Beaten Paths

I was granted a deeper understanding of  Vive Ya.

On a recent trip I took to Nevada, our tour bus travelled through an area of Oregon that was devastated by forest wild fire a year ago.  The highway carved its way along a narrow river valley cradled by steep hills on both sides.  I definitely understand now why people chose places like that to be their homesteads.  So picturesque.  Before the fire that is.

The steep hills adjacent to the highway meant the miles of charred and burnt timber that needed to be fallen had no place to fall.  Thus the highway was reduced to one lane traffic with pilot cars leading the convoys of alternating come and go traffic, and the wait was up to 30 minutes at times.  During these stops, I saw for the first time how extensive the inferno was, and was trying hard to play the game of make-believe; which escape route would I have chosen. The shoulders of the highway was transformed into make shift lumber mills, where the burnt timber was cut to length so they could fit on logging trucks, and all the scraps were turned into wood chips and piled on the side of the highways.  The air was still rancid and veiled in smoke from new fires that were burning in other parts of Oregon.  A burnt and abandoned fire-truck on the side of the highway was the ultimate testament to the ferocious fire; the whole scene was just like a doomsday movie set.

Yet in this charred out landscape, one could see new stick-frames of two by fours being erected, and concrete foundations being poured.  Rebuilding has already started.  Resiliency.  A will to survive. 

I didn't know this was just a prelude to the events to follow.

We reached Nevada and gambling was legal.  One of the fellow passenger was having an upper hand at the slot machine one night in the hotel lobby and we told her in jest, "Quit while you're ahead. By the way, where is your hubby?"

"He wasn't feeling too good so he's resting in the room"

Next morning after boarding the tour bus, we were told that we would not be departing on time.  One of the fellow passenger had passed away during the night and his widow now had to make the necessary arrangements.  The lady who had luck with the slot machine lost her husband that night.

As it turned out, the couple was celebrating their 53rd wedding anniversary on this trip as the now widow announced through her quivering voice. " At least now my husband's in a happier place!"   As one life cycle ends, another cycle begins... I surmised.  She has to find new meanings for life.

Vive Ya!

Indeed my last blog was about not being afraid to change, I just happened to paraphrase Live Now.

While still thinking about my new way to "chuen" tree stands, I was having a video chat with my brother.  For some reason he blurted out a phrase that I was not familiar with.

" 桃李無言 "

That translates to peach and pear say nothing.

He elucidated me that this was a verse from a famous Southern Song poet and statesman Xin Qiji (辛棄疾).   The complete verse was "桃李無言 下自成蹊", which means " peach and pear trees need not say anything, but because of their flowers and fruits, beaten paths are formed under the trees from people frequenting them".   As long as one is true, an audience will be granted.  Such wisdom is sorely needed in today's society, where social media and infuencers relentlessly hype a buzz word or a cliche, trivializing everything in their paths.  Perhaps I've witnessed one too many painting of a raised fist.

I found resonance in these eight words, so I incorporated them into my painting.  True my painting was not about peach or pear trees, but nonetheless trails were built under trees because they provide shade and respite.  If we insist on the literal interpretation of the words, then we've missed the boat entirely.  I am not revealing the words by circling them and pointing them out.  They shall remain enigmatic, sort of a challenge to locate them, even for myself.  Suffice to say that they are right smack in the middle of the painting, becoming the texture of tree barks. 

I chose to color the painting from the back of the Xuan, first yellow then green, giving it just a hint of color, setting a mood instead of announcing an overt presence.

I do like the apparent depth provided by coloring on the back of the Xuan paper.  I don't know whether it's psychological or not, but the fact that the color seeps through from the back seems to have added distance to the whole setting.  There is a three dimensional feel to the painting.  

Also the fact that the color is not directly reflected from the surface, it is very much attenuated under dim lighting of indoors.

Whereas under a well lit setting, more green comes through the fibers

I suppose we do perceive different feelings during different times of the day in the same woods.
If I am bound by the same woods, at least I get to enjoy the different lightings of these woods and muse at the significance, or lack of, through these transformations.   Who knows, if I wander long enough I might carve out my own beaten paths.  

Dare to change, Vive ya

Starting a painting is one of the most difficult task, I think.

When I look at a blank piece of Xuan, I begin to fret. Where do I start, which area gathers the darkest ink value, should I "cheat" by sketching a rough outline first, etc.  Mind you, I usually don't start a painting without having run through an image in my mind a hundred times so theoretically I should already have a pretty concrete blueprint in my head.  It's just a matter of translating it on paper.  Yet the understanding that the Xuan paper is unforgiving, in that it registers every minute nuance of the brushstroke, and that I am suppose to refrain from overpainting on areas that have been painted already, creates this innate fear that whatever I lay down on the pristine Xuan is going to be so final.  It almost demands that each movement of my brush needs to be perfect; it has to be done right the very first time.

