Sunday, August 1, 2004

Lacoste 3 View from the top of Mt. Ventoux As I set out with my easel and paints to France, I was thinking about the poem William Cullen Bryant wrote for Thomas Cole on his departure to Rome in 1831: To an American Painter Departing for Europe Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies: Yet, Cole! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand A living image of thy native land, Such as on thy own glorious canvass lies. Lone lakes--savannahs where the bison roves-- Rocks rich with summer garlands--solemn streams-- Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams-- Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest--fair, But different--every where the trace of men, Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air. Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, But keep that earlier, wilder image bright. I had this poem in mind not because I believed America to be the land of such pristine wilderness nor was I guarding myself against the beauty of Europe, but because I was wondering what was going to be the key element that would transport me to that magical state, a visitation by the muse. Here in the valley of the Hudson River, my studio is the forest. Although it is far from the much less traveled time of the Hudson River School painters and transcendentalists, the over-all image of the forests and mountains is quite well preserved. There are plenty of nooks that bestow upon you the exquisite solitude--a solitude so stark you dissolve into the whispering wind. I knew it was not going to be the solitude I would find in Europe. I suspected it would have something to do with history. The first couple of days I walked and walked in search of a space that spoke to me. I visited all the places I had fond memories of from 20 years ago--the ruin of Chateau de Marquis de Sade, the wind-swept plateau, the oak grove, the abandoned stone quarry--but none of these places seemed to be breathing. The charming cobble stone-lined village and the chateau, as I mentioned before, were bought out by an American school and Pierre Cardin, and looked lifeless. It was like being in a post card, not a real lived-in quarter. Chene Blanc (White Oak) Oak grove and other protected areas, too, looked strangely out of sorts. These are the magnificent Chene vert and Chene blanc, the compact, uncompromising trees with contorted and spreading branches. Their forms were still dignified, but they didn't seem to have solid contact with the earth and surroundings. I gathered it was because of the unusually hot summer they had the year before. Stressed by the immediate and long term affect of civilization, this area seemed tired and jaded, on the surface. But during the second week, I had a fortune to meet a few people who really love the region, as I love the Hudson Valley, and they showed me their beloved land through their eyes. That turned everything around. Patrick, Mme. Salva's son-in-law, was one of them. He took me from the bottom of a gorge to top of Mt. Ventoux, with every geographical feature in between. I was very surprised that the region known mainly for historical villages and bucolic farms had so many striking geological variations. But it was not those highlights that struck me the most. What I will recall with the fondest memories are the quiet moments of repose--frequent stops at outdoor cafes, a drink at a village water source, and walks along an ancient aqueduct at dusk or through the village at night. These quaint activities, so integrated in everyday life and repeated for hundreds of years in Europe and other old civilizations, are so lacking in the U.S. of A. There are no natural gathering places in American towns, and Americans don't have the custom of hanging out, like the English at pubs. Does this affect the way we conduct ourselves? In the end I concluded I would be better off bringing a video camera and a laptop (for real time blogging), leaving my painting equipment behind next time. I am not a painter of civilization. _______________________________________________________________ I have started a new category, Driveby 2001, where I am posting 100 paintings I made 3 years ago for a museum show. Check it out when you have time. 12:34:45 PM    comment []

Friday, July 30, 2004

Lacoste 2 Cafe in Bonnieux, with a fountain and Plane trees A computer breakdown, the nicotine and cat-urine coated house, and a little under the weather condition have kept me from blogging for two weeks. Back to South of France, finally. For all the talks I blurt out about how my art is about freeing myself from the commercial context and establishing relationships with the particular time and place rather than having a recognizable product style, as I set out with my easel and paints, I had one big number in my mind: 3000. "Since this trip is costing my a little over 1000 dollars, I'd better come back with paintings worth at least $3000 in gallery prices," that's what I was thinking on a conscious and subconscious level. I knew I was setting up a trap for myself which I had pathetically repeated for over 20 years, but I packed my suitcases with enough prepared papers, boards and canvases to occupy a painter for 6 months. I could already see, before my departure, all those blank surfaces covered with vibrant colors, decorated with nice price tags. HA! When I first got there, I adhered to my strict and productive schedule: I was painting for 3-5 hours each morning and afternoon. I was staying with Mme. Salva, my friend's mother, who spoke Spanish and a little French, and absolutely no English. She was so kind and generous, she prepared incredible meals for lunch and dinner every day (she was the school cook for twenty-six years). My French sucks and Spanish is even worse so it was quite comical the way we tried to communicate with each other. Her daughter Marie and husband Patrick, who lived 20 minutes away, were also very hospitable. But the first few days reminded me of what it was like to be an exchange student, not knowing the language or culture, and feeling isolated and dumb. Incredibly, my journal entry on the second day describes my discomfort and longing for Suika and Martin, and this is what I declared to myself to combat that: "I am here to paint, not to socialize or cultivate new relationships; I am a professional artist, not an exchange student." Sad, isn't it? ...and does it vaguely echo someone else's attitude? Now, if I may analyze this sort of callous mentality, I find guilt to be the heart of all this. I was feeling quite guilty for leaving Suika and Martin behind in the midst of a moving mess, and for spending money when we could use every penny (though they themselves did nothing to make me feel guilty). The only way to justify it was to see it as a business trip with tangible results. Enriching my personal experience, taking myself out of the ordinary context to cultivate a new perspective, or simply having fun, were not good enough excuses to spend a thousand dollars and three weeks, although these are the essential elements of art. This is why it is so hard to be in the arts, I think. Guilt and creativity don't go together. Yet, we are, at least I am, such a slave to expectations--financial, social, personal, whatever. And when I don't meet that expectation, I feel guilty and ashamed. Guilt and shame act like weights that bring you down from a free flight in blue sky. Alas. Luckily, I'm not that hardened yet. Actually it is my painting that teaches me, always, by revealing my hypocrisies and contradictions. All my paintings were dead, dull, or out of synch. No matter how hard I tried, it didn't happen. What do you expect? This I finally figured out on the last day, but the light is so completely different there from where I live. It's not just the light, but the air, the vegetation, soil, sky--everything is different. I had to unlearn what I learned and relearn completely new ways of seeing, kind of like learning a new language. By the time a week had gone by, I was really having a good time despite horrible results in painting. I was enjoying breathing the air, interacting with the village people, meeting with old friends, and most importantly, Mme. Salva's company. Although I was still expecting to come up with good paintings during the second week, it was no longer an oppressive burden. I felt I was being creative in some intangible ways. (I promise I'll come back sooner this time! ...but not because I feel guilty) 12:01:32 AM    comment []

