I have recently moved into a studio, with navy carpet, white ceiling, and bare walls. A simple divider separates the further part of the room--where cushions, blankets, a kitchen, and a grapefruit reveals a place to entertain the guest--from the empty space at the entrance. At the foot of the divider, lie my shoes (and guests' shoes), marking a line into civilized space, while before it, when one's first glimpse after opening the door is a view of near nothingness. When asked, what are you going to do with this? I'd shrug slightly, with nonchalance, head tilted a bit and eyes thinking of something that leads to a fleeting smirk at the mouth. I'd say, oh nothing.
In reality, I intended it that way, that empty space of near nothingness. Perhaps one Saturday, I'll wake up and brush up a giant mural of cherry trees with blossoms budding and trailing across the entire wall, blown by some invisible wind. Or perhaps I won't. For right now, the nothingness is an invitation for my imagination to envision what potential can lie there.
In Calculus III, the first chapters are on vectors, lines in space with certain magnitude and direction. I find that a profoundly artistic and philosophical paradigm. Ever since young, I've loved Geometry, the intricacies of infinite points, lines, curves swirling in imaginary space. I could envision infinity with the closing of two eyelids.
When Michaelangelo talked about seeing the sculpture inside a block of stone or marble, I felt as if I was eavesdropping on a conversation between a genius and his own imagination. Because of his obsession, his perfectionism, his near insane devotion to the artistic vocation, I fell madly in love with the David, the Pieta, and the name carved upon them--I, who study haikus, woodblock prints of Hokusai and Hiroshige, and Ming ceramics. In East Asian art, absence, the ineffable, is always more valued; and even now, when appreciating western art, I feel sensory-overload almost always. But even with its elaborate iconoclasm and overwhelming sense of "presence," western art has become less unbearble, because of Michaelangelo.
In reality, I intended it that way, that empty space of near nothingness. Perhaps one Saturday, I'll wake up and brush up a giant mural of cherry trees with blossoms budding and trailing across the entire wall, blown by some invisible wind. Or perhaps I won't. For right now, the nothingness is an invitation for my imagination to envision what potential can lie there.
In Calculus III, the first chapters are on vectors, lines in space with certain magnitude and direction. I find that a profoundly artistic and philosophical paradigm. Ever since young, I've loved Geometry, the intricacies of infinite points, lines, curves swirling in imaginary space. I could envision infinity with the closing of two eyelids.
When Michaelangelo talked about seeing the sculpture inside a block of stone or marble, I felt as if I was eavesdropping on a conversation between a genius and his own imagination. Because of his obsession, his perfectionism, his near insane devotion to the artistic vocation, I fell madly in love with the David, the Pieta, and the name carved upon them--I, who study haikus, woodblock prints of Hokusai and Hiroshige, and Ming ceramics. In East Asian art, absence, the ineffable, is always more valued; and even now, when appreciating western art, I feel sensory-overload almost always. But even with its elaborate iconoclasm and overwhelming sense of "presence," western art has become less unbearble, because of Michaelangelo.
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