Paper Ingots and Hell Bank Notes

Paper folded into sycee to be burned as an offering

 Death has always been an important aspect of my life though  I do not think that I have an unhealthy preoccupation with death and the afterlife.  It is simply that I grew up thinking a lot about death.  In Chinese culture, we have Ching Ming which is a holiday when we go clean the graves and burn incense and offer food to our ancestors.  Colloquially we call it "bai san" which means "pray (or worship) the mountain." In this case, even though "san" is literally "the mountain," in this meaning it is also of the burial site.  When I was little, my extended family and I would visit the grave of my great grandfather and great grandmother at the Chinese cemetery.  I cannot even remember where it was because I never drove there myself, otherwise I would put a link to the place if anyone were so inclined to check the place out... it was the creepiest place.  It is not like the beautifully landscaped Mount Auburn Cemetery in Boston nor like the meditative Valley of the Temples in Kaneohe.  It was a smallish cemetery with bubblegum pink walls.  There were small, crooked tombstones in the oldest section.  The graves there were so old that the names were completely worn away.   Some of the tombs were sunken.  In the center of the cemetery stood the crematorium.  Even at the age of five or six, I knew what a crematorium was.  There were few trees so the sun was always blazing down on us as we children stood in front of the graves with sticks of incense in our hands.  With my eyes always closed, I said a prayer, mostly along the lines of, "please take care of me and help me to be good... I promise to be good, just don't do anything bad to ruin my fate."  As I looked at their photographs on their tombstones and admired the sparkly granite, I poured out the offering of wine on the grass in front of me.  All the while, the boiled whole chicken with its head still attached and the various pastries and dim sum were spread in front of their tombstones.  When everyone had their turn praying, we took the food to the trunk of the car and stood there eating it.  All of this was done to appease the dead and to make sure they were well-taken care of in the afterlife.  We ate the food at the cemetery so that they would know not to follow us home.  There was always the fear that if you pissed them off, they would come get you somehow.  It was never very specific.... I guess it was kind of like what parents tell their children about Santa Claus.  If you don't behave, you won't get any Christmas presents.  Except in this case it was more like, if you don't behave, your dead great grandparents will haunt you.  Eh, whatever works...  I mean, let me tell you, I tried really hard to behave. 

It wasn't just Ching Ming, though.  There were the burials themselves.  We used to visit L.A.'s Chinatown on Saturdays quite frequently.  I remember watching numerous funeral processions roll down the street.  The coffin of the deceased would ride in a fancy black hearse with a large photograph of himself mounted at the front.  Then, on loudspeaker, they would announce the name of the person who died.  There would follow a line of cars escorted by police.  When my great grandmother died, limousines were hired for our family.  I remember going shopping for my black outfit which I was told should not be too nice since it was to be burned afterward.  The thought of burning my clothes really bothered me.  They said it was bad luck to ever wear that outfit again.  In fact, anything worn to a burial must be burned.

Then there were the superstitions.  Color was a big one.  For instance, we were never allowed to wear only black or only white as both signified a death in the family and was bad luck.  My mother used to do the Chinese equivalent of crossing herself.  She would say, "Dai gut lay see" which translates into "Big tangerine lucky money."  It was impossible.  Almost everything we asked or said would prompt my mother to mutter about big tangerines.  When my uncle listened to the song "Say Say Say" by Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson, my maternal grandmother pounded on his door to get him to stop playing the death song.  The word for death in Chinese is "say."  Which also happens to be the word for the number four in Chinese.  And that is why Chinese people avoid fours.  Fours are bad.  Four is death.  Everything is death.

Hell Bank Note

So you see, while most American children are told lovely stories about angels and heaven, we were told about angry vengeful spirits that could make life really tough for you.  It is the reason to give proper burials and to regard the dead with respect.  And even with all of my efforts to rid myself of superstitious behaviors, I cannot easily let these pass.  When I buried Mamaa, my paternal grandmother, in 2006, I followed the Buddhist priest as he told us what to do.  I bowed and I put my hands together with incense.  I folded the little gold papers to resemble gold ingots that were then placed in her casket.  Some were burned after the open casket viewing.  As the ashes of the paper gold floated into the air, I spoke her name so that they would be sure to be deposited into her bank account  at the Bank of Hell (I guess this means everyone goes to hell).  At the cemetery, I never looked back at her grave.  I had been told long ago by Mamaa that if I were to look back, I would see the spirit of the deceased.  It was then that it finally occurred to me that all of these customs and rites were done out of respect for the person who raised you and taught you how to do a million things and who helped you become the person you are today.  Sure, there were some confusing scary nightmares, but ultimately, these traditions help me to remember the ones I loved best and to remember to live and not fear the inevitability of death.

