Some of my framed pieces

I forgot who was it that said, and I couldn't remember the exact words, but the sentiment was that artworks are validated by where and how they're displayed.  I personally resonate with that suggestion.  The mere fact that a piece of work is displayed in a gallery or museum, suspended with engineered harness system and illuminated by strategically placed lighting means it has gained acceptance by the establishment.  If that piece of art work can muster a roped off area with a bench placed at an appropriate viewing distance from it, then it has attained a prima donna status.   How about millions of ceramic sunflower seeds at the Tate Museum?   Would one consider that a master piece or even art if one finds that heap on a sidewalk.   How provocative is that.  Let's not be hypocrites now, how many times have we heard ourselves or others utter under our breaths "my child could have done that!"

I remember watching a clip of Joshua Bell performing incognito at the subways platform in New York and with a few exceptions most of the bridge-and-tunnel bipedals didn't even break their strides, barely casting a second glance.

One might argue that most of these folks might not be Lincoln Center patrons, and Sibelius might be just as foreign to them as Chi Baishi, but if the subway was to be transformed into Lincoln Center and people had to pay good money to watch him play, would we have witnessed a different outcome?

Schubert died at the age of 31 and left with over 1,000 pieces of un-published work, only now do we appreciate his greatness.  Doug Engelbart, a fellow Oregon Stater who invented the computer mouse pointer back in the sixties never received any accolades nor royalties from his invention that we take for granted today.  He was ahead of his time, the infra structure for personal computing had not been developed yet.

I suppose the reason that I dressed up some of my paintings with a frame is my way of validating my works, or satisfying my own narcissistic urges.  I mean, even getting a haircut during the Covid shutdown is such a big deal, so how about making some of my paintings more presentable, albeit not a haircut, for no excuses other than for my own consumption?  They are hanging on my walls nonetheless.  Museum pieces they are not, providing enjoyment they do.  They are like our children, and all our children are gems, right?

 Serene Lake  51 in x 27 in

 Pear Flower   20 in x 20 in

 Geese Fluted  50 in x 26 in

 Year of the monkey  24 in x 24 in

 Peony   20 in x 20 in

 Oblivious   33 in x 23 in

 I see the light   23 in x 33 in

 Midnight   23 in x 33 in

 Going Home   23 in x 33 in

 Year of the rat   23 in x 23 in

 Foraging in snow  33 in x 23 in

 Respite   33 in x 23 in

Canada  Geese   37 in x 22 in 

 Quorum   49 in x 22 in

 Winter   49 in x 26 in

 Pillars   23 in x 33 in

 Korean Maidens   23 in x 33 in

 Rendezvous   30 in x 16 in

  

 Year of the rooster   25 in x 25 in

 Rose   23 in x 33 in

 Beaverton Creek    26 in x 36 in

 Intrepid Travelers   30 in x 53 in

 Puppy   17.5 in x 13 in

 Silk landscape   17.5 in x 13 in

 Lonely   27 in x 21 in

Yellow mountain   37 in x 25 in

 Lotus   13 in x 37 in x 2 panes 

Korean maidens displayed on top of  an occasional table 

Reflection

The year of the Rat certainly is a strange one to say the least.  I honestly thought I was going to push at least a couple more pins to my world atlas on the cork board to remind myself where I had been, in case my gray matter continues to shrink.  I almost bought my fares for travelling, fortunately procrastination saved my bacon.

Obviously I have ample opportunity to reflect on places where I had left my footprints; especially poignant when I am not allowed to venture too far these days due to the pandemic.  I don't want to be embroiled in today's issues but being a septuagenarian I can't help but reflect on my experiences here and abroad, both good and bad; privileged and not so privileged.  I recall the early days of  becoming a pharmacist, as a member of the most trustworthy profession who happens to be of  a minority race here.  Oh, so dichotomous!  I remember asking my colleagues what gook meant, since some of the people I served addressed me by that name and I've not had the good fortune of learning that word when I was studying English in Hong Kong.

What I was reflecting on these past few weeks was actually something more tranquil, a waterfowl refuge.  I used to frequent this sanctuary quite often before I hung up my white smock for good since it was not too far from my place of employment.  I used to go there to relax and forget about filling prescriptions.

I shall attempt to put my thoughts on Xuan.

I wanted to portray a levy in this refuge, and the reflection of this levy in the water of course.  I wrestled with myself a little bit as where to locate the levy.  Ideally it would be right smack in the middle of the paper so I could devote the same amount of attention to the reflection in the water, but I remembered being told that this would be bad composition.  I decided on a compromise;  levy bisecting the paper, but with a little footbridge access on one side to break the line up.  

