All the planning, visualizing, coordinating, plot maps, surveys, mounting, frame making, meetings, anticipating, joy and angst are now all but memories.
The exhibition was a still-born to begin with. We were rejected initially. Fortunately one member of the group persisted and one year later we got the gig. One puts forth all that energy, to have a moment of discussing art in a legitimate and conducive environment, and be able to grasp the moments of stimulating exchanges, only to be dealt the inevitable ebb that follows;
There is no real reason to start a new day now.
Is this what postpartum blues feels like?
There were some moments during this exhibition that were endearing to me.
Typically the conversation during such an event revolved around "what is your medium", "do you use India Ink?","is that water color?" , "what is that red mark, is that your name?"; and ended with " Xuan? Oh you mean rice paper!"
I encountered none of these this time around.
3 pieces of my work received a lot of attention.
The first one is labelled LONELY.
It was a dark piece, both in tone and in substance. Ostensibly I was trying to depict a lone wolf crying to the moon. However the birds in the barren tree revealed by the cold moon told a different story; at least in my mind. The birds had found refuge, they had a place to nest, even in an unforgiving tree, yet the wolf beckoned. For what, I don't know. Surely the animals are of different species and any kinship is unlikely, yet the wolf longed for company, be it the moon, be it the birds, be it the tree, be it just the cold night.
Most people who would open up and discuss the painting with me got the message. I was convinced the title helped to convey that. It was interesting however to note the other extreme of the spectrum. A visitor asked me what kind of birds were in the trees, to which I answered with a rhetorical and perhaps annoyed tone: "Does it matter?" At this point other visitors chimed in by offering me moral support, by adding to my quip, by saying the species of the animals did not matter at all. They were just convincingly opportune props for my story telling.
The piece I named GOING HOME was originally called All By Herself.
I renamed it because I thought the new name was more apt to tune people in. I believed Going Home was a more encompassing title, able to corral more complex emotions. I had written in the past about whether a piece of work should be named or explained. My assertion was that yes it should, and a proper title helps to steer people. I sought the help of a lone woman, in eminently disappearing daylight, and a place yet to collect diners, to set the stage for inopportune occasions; wrong place, wrong time. Time waits for nobody.
For those who got the message, they distinctly remembered the title, and vividly described the emotions they felt. I could never forget the quivering voice that uttered to very few words but that the painting was "poignant". I could look into her eyes and saw her soul. We were at the same place.
Then there was the INTREPID TRAVELERS.
No one asked me how it was done.
I stated in my previous blogs about the composition and the technique employed in completing this piece. The landscape and the reflections of the riders in water were just there to showcase and to challenge my craftsmanship. The real dialogue was delivered by the vast sky. It was this 90 percent of the painting that the visitors were relating to, telling me how they perceived the story. In a way the vast empty space with coffee and tea stain functioned like a Rorschach inkblot test. It was a vehicle by which people told of their own personal experience.
In this particular instance, it was paradoxical that the title did nothing to guide the audience to the four creatures in the painting. They were not fooled by the prop and were able to look at the bigger stage.
The stage of emotions and feelings, and all the textures that accompanied them.