Sunday, July 11, 2004

Lacoste 1 Je suis retournee aux Etats-Unis! Actually I've been back for more than a week, but I was overcome with an utter exhaustion followed by a need to take care of petty chores which kept me away from the keyboard. I also needed to let all the experience sink in and digested before I knew what I wanted to start with. And I know very well that I want to start with thanks from the core of my heart to those who sent me well wishes and notes of checking whether I was back. Knowing that some people, people I don't even know their faces of, care to want to hear my stories and see my images, enriched my experience of traveling in a way I would have never imagined before. I will slowly get to the heart of this in the course of the next few days, but in short, this trip made me aware of a new type of community, a community that is not bound by geographical perimeters but bonded with aesthetic sensibility and compassion. This was so encouraging to an artist who was increasingly feeling marginalized in the over-commercialized and standardized (art) world. (http://www.beyond.fr/map/map_d02.html) This trip was planned back in January to participate in a reunion for an American art program based in Lacoste, a village located in Vaucluse, Provence. I spent 8 months there 20 years ago. The program was started by an American artist named Bernard Pfriem, who was enamored with the charm of this petite village a long time ago and became a resident there. The sponsorship for the program was changed many times through various colleges, from Sarah Lawrence to Bard. Bernard died several years ago, and it is now solely owned by Savannah College of Art and Design. When I was there in 1984, I befriended a young local man whose mother worked as a chef for the school. He now lives in Brooklyn, and when I told him of my plan, he suggested I should stay in his mother's house, now mostly empty, for as long as I wanted. I gratefully accepted this generous offer and bought my plane ticket. Then all the transactions for our living quarter emerged. I came very close to canceling my trip, but it so happened that the trip fit just snugly in between the two moves. And I found out that the reunion was canceled due to little interest. But I went anyway, packing 4 canvases, a shoeboxful of heavy metal paints, sheets of paper and a small easel. In the summer of 1984, Reaganomics was flexing muscles in every corner of the world, resulting in all-mighty American dollar, Madonna had just come out with Borderline, Cindy Lauper countered with Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, AIDS was just beginning to be known in suburban and rural areas of US, Neo-Expressionism and Graffiti art were peaking in the New York art world, Nelson Mandela was the favorite icon, and Cocaine was the drug du jour. In between the summer and fall semesters, for more than a month, I traveled throughout Europe on only 100 dollars and an inter-rail pass. I spent all my nights on trains expect for a few stays at friends' places. I lived on street foods. The only money I spent was on entry fees to museums and postcards. I had one pair of jeans and one pair of shorts, two shirts and a few sets of underwear, all tucked in a small backpack. My Nikon FE was the only heavy and valuable item. Japanese tourists were so few, if you can imagine, that in Naples kids kept following me wanting to touch my long hair, and in a small town of Jokkmokk above the arctic circle of Sweden I was in a local newspaper as the first (or second) Japanese to visit there. Things have changed. This time I was able to book everything online, from plane and TGV tickets to hotels in Paris. I did not take any cash or travelers' checks, but took out Euro from ATM at CDG airport with my American local bank card. (This you can do now anywhere--almost--in the world.) Lacoste, a village of 400, completely obscure and isolated from the rest of the world back then, is now one of the desirable spots to visit in a tour of Provence, yielding many results in a google search. Lacoste is built on a slope of the east end of a mountain spine, overlooking a valley of cherry orchards and lavender fields and facing another medieval village of Bonnieux on the other side of the valley. The history of human inhabitation goes way back, but most of the village was built in the 1500s and beyond, with its chief icon being the ruins of chateau du Marquis de Sade on the plateau. 20 years ago, we used to climb into the ruins at night to chill out, make out, and to look at the stars. During the mistral, a very strong wind storm unique to the region, the wind traveling through the gaps of the stone walls would make a whistling sound, mistaken by the weak hearted as the voices of the unfortunate village maidens tortured by the infamous Marquis. Bonnieux Now, the chateau has changed its hand--behold the chateau de Pierre Cardin. I don't know how this was possible, but the designer whose name decorates the bathroom goods of every Japanese household, has convinced the village and district to hand the chateau over to him, have him pay for all the repairs in exchange for his private use of the chateau as one of his many luxurious homes! A local told me Cardin spread tons of cash to make this happen. You see a giant green crane on top of the chateau, which of course is off limits to the public, and banners for a festival sponsored by Cardin everywhere. 12:20:15 PM    comment []

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