I folded my un-sized Xuan into halves, and I would paint my levy on the crease line.

I decided for a half submerged access to add a little interest to the otherwise straight horizontal line.

The color looks more saturated when wet but dries to a much lighter value.  This is especially true when painting with Xuan.

For the reflection in the water, I cheated by folding the paper over and sort of traced the trees from the other side since the paper is translucent. 

I used a rather dry, hairs split brush to paint my reflection.  My brushstrokes were all in the side-tip fashion, revealing texture and shape.   Keeping it loose was the mantra. 

Adding color values to my brushstrokes 

The white specks in the attached insert is actually blemishes of the Xuan.  When errant drops of alum solution landed onto this un-sized Xuan during the manufacturing process, they dried to form these color resistant spots.  This is how I was inspired to start painting with alum solution, to take advantage of its dual property both as a mordant and as a resist when painting on un-sized Xuan. 

Working in my reflection

And the corresponding hilly features above the water.

Mixing a little cinnabar with light ink I concocted an atmospheric wash.

When dried

Good place to stop.  This painting will be pinned on my wall and I would cast it occasional glances and I'll allow the painting to tell me what to do next.

My Third Refrain on Yang Pass 西出陽關無故人

For some reason I seem to be fixated on desert and camel whenever I think about stories relating to Song of the City of Wei 渭城曲 ( aka Weicheng Qu) , an iconic poem by the Tang poet Wang Wei.  I believe my obsession has a lot to do with how I perceive this poem.  It is undeniable that the poetry identified the City of Wei (today's Xianyang) along the Wei River, thus not a desert.  However that city is only the location of a farewell between Wang and his friend, and the beginning of a long, grueling journey across an inhospitable desert.  The writing noted a landmark, Yang Pass, as a symbolic end of civilization beyond which lies melancholic forsakenness.  Wang felt helpless that he must bid adieu to his friend.  It is this poetic feeling of resignation and not the actual setting of the City of Wei that evoked my senses.

Having laid the groundwork for my painting in ink, I began the coloring process.  I chose the semi-sized Xuan because I wanted the color to float.  I had a sandstorm in mind.  The semi-sized paper also tend to mute the color a bit, rendering a natural haze to the painting.

I got the right hue for the sky by mixing ink and indigo, leaving places uncovered to reveal clouds.

I wanted to create a more dramatic contrast between the foreground and the distant scenery, so I darkened the stone bricks with ink.  Using side-tip technique and a uneven coverage, the darker ink helped to add more convincing texture to the stones.  I left the voids between the bricks alone, they would become the mortars.  In a way I was using the stones as an impressionistic frame for my desert. 

A much more intense perspective of inside versus outside was achieved.  Now the diminutive desert seemed less like an insert and more convincing as the view outside the sentry window.

Tidied up little details here and there, still not satisfied with my camel.  Then it dawned on me that my idea of the traveler walking with his camel was certainly endearing, or even altruistic in a sense, but the practicality of the camel as a freight hauling vehicle certainly could not be discounted.

Thus I added some provisions onto the sides of the camel.  Now a bactrian camel laden with freight being led by a traveler with walking stick is a more plausible story line.  Together they would brave the distance and any calamity that might come their way.  I mean if I was a producer making a movie about the Song of the City of Wei, this would be the last footage the audience would see as the credits are being superimposed on the silver screen; and the house lights slowly coming back on.

Since I made reference to the refrains of the Yang Pass Song, the Three refrains on the Yang Pass Theme, which by the way is a famous Guqin piece, I would like to present my three refrains from a visual standpoint:

In the top two inserts, I had the Yang Pass in the distance.  My current plot has the traveler passing through Yang Pass, heading to his final destination; a scenario more in tune with the poem. Thus my third refrain hinges on the final verse of the poem.

Safe traveling my friend!

Yang Pass Revisited

Not having a lot of places to visit due to the pandemic, I am relying more on electronic means to keep up with the real world and to let my acquaintances know that I am still kicking and breathing.  I must say that it feels good to re-connect with people whom I've grown distant for some reason.  One thing is for sure, junk mails are still annoying.

