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!

Feminism

This week, I posted a short comment on social media about a humorous XOJane article about a woman who has decided to "sit" on manspreaders in the New York subway. The resulting thread of comments on this post lead me to mull over what it means to be a feminist, what can be legitimately considered a feminist problem, and how powerful gender and societal constructs truly are.

Some argued that manspreading is simply a non-issue, that they are simply a part of the general indecency of humanity. Others argued that men must sit with their legs open due to physical discomforts with sitting closed legged. Yet another person argued that a woman should not sit on a man for fear of physical violence, and that one should pick one's battles and not risk their safety over such triviality.

Photos from: http://theodysseyonline.com/loyola-marymount/check-your-privilege/192246

All of these arguments are valid in some ways. Yet they all point to the fundamental issue of privilege and consciousness. What is privilege? Privilege is some sort of characteristic that gives one group of people more resources and power over another group. It can be skin color, race, religion, sexual preference, gender, wealth, athletic abilities, among others. What is consciousness? Consciousness is the awareness of oneself as a part of something greater, and the realization that we are all innately equal and deserving of kindness regardless of our physical form and privileges.

Every culture has its own groups of privileged and underprivileged people, with resources divided unequally among them. Even though if we all shared, the world's privileged and underprivileged would be much more balanced, and global sustainability be achieved, we somehow manage to prefer the division of resources based on privilege. Whoever has more resources already wins in the global campaign for power. Each privileged class ignores the needs of another underprivileged class.

This happens everyday all around us, in social constructs that we are barely beginning to challenge. A hundred years ago, women did not have the right to vote, because voting was a man's privilege. A person of color could not ride in the front part of the bus, because they had to give up their seats to white passengers. Colonial countries had to send all their natural raw materials to imperialist countries in order to enrich another nation. And so on.

Due to the bravery of some, these social constructs began to be challenged, because some people said it is wrong to allot more resources to those with privilege. Women demanded for the right to vote. Rosa Parks decided not to move to the back of the bus. Ghandi organized the people of India to drive out the British. These small actions lead to big changes in the way we view certain privileges, until they ceased to be a privilege and were distributed equally to others.

Currently, our problems of equality takes the form of college students who are struggling under massive student debt, people who cannot afford health care due to their professions and income level, racial profiling by the police, and manspreading. Why is manspreading on this list among seemingly larger and more important issues? Because it points to larger preconceived notions of gender and public space that needs to be challenged.

Is manspreading a gender issue? It is if the men who sit with their legs spread open are doing so unconsciously or consciously because of their cultural and gender upbringing. Some men in this culture prefer to sit with their legs crossed all the time, but are mocked for their seeming femininity. Other men sit that way because that's just how men are supposed to sit as prescribed by our culture. And other men sit that way because they are physically larger and need or want more space. In any case, these reasons all lead to the usage of more resources due to privilege. A man's privilege to more space than a woman, who may have been taught to take up less space with her body, even though she may be the same physical size as the man.

If manspreading is a gender issue, then addressing it brings more consciousness to the forefront, and challenges people's preconceived notions of gender and privilege. Dismissing this as a nonissue is yet another way to ignore larger problems related to gender, and to once again assert entitlement and privilege. If someone complains of a problem, instead of listening, we jump in and dismiss their problems because we ourselves have never experienced it, we are just adding to their misery. The same goes for other modern problems like student debt, health care, and racial profiling. It's easy for someone who doesn't experience these as problems to dismiss them, but it doesn't take away from the difficulties of someone who is dealing with these issues.

This is why I feel sad whenever men criticism feminism, either to say it is sexist or that certain issues are not considered feminist. Feminism is the advocating of women's social, economical and political rights. Someone who is a feminist is someone who advocates for these rights. It's no different than someone who is a LGBT activist, or a civil rights activist. A person can also be an advocate of rights for many subcategories. It's all an advancement of equality for everyone in an effort to erase privilege and entitlement. Therefore, if someone in an underprivileged category feels that something is an issue, it is worth addressing, even if it doesn't seem like an issue to another person. In this case, manspreading.

However, all issues are relative to everyone. A person who doesn't have to worry about his next meal may worry more about global warming and the potential threat to human food supplies in the next hundred years. A person who hasn't eaten in three days will care more about his next meal than global warming. Is the worries of the hungry person less important than the worries of the environmental person? Not really. But neither is vice versa. Each person's problem is more important to themselves than to others. The only solution is to come to a mutual understanding and acknowledgement of each person's problems, and the willingness to help each other out to the best of their own abilities. All it takes it that change in mental attitude for the world's problems to be solved. Are we willing to do so and to open our minds to the possibilities of seeing the world from another person's perspective? I certainly hope so...

