cat eye makeup). I'm basically free to be outside both beauty norms and just be myself. *This often causes consternation for both sides of the cultural divide!

When it comes to art, I think that my aesthetics straddles both manga culture as well as European classicism. I'm equally drawn to picturesque compositions with wide ranging value structures as I am to very graphic and flat portrays of people, particularly because of Chinese ink brush painting, which often depicts facial features with simple strokes and sparse backgrounds. There is something immensely ghostly and ephemeral about Chinese painting that is the antithesis of Western classical painting, which strives to capture all. Even the loosest paintings by the Naturalists still emphasize accuracy more than Eastern paintings, which strive to capture mood.

So I guess the question is what my art will ultimately evolve to, and whether my Eastern roots will influence my artistic choices over time. I hope they do, since I find multi-culturalism so important to my life, and so very interesting on physical, intellectual and emotional levels. In the mean time, I plan on eating as much congee as I can while swearing that I am quitting carbs any day now. It will happen!