The $pending Habit

Detail from a US Dollar Bill... should make one's heart flutter???

I was lamenting to the bead store lady the other day about how there was no such thing as a bead store when I was growing up.  We did, however, have Newberry's.   I like to think of it as the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink store.  You could buy plastic flowers, pots and pans, crafty things, and little piggy banks in the shape of Santa Claus. It was where my grandmother went to buy fabric to make blouses and yarn to hand-knit sweaters for us... which, incidentally defined much of my wardrobe throughout my childhood (fashion has never been my strong suit, no pun intended).  All of my allowance and birthday money went to that store.  I bought embroidery floss, cross stitching kits, latchhook pillow kits, beading needles, and lots and lots of yarn.  This craft habit started at the tender age of six.  I could knit like there was no tomorrow by the time I was 12.  I never had money in my little safe and frequently tried to borrow from my older sister.  My mother rightfully thought I had no ability to save money and accused Grandma of instilling in me bad shopping (and useless crafting) habits.  It was the family joke... like, hey, you Chinese girl should be thrifty and money-saving, but you're not and *gasp* you use money to buy things!!!!  They would look at my palms and see that money would slip through my grip, like water leaking out through the wide spaces between my fingers.  I was accused of having a too-generous nature (a trait one must, of course, strive to eliminate from one's personality) because I would give away my toys to anyone who asked.  I was lectured about the virtues of saving money.  I was told there would be some joy from watching numbers rise on my savings booklet.  My parents even forced me to open a CD account which literally trapped your dollars in an account for a year.... in exchange one would earn (back then) 8%... (I know!  Unbelievable rate!).  I even invested in a utility company in my teens.  So, by all means, I should be well-versed in saving and investing money.  I should be a wildly successful business woman today, what with all the money talk, right?  But.... oh, the buts!  But, it was truly yawn-inducing.  Looking back, I know my parents meant well.  They wanted me to be money-savvy.  I just never really got it, I guess.  I mean, where is the fun in watching numbers go up and down?  Even after all that "education" I basically have the same spending habits as before.  I think it must be something in the genes, some kind of recessive gene that reared its ugly head in the face of all those money-saving genes so dominant in my family... I like to blame the genes.  I was born that way.  The way I see it is that some people are spenders and others are keepers.  And no amount of convincing or education could ever sway them to the other side.... believe me, they tried!

Back to Paper

Dagon, 2.5" x 3.5" by Elaine Cheung

Sooo... I gave it a go.  I don't like technology after all.  Confirmed.  Fini.  Done.  It was great for awhile.  I did a portrait of my friend's dog....  so, it's not da Vinci.  Then I did a few sketches while out and about and I have to say, I don't like the feel of it.  There isn't the friction of the pencil on paper, there's no tactile sensation.  I can't get my lines fine enough.  The picture that comes out is way too colorful and because of the back lighting from the screen, everything glows.  It's just all wrong.  I give up on technology.  Technology is great for word processing.  It's great for watching netflix and looking things up on wikipedia, but for art, it is lost on me.

I think technology and I were doomed from the start.  Even when I was in school, taking notes for run of the mill classes, I would only write with a fountain pen.  No modern ball point pens for me!  It had to be ink.  And I preferred the non-cartridge type pen, the ones with the ink bladder.  I would have used a quill and ink at the time, but I couldn't find a source for tail feathers and it would have been burdensome to be sharpening quills in the middle of class anyway.  Still, I have to say, it was very, very enjoyable to write with a fountain pen, a pleasure. 

So, these last few weeks, I've completely gone back to just pen and paper.  It's simple, portable, infinitely more pleasurable than tapping a stylus on a glass screen.  And, there up above, to my utter relief, the simplest of pleasures, is my latest work... Dagon.