On Paris

Last night, the world was rocked by news of violent attacks in Paris, the "city of light." Here in the United States, the news broke out as workers prepared to depart the office for the weekend, and the people of France were relaxing at cafes, restaurants and bars on a busy Friday night. For many, their lives will never be the same. They will have lost a loved one, someone they kissed goodbye that morning, or a friend they just called or traded comments with on social media. And for the people of France, their futures are now fraught with the fears of the unknown, of how they will as a society grapple with the question how to respond to terrorism.

Some early evidence point to the conflict in Syria between the Islamic State and the Western coalition as the catalyst for last night's attacks. IS has claimed responsibility, along with the downing of the Russian plane two weeks ago. The world is anxious, afraid and on high alert against future attacks. For me, the saddest part of these atrocities is its impact upon the human consciousness, of how those left behind are beset by crippling regret and doubt, uncertain of whether they can carry on with the same convictions they once had.

Here in the West, where we are untouched by the daily violence and danger faced by those in Syria and other conflict zones, it is hard for us to comprehend what life is like under those conditions. Which is why last night's attack in Paris was so shocking. For most of us, losing a loved one to violence is a rare occurrence. We take for granted that the ones we love will come home to us each night, that our belongings and livelihood are safe, and that things we know and care for will remain stable through time. This is not the realities of people who live in conflict zones. Each day brings new dangers. Each time you see you loved ones may be the last. And yet they carry on living as best as they can. Or they flee their lands through dangerous sea and land passages, with hundreds drowning or freezing to death in the process.

Last night's attacks were the results of political instability and religious conflicts set in motion over decades ago. They were the fruits of intolerance and oppression, now ripened into blood and tears for not only the people of the Middle East, but the entire globe. Those who were previously untouched by violence are now sucked into its vortexes, unable to escape its growing grasp across all demographics.

The question we need to ask ourselves is how we have each contributed to this event, whether it is through direct action or inaction. Did we participate by being silent witnesses to the Syrian conflict and not demanding that our elected officials step in to provide conflict resolution or aid? Or have we been agents of hatred and bigotry, demanding that we add more violence to the already escalating atrocities and growing anti-West sentiments? There are many questions that remain unanswered but must be asked to help us untangle the complex issue of terrorism.

For now, I would like to send courage and serenity to the people of Paris, to tell them the rest of the world is watching and hoping with our hearts that their city of light will not be diminished. That we hope they will use this event to shine their light into the dark recesses of prejudice and hatred and to create change with their continued hope and love during this difficult time.

Witch-hunts

Lately, I've been preoccupied with the story of women accused of sorcery in Papua New Guinea. An article in the Huffington Post last week detailed how women were being tortured and killed by their villages for suspected sorcery. The writer, who met with local women activists trying to combat this practice, also described the socio-economic backgrounds that lead to the culture of witch-hunting.

Photo by Vlad Sokhin from Huffington Post 

The image of this woman being publicly tortured by the mob lingered in my mind, along with another image of a woman being burnt alive. It's something that does not leave your memory - the jarring depiction of modernity juxtaposed against ancient belief systems and gender inequality. For me, this is something I feel I must address in my work somehow, because it is relevant not just in the far corner of Papua New Guinea, but also relevant to our everyday interactions as people with one another.

Violence against women is of historical nature. Throughout time, women's bodies have been traded, used, pillaged, and oppressed by various agencies. Women have only just started to be defined by something other than their bodies in this century, but the road to equality is hard and steep. Often, women are targeted because they have weaker status in society and make easier targets for those who want to confiscate their property. Other times, the witch hunt is simply an explosion of communal anxiety that manifests itself in scapegoating misfortunes on those who are either more prosperous, or who have weaker social political ties.

The phenomenon of the witch-hunt is an interesting one, in that it is present across many different cultures, and also manifests itself in times of social turmoil, when misfortunes are unexplained. It's interesting how the community vents its anger and fear through the purging of one of its own. The innocent victim bears the brunt of their fury, their bodies beaten and broken by the mob's intense anger. To the witch-hunters, they are simply cleansing their community of unwanted pestilence. The burning of witches a symbol of purification.