The unforeseen current events not only shut down my demonstration sessions but also threw a monkey wrench into my applications for a chance to exhibit my works.  Dates were either canceled or postponed, meaning the adjudication process was put on hold too.  One of the venue would adopt a strictly virtual environment, showcasing accepted works online, with no provision for physical viewing.  Applicants were told to spruce up their websites so that interested parties would have a chance to scrutinize works other than the juried ones.  My in-box finally popped a "Not Chosen" response from a gallery.  In the rejection email, there was the usual generic explanation and thank you for your interest verbiage but also there was something more specific to the effect that due to the prevailing events on the streets, a lot of the accepted works somehow showed people's reaction to the issues of our society, as in their facial expressions.  

What was not expected was a second communication from the gallery, trying to dispel the impression that somehow the accepted works were all portraits.  It went on to say that the call was for works that the artists deem to have left a mark.  Thus works that reflect the current state of affairs were more relevant and congruent with the mission.  

Obviously what I consider as my mark is markedly different from other people's mark.  Since I am not the person marking the mark, who am I to say that so and so missed the mark.  Some will argue that galleries and museums often dictate what is relevant art or not, thus molding and shaping the public at large.  Is this insidious systemic bias?  Who knows, let's not make a mountain out of a mole hill, right?  

Actually this reminds me of my Yang Pass Three Variations blog.  One might say that I detest the literal meaning of the poem by Wang Wei. It should be evident by now that I belong to the camp that says the poem described the parting sorrow and helplessness between friends.  Thus I subscribe to "willow" being a homophone to "stay" in the Chinese language, and dust and misty sprinkle setting the stage for an excursion, a journey that Wang Wei's friend must partake; hence Wang Wei's apprehension.  So if I was the gallery setting out a call for Yang Pass theme paintings, I would have rejected all works that would depict willow trees, travel lodges or misty wet roads.  I would say that these works are all too banal and superficial and fail to capture the essence of the poem.  Am I influencing people's interpretation of the poem or which paintings are relevant?  You bet I am.  It is my prerogative. 

Thus I felt inspired to have another try at painting Yang Pass, based on Wang Wei's poem.  Allow me to repeat my translation of that poem:

The city was shrouded in a light sprinkle, settling the dust of the road.

Willows by the inn sprouting green color.

Bottoms UP, let's finish yet another drink, 

beyond Yang Pass there shall be no old acquaintances to be found.

As I noted in my past blog, Yang Pass is a military outpost on the southern branch of the Silk Road.

I imagined it to be a stone fortress by a desert that goes on forever.  A most inhospitable environment.

I want to elicit the feeling of abandonment and destitute by giving the desert some context.  I chose to frame the desert through an window from the outpost.  Through this opening I hope to instill a feeling of departure, of distance and of an incessant intrepid crossing.

I laid down the blocks of stone with ink, side-tipped fashion.  I chose such archway hoping to reflect an Islamic motif, since the outpost is on the Silk Road and I imagined the architecture could reflect adjacent foreign influences.

The massive stone blocks were easy to paint, and should offer a stark contrast to the proportionally diminutive, yet relentless sandy desert.  

The poem alluded to parting of Wang Wei from his friend, who was traveling by himself now.

I don't know what his friend would choose as transportation, but I think a camel is more likely than a horse, since it involved trekking a desert. 

I chose a bactrian camel.  I had no way of knowing, just thinking that two humps are better than one. Naughty, Naughty!  Don't forget the 17th of August is National Hump Day for the States.

I also thought that walking with the camel would be more endearing than riding it.  The poem implied that the traveler would be hard pressed to find any old acquaintances, thus walking shoulder to shoulder on equal footing with another being, a camel notwithstanding, could be a more likely sentiment.

Oops, my lawn grass is stilling growing despite the upheavals out there.  Time to mow my yard.  Good place for an intermission.  

Pie Jesu - A Song and Dance

I've arrived at a point that I am out of whims.  Something tells me to stop.  I am referring to my dancer painting from the last post.

Now what?

How do I botch this up ?

I am looking for a vehicle to coalesce these figures and give them a theme, a message.  I am looking for a road map to exploit.

Then I chanced up a music score for Pie Jesu.  I am a huge fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber and his musicals and I am absolutely infatuated with Sarah Brightman.  The score had parts for string instruments like violins, violas and cellos.  When I saw the notations on how to play the music, I thought of the similarities between music and calligraphy.  In this particular case, between music and my dancing figures.

The individual notes in music is akin to the individual strokes in Chinese writing.  The strokes could be horizontal, vertical or dots and occupied a framework in space.  The notes occupied positions designated by the staff, building a tune.  Tempo of the music is similar to the speed at which the various brushstrokes are laid down in calligraphy, whereas a scherzo and largo might be loosely exemplified by the grass script and the seal script.

