1
Do you know, that people produce about 15 to 30 gallons of tears per year.
And I’d probably take a month to run out of a gallon of milk.
So if I drink tears at the pace that I drink milk, I won't be able to drink all of them in a year. Also, I don't think I could drink all those tears, they are just really salty.
I wonder how much those tears weigh, and how many gallons of bottles they could fill.
And how’d they taste.
And I’d probably take a month to run out of a gallon of milk.
So if I drink tears at the pace that I drink milk, I won't be able to drink all of them in a year. Also, I don't think I could drink all those tears, they are just really salty.
I cry must be because I want to cry, I stare at a place and
Think about the things I'm anxious about, the things I'm sad about, and the things I'm overly happy about;
Think about the food I want to eat but can't, the food I hate the most, the food I have tasted the most awful, the food cooked by a loved one;
Think about the money I’ve spent, about the money I’ll earn, about the money I’ll need;
Think about the places I’ve been, about the places I left off, about the places I may never get a chance even to see;
Think about the relationships I’ve had, the ones I’ve failed to have, and about the ones I have now that may not last forever;
Think about the people I've lost, loved, and hated;
Think about what I have known, about what I may never know;
Think about the things I loved, the things I absolutely hated, and the things that would never be tangible to me again;
Think about the anger I can't put to ease in my mind, about the memories I might miss, about the regrets I can't fill;
I wonder how much those tears weigh, and how many gallons of bottles they could fill.
And how’d they taste.
2
3
I always want to have a space that is completely mine - not a space necessarily in the physical meaning of the word, but a blank, at-my-alteration, no-restrictions-what-so-ever place. Whereas I could make anything there.
I didn’t have that kind of space when I was a kid. My grandparents and I shared a room, a bed, and the same quilt at night after the lights were turned off.
But I realized that when I turned around under the covers, I was facing a radiator cabinet that could be opened. It's as if no one in the family has discovered the mystery of this cabinet, or they don't feel the need to pay attention to it.
But it was important to me.
So I sneaked home some soft pottery from my ceramics class at school; they don't need a professional kiln, just an oven to finalize them.
What I did – I still have muscle memory about that movement – hands under the blanket gently folded together, softening the clay with the heat shared by all three, and when it felt like it was soft enough, I'd quietly turn around, face that cabinet, and hold the small piece in one hand. Interlacing my index finger and thumb, applying force and brushing against each other, the clay would slowly thin out between them with the movement of my fingers. The nail of my index finger sometimes will pierce through the clay to the thumb, and then I would slowly push it toward the tips of both fingers, feeling the clay leave some grease between the two digits. And the fingers wrestled with each other under the grease, which give them a subtle numbness. That way I rolled it up into a long strip like seaweed between sushi and build whatever tiny thing I want. There were couple little figures, some puppies, and a lot of oddly colored orbs.
When I'm done, I prised that cabinet open so that a small corner of the radiator inside shows up, just enough for me to put the clay in to dry.
It's a bedtime ritual of softening, twisting, deep breathing, shaping, and drying. That winter in the dry indoor space of the north, there was an empty space that only belonged to me, and the heat coming from the radiator not only baked my face red, but also transformed my creation into something that would permanently occupy the physical space. This realization gives me tremendous satisfaction, as if I have the power to change the world. There is a certain seductive comfort that remains hidden in that process, which gives me goosebumps.
I will unconsciously start rubbing my fingers at some point, even if there’s no clay between them. The gesture assures me that this is a key into My space. Growing up in that tiny room, in the process of figuring out what the outside world looked like, I began to fantasize about a timeline of my very own, laser focusing on fleshing it out in that bedtime moment. I covertly catharticzed some of my desire for self-space by creating. My mind was no longer confined by a bound space, it ran on the clay under the quilt, and quietly exists as an intersection of reality and fantasy.
It’s about occupation, it’s about waiting, it’s a hidden attack on reality that needs ti be staged and programmed.
I guess that kind of art isn’t tied to any systematic understanding of aesthetics, there is no way that it can be fitted to that maze-like regime. It’s just a few tiny objects that hold up the very first structures of this imaginary world and allow me to be there and totally up to me to aim.
It is just my sweet space, my very own space.
I didn’t have that kind of space when I was a kid. My grandparents and I shared a room, a bed, and the same quilt at night after the lights were turned off.
But I realized that when I turned around under the covers, I was facing a radiator cabinet that could be opened. It's as if no one in the family has discovered the mystery of this cabinet, or they don't feel the need to pay attention to it.
But it was important to me.
So I sneaked home some soft pottery from my ceramics class at school; they don't need a professional kiln, just an oven to finalize them.
What I did – I still have muscle memory about that movement – hands under the blanket gently folded together, softening the clay with the heat shared by all three, and when it felt like it was soft enough, I'd quietly turn around, face that cabinet, and hold the small piece in one hand. Interlacing my index finger and thumb, applying force and brushing against each other, the clay would slowly thin out between them with the movement of my fingers. The nail of my index finger sometimes will pierce through the clay to the thumb, and then I would slowly push it toward the tips of both fingers, feeling the clay leave some grease between the two digits. And the fingers wrestled with each other under the grease, which give them a subtle numbness. That way I rolled it up into a long strip like seaweed between sushi and build whatever tiny thing I want. There were couple little figures, some puppies, and a lot of oddly colored orbs.
When I'm done, I prised that cabinet open so that a small corner of the radiator inside shows up, just enough for me to put the clay in to dry.
It's a bedtime ritual of softening, twisting, deep breathing, shaping, and drying. That winter in the dry indoor space of the north, there was an empty space that only belonged to me, and the heat coming from the radiator not only baked my face red, but also transformed my creation into something that would permanently occupy the physical space. This realization gives me tremendous satisfaction, as if I have the power to change the world. There is a certain seductive comfort that remains hidden in that process, which gives me goosebumps.
I will unconsciously start rubbing my fingers at some point, even if there’s no clay between them. The gesture assures me that this is a key into My space. Growing up in that tiny room, in the process of figuring out what the outside world looked like, I began to fantasize about a timeline of my very own, laser focusing on fleshing it out in that bedtime moment. I covertly catharticzed some of my desire for self-space by creating. My mind was no longer confined by a bound space, it ran on the clay under the quilt, and quietly exists as an intersection of reality and fantasy.
It’s about occupation, it’s about waiting, it’s a hidden attack on reality that needs ti be staged and programmed.
I guess that kind of art isn’t tied to any systematic understanding of aesthetics, there is no way that it can be fitted to that maze-like regime. It’s just a few tiny objects that hold up the very first structures of this imaginary world and allow me to be there and totally up to me to aim.
It is just my sweet space, my very own space.
4
5
These selected writing are developed under the guidance from author and educator Darcey Steinke’s class at New York Univeristy Studio Art MFA program.