From Watercolors to Pixels

Sketch for The Last Supper, Juda's Head by da Vinci

Many artists in the past used watercolor and pen as a sketching tool out in the field to record roughly major shadows, shapes, and line.  They would then return to the studio with their quick watercolor sketch and work up an oil painting from these sketches.  The choice of oils in the past was mainly for its durability (or permanence) and also for its flexibility as a medium.  Watercolor, on the other hand, being done on paper, was lightweight, not permanent, a rather fleeting medium.  It was also less expensive and more portable.  Hence, it was the perfect thing to take into the field to use for a quick study.  At some point, watercolor became more than just a tool; watercolors are now finished pieces, beautiful in and of themselves.  Maybe the invention of more permanent, fade-resistant colors, archival papers, and treated glass/plexiglas allowed people to display these more fragile works of art. 

So... I was thinking about this today as I was doing a digital sketch, instead of a watercolor one... *gasp*... and I... liked... it... yikes!  I never thought I would ever say that about anything digital.  Technology has so progressed that I was sketching with a stylus on a touchscreen.  Pixels are evermore portable, flexible, and in some ways, more permanent, plus infinitely pliable.  What's not to love?  I'm going to work at it until I can sketch like Master da Vinci up there with my stylus.  Will post my work later!!! 

Gypsy-esque

Ship Clouds by Ciurlionis 1906

J called me a gypsy once because she said I had the "disease of moving." (Her exact words)  It isn't so, I argued at the time.  I was settled, I thought.  Yet, as I gaze out on the ocean, I feel that familiar tug.  I like leaving things behind.  I like starting over.  I like moving.  I know I complain about the packing and about having to learn all over again where the markets are or where the post office is, but the fact is that it is kind of fun.  And then getting to live in different apartments or houses, each with its own character in different neighborhoods; well, it's charming, interesting... and I feel as if I am assuming someone else' life for a little while. 

I suppose she is a little bit right.  She herself has lived in the same place for decades, hence her observation.  I keep asking myself why it is that I want to move in the first place and I cannot seem to find the reason, other than maybe I just feel restless, and that is really not even an answer.  It doesn't faze me in the least to pack it all up (or sell it all), plane ticket and passport in hand to some faraway place I've never been and calmly settle there... maybe forever this time?  It seems a bit callous.  What about roots?  What about family?  What about friendship?  Maybe it was because of my own father who left home one day, at the age of 18 (I think), and sailed the seas for years and years.  From Hong Kong, he sailed all over the world: Europe, Hawaii, America.  I admire that about him and maybe I inherited some of that restlessness too.  There is something about the sea that makes us wonder about what lies just a little beyond.  Maybe it is that we cannot comprehend the vastness of the ocean and so need to seek other lands.  Or maybe the water is a little bit hypnotic... perhaps the movement of the water awakens in our deepest subconscious a need for movement and change.  Is it possible that land-locked people prefer to stay put?

Of Operas and Language

Mary Cassatt in de Loge

What are the chances of having mentioned in conversation, twice in the same day by two different people, the composer Wagner?  I am no musician, though I've dabbled in various instruments.  And, I generally do not go around talking about composers or operas.
Yet, on that very same day, I struck up a conversation with an older fellow at the bookstore (which, I must emphasize, is quite extraordinary in and of itself as I usually have my headphones on...).  At first, it was the spiral staircase in Chambord designed by Leonardo da Vinci, then it was Wagner, the German composer and his militant style of music.  He was convinced that Wagner's music could only have come from the German language with the majority of its words in consonant endings as opposed to the Italian operas which are far more beautiful, owing, of course, to the Italian language with its vowel endings.  I have never studied Italian, but truly, thinking of the few words I know, it does seem that there are many words which end in vowels (fettucine, alfredo, spaghetti...).  The reason for Italian being the most suitable language for opera is that operas tend to need long extended notes.  Vowels lend themselves quite well to being extended indefinitely (one can sing aaaaaaaaaahhhhhh) while consonants end most abruptly and cannot be so extended.  He is absolutely correct.  Of course, when I mentioned this to a friend, she said, of course, I thought this was common knowledge.... Well, maybe to Europeans who must as a matter of course be polyglots!  But to an American, who generally isn't... I thought it was a poignant observation. Add to that, that Italian operas are more beautiful.  Besides, Americans are biased when it comes to language; we do not like to strain the language centers in our brains and thus pronounce that  the world should only have to learn English, it being the "universal" language.  I'm sure the French thought the same thing once when the French language was considered to be the educated language.  According to wikipedia, "from the 17th century to the mid 20th century, French served as the pre-eminent international language of diplomacy and international affairs as well as a lingua franca among the educated classes of Europe."  And, where will we English speakers be tomorrow?  Are there great operas in our future?  Nope, too many consonants!