Obviously this is hogwash and the self-inflicting suffocation sometimes seems like a requisite ritual that I must hurdle before I can start.  I've heard sayings like you should write or paint for the waste basket.  Don't be so hung up on the demand that each piece of work is worthy, just assume that I will file them in the round basket.  It's easier said than done.

I've had teachers that would correct my paintings by overpainting on them.  The corrections usually involve how a brushstroke needs to be done, and seldom about composition or anything else.  My brushstrokes would be unbecoming for an orchid, or my "chuen" is non-descriptive etc.  My teacher would paint over my work to illustrate their points.  

I've also had a teacher that would not lay a hand on my works.  The teacher would just critique and it's up to me to perceive the shortcomings and make corrections.  Thus my job is to make changes, perhaps by starting a new version of the same painting, incorporating alterations and see if  I truly understand what is wrong and try to be able to pass muster eventually.  After all the major faults are addressed, the next question from the teacher is always " do you consider your painting done?"  The teacher would never say if the painting is good as it stands, or if it needs progression.

Thus the teacher in the latter scenario resembles more of  a graduate study course, where I am expected to have all the prerequisite techniques checked off and I am now honing my skills by delving into the detailed intricacies of brush painting.  My teacher's reticence purportedly is based on the desire to revamp the rote system of studying brush painting, and not wanting the temptation for students to imprint on the teacher's style or techniques.

For a student who suffers from impatience and always eager to see the completion of a piece of work, this is a torture.  Especially as I worked as a pharmacist in my younger days, the ability to fill hundreds of prescriptions daily means I must concentrate on and sign off on hundreds of tasks on a daily basis.  To leave a prescription "unfinished" is a cardinal sin, and the phrase "not done yet" is clearly not in my vocabulary.  

Whereas impatience prods me to hurry on a painting, impulsiveness prompts me to unabashedly alter a "finished" painting.  I suppose the word impulsive is a relative term.  A lot of pondering and waging over time, looking at a "finished" painting and ruminating on the possible paths to alter the painting, leads to the sudden "impulsive" event.  Some of my recent feats involve using sand paper to correct tonal qualities and using latex paint to overpaint my rams.  With the help of these seemingly sophomoric methods, I am also more willing to buck the restraints a little.  One of those restraints stems from what I was taught from early on, to use a blank void as "white" value.  Hence waterfalls, water, stream, clouds, mist are never painted with any hint of a white pigment.  My most recent attempt at Multnomah Falls changed all that;  I find new energy in actually using a white pigment to paint something "white".

So I dug up a "finished" painting that is all of a sudden deemed "unfinished".  This is a painting of a inner city park that I frequent, and it attempts to showcase the filtered light shrouding the branches and trunks of the woods.  Aside from a sentiment being told with light, I tried to impart some compositional skill by including a zig zig pathway at the bottom of the painting, to contrast with the vertical lines.

 

I relied on different ink tones to describe how I perceived light in this woods.  My intention now is to alter the painting, with the help of white pigment.  I am willing to suffer the consequence if the scheme is not workable, yet I have this anticipation of something new and drastically different from the original interpretation.

With seemingly random, but judiciously placed dabs and lines, my titanium white laden brush tip begins to make leaves and branches shimmer in the light.

The owl that's been quietly perching on a branch gets a more rounded face, as in a barn owl.  This owl was actually inspired by reports of park visitors getting attacked by owls, for apparently coming too close to their nests.  Personally I just assume the owl adds a little bit of drama to the static scenery.

Then another mischievous thought comes to mind.  What if I find a new way to show texture of the tree trunks.  I mean, is there a way to "chuen" trunks, the way we do rocks or mountains in landscape painting,  How would I invent a way to paint the bark?

For some reason a picture comes into focus.

These are sutras carved onto stone pillars and they adorn the grounds of the huge Buddha statue in Hong Kong.

Don't they resemble the stands of trees in my woods?  Can't the calligraphy on the pillars be the "chuen" that I am looking for, as a means to add texture to my trees?  Can they be the grooves on the tree bark?

There's only one way to find out.

I begin my experiment by writing words on the back of the painting, where the tree trunks are.  My theory is that the translucent Xuan will allow some of the writings to come through on the top side.  The fact that the words are now illegible will make them perfect candidates as "chuen" brushstrokes, as in a novel way to texture tree trunks.  I am WRITING barks.

Viewed from the top side of the painting

This seems like a lot of nonsense and going through a long rigmarole to do a simple task; in other words being absurdly redundant.  

Well granted there is certainly a heavy dose of that stench but I just couldn't hide my giddy grin and my goofy glint for I succeeded in totally geeking out.  Who knows, perhaps I am bored.  The fact that no one else will appreciate what I am doing is really not important.  The important thing is that I am the one who initiates the change and only I know about all the little sheepish details; about this new reality. Without my impatiently painted first editions, I would not have been motivated to do my second or third editions.  And while I am contemplating the merits, or lack of, of my nerdy episode, I am beginning to understand perhaps what Laura Pausini and Andrea Bocelli sang in "Vive ya",

     Vive ya, no se puede vivir sin un pasado