So in the Pie Jesu score I saw notation for the bow, i.e. up bow or down bow and I made the association to how the brushstrokes starts and ends.  There was legato ( notes slurred together ) for individual, adjacent notes and that is totally similar to how the brushstrokes were treated in Chinese calligraphy.  Some brushstrokes need to be assimilated as one in order to build the structure.  Phrasing and rhythm are not unique to music, but is evident and required in Chinese calligraphy by how the brush is wielded.  I saw notations for tenuto ( holding notes to their full values, sustained ) even when the music is pianissimo.  So a common mistake for someone using the Chinese round brush for calligraphy is that when one comes to a thin line one tends to skim over that and not give it the full energy, resulting in what I would characterize as a wilted beansprout.  There was notation for pizzicato ( plucking the string ) and arco (playing with the bow) instructing how the musician should sound the notes.

Hence the arms of the ballerinas might dictate long and speedy brushstrokes to distill expression extending to the fingers, not unlike employing thee whole bow to play certain notes to give them character.  Whereas the note might be played with only the middle section, or the tip, or the bottom of  the bow for different effects, various parts of the brush result in different results too. Thus a turned ankle is done differently from a turned head, a difference between using center tip or side tip technique.

Let us examine the two inserts from above.  They show the same word 寒 in both instances.  They are from my calligraphy studies of Su Dongpo's Cold Food Festival Te.

The red circled bend on the left insert shows a smooth round turn.  Compare that to the red circled area from the right insert, where the bend is a very distinct, angular shoulder.  So I would characterize the left insert as an example of legato in brush works, whereas the right insert is an example of pizzicato.

Now the blue circled area from the left insert shows a distinct loop joining the left stroke with the right stroke.  An obvious example of a legato, connecting two distinct strokes, heading two different directions, into a single expression.  The blue circled example from the right insert does not show the overt loop, but does give a suggestion of the brush turning backwards, as evidenced by the little hump.  Whereas this is also a legato, I would also add tenuto ( sustain ) to it to make sure the artist does not lift the brush and maintains the energy throughout the brush travel.

It is very typical for Chinese calligraphers doing the walking or grass style calligraphy to write the same word in varied nuances  In other words one never dresses the same words in identical attires.  This is a way for the calligrapher to bring his/her hubris and boasts his/her command of the brush.  Thus the expression "to read a painting", meaning to appreciate the nuances of the brush through close examination.   In a way this is not that different from the variations of a theme in western music, or seeing the theme being employed and developed again and again throughout a musical piece.

Obviously in Chinese calligraphy, or in using the Chinese brush, there are none of these notations.
The knowledge hence rests in a solid Ji Ben Gong (the fundamentals ) and rote learning.  The point is, such notations are just as necessary and vital, only that they are not explicitly written down in the arena of Chinese brush calligraphy or painting.  I suppose that makes the Chinese brush a tad esoteric.  My intent therefore is to demystify the myths and hypes surrounding the Chinese brush art form and relate it to something tangible and equivalent from the western world.

Enough soliloquy, time to roll up my sleeves again.

Once I was tuned in to the resonance between music and calligraphy, I decided to prop my silhouettes of dancers against the  background of music score from Pie Jesu.

Laying down the staff was the first task.  I thought I had pretty good command of the brush but it was a humiliating experience putting the lines down with a fine brush.

I was trying to be fancy by making my own quill out of a bamboo branch.  That too was kind of disastrous.  The extemporaneously made bamboo quill had no means of holding ink in a controlled manner.  Thus it was all or nothing, resulting in deposit of puddles of ink that I had to blot off in a hurry.  I also suspected the abrasive bamboo tip scratched the surface of my Xuan into a more fibrous state, causing the ink to bleed haphazardly upon contact.  Fortunately I used a light ink for the purpose of writing down the music score.  It didn't take my long to pitch my quill and embraced my round brush again.

It is interesting in hindsight to see how my painting is constructed, borrowing from and finding inspiration from different disciplines, and different cultures.  Here my focus isn't so much on the accuracy of anatomical proportions but rather on the expressiveness of the forms.  This is not unlike Chinese calligraphy.

Just like the horse hairs on a bow caressing the strings in a fine mist of rosin, my brush too is able to course through the Xuan, seeping ink into the fibers to manifest forms; in both instances, expressing something deeper than what is superficial.