What I want to explore is the concept of the female body within this context of social pressures. It's interesting to me how the female body is both a symbol of desire and fear. On one hand, the female body is celebrated in western culture, with mass media's constant barrage of the ideal feminine beauty from every lifestyle magazine and ad. On the other hand, the female body is feared and controlled by mass culture in the form of slut shaming, sexual violence, and body image propaganda. In the case of the witch hunts in Papua New Guinea (surprisingly similar to the witch hunts in Salem), the female body epitomizes the evil that cannot be understood, and that which becomes the embodiment of communal fears, and outlet for growing frustrations.

I sometimes wish I could be liberated from my body, and be a formless entity defined only by my mind. This is, of course, impossible. But I feel that I must somehow convey this sense of frustration and injustice through my work, to expand the definition of the female body beyond the usual fine art motif of the reclining nude, a bourgeois fantasy of feminine ennui. Hopefully, these ideas will find their way out of my mind and become paintings. In the mean time, the research about witch craft and gender based violence is gearing me toward future work and providing me with some direction.

The Meaning of Beauty

I realized this last weekend that my hair was falling out inordinately, and that I could even see my scalp through my hair in certain areas. I could not figure out what caused this initially. But after some reflection, I realized that the prior months had been incredibly stressful as I made my job transition from one higher education institute to another. Prior to last year, I had thought I would continue working the evening shift while painting during the day. But life had other plans, and I am now at work by 8:30 a.m. each day, which has lead me to put art on the back burner.

This is my 10th year out of college, and there has been much juggling in the last decade, usually with full time school and part time job, or full time job and part time school. It's been strange to not be in school for the past year. A part of me misses the routine of drawing, of arriving at the studio first thing in the morning and drawing for hours. But another part of me realizes I must move on from these studies and find my own voice in my work.

Right now is perhaps the most difficult period of my artistic life thus far - figuring out what I want to paint or draw, wondering if there is any value to any of my ideas, while battling fatigue and fear to actually devote myself to studio time. It feels like everything hinges on me getting to the studio each evening, and each time I fail to make it out of my apartment is yet another failure.

Things reached a breaking point when I noticed my hair loss this last week, I told myself that it was time for me to practice some self care, and to not push myself so hard. The constant pressure to do something, to make something of my time and to perform was causing me so much stress that I could not do much except stew in anxiety and then battle through another day or work and unproductive studio time.

Rockeby Venus by Diego Velasquez

It also lead me to think about the idea of beauty and permanency. A lot of contemporary artists paint in similar genres. Examples include seated/reclining nudes, portraits, landscapes, or allegory. What I find intriguing is that few artists use models who actually look like real people, as in people with wrinkles, scars, sags, and other imperfections. A lot of artists will make a model look more perfect in their work, thereby enhancing the idea that beauty is the study of perfection rather than truth, and that physical beauty is the universal language of human desire. However, the human condition is one of continuous decay and regeneration, and the processes of aging and death are rarely represented in paintings, since most artists are fixated upon capturing beauty. Even when aging is represented, it is more of a study in technical proficiency rather than commentary on the actual process of aging itself.

While I'm the product of the atelier system, which has revived classical drawing and painting and given many contemporary artists sound techniques, I have been feeling more and more drawn to non representational art, mainly for their devotion to exploring contemporary issues. Few artists I know of in the contemporary field are exploring topics such as gender, poverty, and politics. It seems like the market is being saturated with genre paintings catering to patrons who want to decorate their homes with works of similar aesthetics.

So what is the artist's choice? Granted some artists are creating work outside of these genres (Vincent Desiderio, Steven Assael, Rose Freymuth-Frazier), but these seem to be the exceptions and not the rule. While there is something hugely satisfying about carefully rendering an object so that the viewer is awed by the illusion created, something seems to be missing from the contemporary painting world. There is a disconnect between contemporary realism and the rest of the world, as if we are representing the 1 percent of privilege that exists outside of the realm of the 99 percent faced with real problems.

What is the purpose of art if not to speak truth? For beauty will fade, but truth remains. I grow tired of allegory and talking in circles, and wish for something more visceral, more connected to the actualities in which we live. I'm not speaking of painting to shock or to glorify ugliness and pain, but rather depicting something that calls to the humanity within each of us, outside of the ideologies of mass culture and consumption, something that would be sincere and true. Perhaps this is the direction in which my work will progress, and I must find my own voice and vision in this grand tapestry that we call life...