I love Vienna!!

Jacob Jordaens, Feast of the Bean King, 1640-45

I had an extraordinary amount of free time last Wednesday.  So, I sat on the beach in the morning, gazing out at the ocean in relative quiet.  Kaimana Beach is my favorite mostly because the hotel shades a good portion of the beach well until noon.  And, because most people like to sunbathe, I get the shady part nearly all to myself...  I mean, who goes to the beach to sit in the shade anyway?  But, then a woman with her son came over and we struck up a conversation.  It turned out that she was from Vienna, doing a home exchange.  I told her Vienna remains dear to my heart, being the first European city I had ever visited.  The one thing I missed the most was Viennese coffee.  Throughout all of Vienna, from the hotel to the grocery to the cafés, without fail, the coffee is the best I have ever had.  It is bold, aromatic... but not like the ubiquitous Starbucks, burnt, too strong, with a horrible acid aftertaste.  After drinking Viennese coffee, I could not touch American brews for months.  And the memory of it after all these years is still there.  We were living in Boston at the time and Boston was not a Starbucks city.  It was a Dunkin' Donuts city.  The coffee is weak, sweet, and creamy... and delicious with a nice donut.  Vienna ruined it for me.  I could not drink Dunkin' Donuts for months afterward.  It tasted to me like hot water.  A little on the chemical side.  I admit, I go often to Starbucks nowadays, as well as Seattle's Best (owned by Starbucks, of course) and Coffee Bean, and I order my iced concoction or latte... but something is missing, something else.  The coffee is bland or burnt, but more than that it is also the coffee house itself.  What is missing is the Viennese decadence, the gilding, the elaborate decorated interiors, the beautiful cakes evoking a long history of cake-eating and coffee drinking on slow slow afternoons, discussing art and life with friends.  American coffee houses have become work places, second offices, not places to gather and chat.  I can't tell you the number of dirty looks I have gotten when I disturb the quiet at one particular place (which I won't mention the name of).  And, I hate it.  I hate that people use it for study and work instead of a place to socialize.  Our society has gone completely cock-eyed.  It is no longer a refuge for pure relaxed socialization, or maybe it never was?  Is it any wonder why Americans feel so isolated?  Or overworked? Or feel that having that nice beautiful cake is a "sin"?  Why, as a matter of course, people won't order an "eis caffee," which is not an ice coffee, but rather a cold coffee with two scoops of vanilla ice cream?  Hmmm.... I dream of Vienna!

David Hockney, continued

The Orrery by Joseph Wright of Derby, 1766
Take a look at the painting on the left... does it not remind you of a photograph?  Could you not imagine the scene staged and lit?

If David Hockney's theory has merit, then there are many implications.  Take, for instance, our veneration of the Old Masters.  I never thought they used lenses and/or cameras to project the three dimensional world into two dimensions.  We were taught that they were great masters of drawing, that they could draw anything by eye-balling, and it was this skill which they built upon that allowed them to become masters of painting.  It also means that the chiaroscuro effect that we associate with many Renaissance artists, namely, Caravaggio (as Hockney points out), was simply an artifact -- that in using a lens, subjects had to be strongly lit in order to be seen, and thus cast deep shadows which were then simply captured in painting.  In other words, this rather sudden concern for realism was the consequence of a technological innovation and not a purely aesthetic movement.  Ironically, it was the invention of the photographic print that spurred artists to found the Impressionist movement.  Artists did not want to imitate a print... in a sense, they wished to remain relevant and prove that they could do something only a human being could do, and not some piece of machinery.  So, if Hockney is correct, then artists of the Renaissance were capturing the two dimensional image they saw projected onto their canvas.... they were the "developers" of the image.  They fixed the image onto paper or canvas using paint/pencil/ink, and were then replaced by a copper plate and some mercury and silver when the daguerreotype was invented.     Ironic, isn't it?  Could it be so?  Were artists simply performing a mechanical type of work?  Were they simply trained to paint... by numbers, so to speak?  Is art as expression of an aesthetic sense only a "modern" concern caused in part by inventions such as cameras and now computers?  Is art (and literature and music and dance and all other creative endeavors) all that is left to assert our humanity?  And, if so, shouldn't we prioritize these endeavors instead of pushing them aside, thinking that they are useless, frivolous pastimes for the elite?  Isn't it time to reclaim our humanity?